Chapter 1: Disclaimer
Chapter Text
Disclaimer:
PLEASE READ THIS
I am gonna start this with one very specific disclaimer: I started writing this in early July 2025, when we first got gossip about conversations being ongoing between Max Verstappen and Mercedes.
Today, it’s the 20th of July 2025. None of us know yet how this is gonna work out. But the plot of this story is already decided on.
So unless I am the second coming of Cassandra and have the gift of prophecy, I fully expect this story to wildly veer off from what will happen in real life. This will go AU during the Spa Chapter at the very latest .
Nobody needs to tell me in the comments that something I am writing is not factually correct, because it’s probably on purpose (or I just didn’t know any better).
Also, don’t take this too seriously, this is written for fun, I am not making any money of it, and I am just spending my free time having some fun with a bunch of millionaires that drive cars in very fast circles.
Okay? Okay.
Also, two more things:
One, Ana is half Russian because Toto’s Wikipedia page talks about him working in Moscow in the late 90s.
This has absolutely nothing to do with my political beliefs and also doesn’t mean that I am somehow on Russia's side in the Russo-Ukrainian War. Normally, I don’t talk about politics on here, because quite frankly, I want one place in my life untouched by everything else that is going on in the world, but I figured I should probably make my political beliefs in this case very clear: Not a fan of Putin. (Understatement of the century.)
I mention this, because the last time I wrote a Jewish main character, I got death threats because apparently I am a Zionist for writing a Jewish main character. So this time, let me just be very clear: This story is not supposed to be a political in any way, shape or form.
Two, only because I make certain people the bad guys in certain stories does not mean that I hate them or that I wish them ill, or that I think that they would actually behave like that in real life.
Sometimes it’s simply a matter of “Oh I need a bad guy! That guy is in the right place! Sorry, mate, you’re it.”
That’s to say, I am sure George Russell is a very nice guy in real life who would never behave like this. I do not harbour any ill will towards him whatsoever…he’s just the bad guy for the sake of this story.
As is the case with other random side characters that get mentioned. No clue how they are in real life. In this version of fake reality, they are horrible, though.
I hope the real people are very happy though!
So I think that’s it.
X,
Cressida
Chapter 2: Prologue:
Chapter Text
Mercedes F1 HQ, Brackley, England - January 2025
At Brackley, everyone knew Dr. Anastasia “Ana” Wolff.
She didn’t do small talk. She didn’t do“What’s your plan for the weekend?” conversations. She didn’t do passive aggression either—she did straight-up aggression , usually in the form of an eyebrow raised so sharply it could have sliced carbon fibre.
She didn’t stop by desks with coffee runs. She didn’t go to team karaoke nights at the pub, or sign thank-you cards, or smile for the annual “Team Mercedes Family” poster.
She was blunt—abrasive, even. Didn’t soften her tone. She once told a senior aero engineer that his revised packaging concept was “statistically insulting,” and then—five minutes later—handed him a diagnostic flowchart that solved three months’ worth of overheating problems.
Ana didn’t cushion her feedback or sugar-coat a failed system design. She once told a junior aerodynamicist that his heat dispersion model looked like “an Excel tantrum,” and he still asked for her help the next week.
She hated inefficiency. She loathed repetition. She had a mortal vendetta against unnecessary meetings and once told a senior consultant that his thirty-slide deck could be replaced by “a spreadsheet and two brain cells.”
Ana Wolff didn’t care if people liked her.
Which was probably why—quietly, absolutely— they did.
She wasn’t what you’d call warm .
She could be sharp, abrupt, deeply blunt in a way that took some getting used to. She had a way of walking into a room, scanning it like a machine vision algorithm, and saying exactly what everyone else had politely danced around.
But she wasn’t cruel.
That was the difference.
Ana Wolff was kind .
Not in the loud, performative way. Not in the “we should get drinks after work!” kind of way. But in the way that made them stop and hold the door open a little longer when they saw her coming, headphones on and sleeves rolled to the elbow. In the way they waited to eat lunch until she came back from the test bay and could join them, even if she only picked at an energy bar while debugging simulation code.
She was blunt—painfully so, yes.
But she always helped .
She never made anyone feel stupid for asking.
She answered questions at 2 a.m. if someone pinged her about an urgent cooling issue.
She stayed late when no one asked her to.
She didn’t smile often, but when she did—usually in the direction of a rookie intern who got the airflow graph right on the first try—it felt like a minor miracle.
She never acted like she was above getting her hands dirty. More than once, she’d crawled under a car in testing or stayed up on call with the factory floor when simulations threw bad flags.
When someone’s dad died last winter, Ana didn’t say anything. She just silently took over their entire portion of the control systems redesign and submitted the notes under their name.
She made jokes that didn’t always land, but they were always funny two minutes later when you finally got them. She never raised her voice. She never threw blame. She had no time for politics and no patience for ego, and if you made a mistake, she’d show you exactly where it happened, fix it beside you, and never mention it again.
When one of the junior engineer on her team had a panic attack during pre-season calibration, it was Ana who found her behind the equipment crates, sat down cross-legged on the floor beside her, and calmly walked her through her breathing like it was just another simulation glitch to solve.
Ana didn’t ask to be liked.
But the Brackley crew liked her anyway.
Because she was honest. Because she was brilliant. Because she didn’t bother pretending. Because beneath all the technical precision and withering sarcasm, she was kind —the kind of quiet kind that didn’t ask for recognition.
Most people at Brackley were sharp. A few were brilliant. But Ana Wolff? She was something else.
Some of the older engineers joked that she could hear an engine whine and tell you what part of the MGU-H needed replacement with her eyes closed. It wasn’t that far off the mark.
And of course—she was Toto’s daughter.
Not that she ever acted like it.
That was a known thing—unspoken but understood. But apart from her last name and the fact that she sometimes made grown men in strategy meetings go quiet with a single raised eyebrow, you wouldn’t guess it at first glance.
She never used his name to open doors. Never took the easy route. She had earned her way through Cambridge, earned her place at Brackley, and earned the deference of people twice her age.
You wouldn't necessarily guess they were related at first glance. She didn’t have her father’s height. Didn’t have his voice, or his presence that could fill a room like thunder.
She didn’t look like him, not really. Her hair was soft blonde, pulled back in a no-nonsense bun most days. Her voice was cooler. Her frame smaller.
But if you looked closely—her eyes gave it away.
That same dark intensity.
The same glint when she was fighting for an idea she believed in.
Still, people at Brackley respected her not because she was Toto’s daughter—but in spite of it. She had earned every inch of her place. Her doctorate, her portfolio, her published research—they all spoke louder than any nameplate could.
Dr. Ana Wolff might’ve walked like a lone variable, might’ve spoken like a MATLAB script—but she never looked down on anyone. Never shouted.
Never asked for more than she’d be willing to give. And when she quietly joined the late shift, sleeves rolled up, fingers smudged with graphite from motor housing recalibration, people noticed.
They liked Ana.
Even if she didn’t always know what to do with that.
***
Department of Engineering, University of Cambridge
Hybrid Systems Efficiency in Turbocharged Power Units: Thermal Recovery, Energy Redistribution, and the Limits of Predictive Modelling in Competitive Motorsport Environments
A dissertation submitted for degree of Doctor of Philosophy
January 2021
By Anastasia Yelena Wolff
Trinity College
Dedication :
For the machines that made sense when people didn’t.
And for Jack—who thinks I’m cool, even when I forget how to be human.
Acknowledgements :
This research would not have been possible without the relentless patience of the machines that behaved exactly as expected, the data sets that told the truth even when no one asked, and the simulation models that never once demanded clarity on emotional intent.
To Professor J.L. Gorran, thank you for your guidance, even when I failed to meet the unspoken social expectations of academic interaction. Your feedback, blunt and mathematical, was always appreciated.
To my father—thank you for teaching me the value of precision, persistence, and volume. And for never asking me to be anything other than exactly what I am.
To Susie, who reminded me that kindness and intelligence are not mutually exclusive.
To Jack: you won’t understand a word of this (yet), but thank you for reminding me that sometimes, even very complicated people can be loved very simply.
To the person who once said engines don’t lie, and neither do I—not even when I pretend to. You are the variable I could never model, but somehow the system always runs better when you are there. You won’t see your name here. But if you ever read this, you’ll know it’s you.
And finally, to the machines. For their logic. Their clarity. Their refusal to conceal fault.
May we all run as cleanly.
—A.Y.W.
***
The Guardian - Excerpt from "Power, Pressure, and Precision: Inside the Mind of Toto Wolff"
The Guardian Weekend | November 2024
By Rachel Kingsley
Interviewer:
You’ve spoken often about your passion for leadership and long-term strategy—but I’m curious about your role off-track. You’re a father, too. How do you balance being a parent with the demands of running a Formula 1 team?
Toto Wolff (smiles):
Badly, sometimes. I think any parent in a high-performance environment would admit that. It's always a balance between presence and pressure. But I try to show up when it counts.
Interviewer:
You have four children?
Toto:
Yes. Rosa and Benedict from my first marriage, and Jack with Susie. Jack is still young—he's seven. The house is noisy. There are a lot of LEGO pieces underfoot.
And Anastasia, of course. She’s my eldest. From a relationship I had very early in my life—when I was living in Moscow in my twenties. Her mother and I weren’t… built for longevity.
She came into my life when she was eight. We didn’t—how do I say this—start traditionally. But she’s mine. Fully. Always.
Interviewer: That must’ve been a big shift.
Toto: It was. Suddenly there was this very silent, very brilliant little girl standing in my apartment with a suitcase. She didn’t speak German at first, only Russian. She barely spoke at all. But she watched everything.
Interviewer: That must’ve been difficult.
Toto: It was. For both of us. I made mistakes. I thought giving her structure would help—boarding school, academics… And she was always brilliant. Quietly so. Sharp in a way that makes you slightly afraid she’s already figured out what you’re going to say next.
Interviewer:
She’s in motorsport too, isn’t she?
Toto (nods):
Yes. Very much by her own doing. I never pushed her toward it. In fact, I tried not to.
She’s an engineer. System dynamics, hybrid architecture. She’s working in motorsport, but not on the front-facing side of it. Which suits her. Ana’s the kind of person who wants to solve the problem, not be photographed with it.
She’s brilliant. Quietly. Ferociously. She doesn’t like being looked at, but she loves solving impossible problems.
Interviewer:
Is it strange, working with your own daughter?
Toto:
Strange? No. Surreal, sometimes. Because I look at her and I see someone who’s earned every inch of where she is. Not because of her name—but in spite of it. She doesn't use it. If anything, she tries to hide behind the work.
She’s… remarkable. Brilliant. Very independent. She doesn’t like attention, so I try not to talk about her too much in the press, but I am very proud of her.
***
Twitter Thread: People Behind the Car - Ana Wolff
@/F1backstage:
She’s Mercedes' quietest powerhouse.
Fiercely private. Chronically unbothered. Hasn't given a quote to press since 2021. But if your engine runs right in 2026, you’ll have her to thank.
@/F1backstage: If you’ve never heard of Dr. Anastasia "Ana" Wolff, that’s by design.
She’s the daughter of Toto Wolff (yes, that Toto), but unlike the Nepo Baby™ playbook, she does not do press.
She doesn’t show up to premieres. She’s not pitching skincare on Instagram.
She’s in the engine room. Literally.
So here’s everything we know about her:
@/F1backstage:
Anastasia Yelena Wolff.
Born December 1997.
Daughter of Toto Wolff.
She’s from a relationship in Moscow when he was 25. Her mother left her with Toto when Ana was 8.
No, we are not making this up. Yes, it does sound like a Cold War Novel.
@/F1backstage: First appeared on the Mercedes internal staff directory as “Systems Integration Analyst” in 2021. Has two Cambridge degrees and a doctorate, all earned before age 23.
@/F1backstage:
Ana Wolff is Mercedes' lead systems engineer for the 2026 PU.
Rumored to be the reason Brackley’s simulations outpaced the FIA's own projections.
@/F1backstage:
Fluent in English, German, French and Russian.
Her social media presence = zero.
@/F1backstage:
You’ve probably never seen her in a team interview. She doesn’t do media. She’s not even listed on the website unless you
really
dig. But insiders will tell you she’s been instrumental in developing the systems diagnostics protocols for the upcoming engine cycle.
@/F1backstage: She’s also terrifying.
A few engineers have joked that she’s “the ghost of Brackley” because you never see her unless the engine is in crisis. Someone once said she fixed an entire thermal sync issue without speaking a word. Just walked in, made three changes, and left.
@/F1backstage:
Ana doesn’t do media.
She’s not in team videos.
She doesn’t give interviews.
The only place she
occasionally
appears?
Susie Wolff’s Instagram.
Usually blurry in the background. Sometimes in stories with her little brother Jack, who races karts and worships her.
@/F1backstage:
Her relationship with the rest of the Wolff family seems… complicated.
Rosa and Benedict—Toto’s other children from his first marriage—aren’t seen with her much. But Jack? Jack is glued to her side at every karting event she shows up to.
@/F1backstage: Ana Wolff is a mystery. No romantic links. No partner ever spotted. One unlucky journo tried to ask Toto if she was dating someone. Toto reportedly just said, “My daughter has exacting standards,” and then changed the topic.
@/F1backstage: Basically: she’s brilliant, brutal, beloved by the mechanics, and likely operating on a higher plane of intellect than the rest of us.
@/F1backstage:
If Mercedes nails the 2026 engine regs, don’t just thank the drivers.
Thank Ana Wolff.
@/F1backstage: She has a doctorate, and once shut down a paddock journalist by saying, “If I wanted to be visible, I’d work in PR.” (Iconic. Terrifying. Queen.)
***
RaceTech Weekly - Dr. Ana Wolff: The Engineer Behind the Silence
By Emily Kavanagh – Senior Technology Correspondent
In the high-stakes world of Formula 1, names carry weight.
And few names carry more gravitational pull than
Wolff
.
But while much of the motorsport world associates the name with Toto Wolff—Mercedes team principal, business strategist, and mainstay of the F1 political chessboard—another Wolff is quietly redefining the way Mercedes approaches the future.
When asked about the 2026 Mercedes power unit, most in the paddock will point to simulations, regulatory resets, and hybrid breakthroughs. But those who really know where to look will mention a name that rarely appears in public briefings and has never once spoken to press: Dr. Anastasia “Ana” Wolff .
If the name rings familiar, it’s with good reason. The daughter of Mercedes-AMG PETRONAS Team Principal Toto Wolff, Ana has carved out her own reputation in Formula 1—but not as a figure of legacy or PR-ready dynasties. Instead, she’s quietly become one of the most respected hybrid systems specialists in the sport. Ask anyone in Brackley, and you’ll get the same answer:
“She thinks in algorithms and speaks in fuel flow regulation,” one senior Mercedes engineer said. “And she doesn’t just find problems—she solves the ones we haven’t seen coming. She’s the one you call when nothing makes sense anymore."
Born in 1997 during Toto’s brief time living in Moscow, Ana’s early life is something of a blank spot in public records. Her mother reportedly left her with Toto when Ana was just eight years old, after which she was raised between Vienna and international boarding schools. Engineers who’ve worked with her joke that she was “built, not born”—a dry reference to her analytical mind and emotionally guarded nature.
Wolff holds two degrees from Cambridge—including a doctorate in applied systems modelling and energy optimization.
Ana joined the Mercedes engineering team in 2021 under no publicity whatsoever. At first, her presence raised questions—was this nepotism, or genuine talent?
Those questions didn’t last long.
Within weeks, she’d flagged a heat sync inefficiency in the MGU-H system that multiple dyno tests had missed. By 2023, she was the youngest systems engineer in the hybrid integration team. By 2024, she’d rewritten parts of the simulation interface used in PU calibration protocols.
Though officially listed as a Lead Systems and Hybrid Performance Engineer at Mercedes since 2023, her influence reaches further than her title suggests. She was a key figure in the early development phases of the 2026 engine, with internal reports noting that her predictive load balancing models improved early sim efficiency by 14%.
Now, in 2025, she’s one of the lead architects behind Mercedes’ 2026 engine concept.
Quietly, ruthlessly, brilliantly—Ana Wolff has become indispensable.
“She doesn’t say much,” one senior technician at Brackley told RaceTech . “But when she does? You shut up and listen.”
Wolff is known for her intensely private nature. She has no public social media, rarely appears in team media content, and is reportedly allergic to press days. The few glimpses fans get of her are through Susie Wolff’s Instagram stories, often in the background at her younger brother Jack’s karting events.
But it’s not just her engineering brilliance that makes Ana Wolff so fascinating—it’s the quiet distance she keeps from everything else.
She doesn’t give quotes to broadcasters. She doesn’t smile for TikToks. She doesn’t do post-race dinners or Sunday night afterparties. But make no mistake: she is one of the most formidable minds in Formula 1 today—and increasingly, one of its most fascinating enigmas.
Within Mercedes, Ana is known for her near-pathological precision, her deep loyalty to the team, and her absolute refusal to tolerate inefficiency, small talk, or anything resembling emotional vulnerability.
“She once restructured our entire hybrid module overnight because the error margin annoyed her,” said one Mercedes performance engineer. “When she finally sent the email, it just said: ‘Fixed this. Don’t make me do it again.’”
She also wrote a dissertation on thermal load management so technically dense that even some Cambridge professors reportedly asked her to “add more words that weren’t math.”
She is seen most often in Brackley, rarely at races. Asked once by a journalist during an off-record paddock event if she was dating anyone, she reportedly replied: “I have a data array that needs validation. That’s all the emotional commitment I have time for.”
She’s not here for the headlines. She’s not here to smile for sponsors.
She’s here to build something that works.
And with Mercedes' 2026 power unit already being called “a potential generational leap,” Dr. Ana Wolff is no longer just the quiet brain in the back room.
She’s the one everyone’s watching now.
***
Mercedes F1 HQ, Brackley, England - January 2025
Kimi hadn’t expected anything more than cafeteria pasta and a politely awkward twenty-minute lunch break.
It was one of his first visits to Brackley as a full-time driver. Just a logistics day — meet the engineers, try not to knock over anything priceless, remember names. He was still figuring out where the espresso machine was when popped up beside him.
“You hungry?” Bono asked, as casually as if they’d had lunch every week since 2019.
Kimi blinked. “Um… yeah?”
“Good,” Bono said. “Come on. You’re with us.”
He followed. Because… well, Bono. You didn’t say no to Bono. He had a weirdly Jedi energy.
What Kimi didn’t expect was to be led down a back hallway, into a side conference room that had been half-transformed with foldable chairs, a battered wooden table, and four mismatched mugs already waiting.
And then he saw her .
Dr. Anastasia “Ana” Wolff.
Legs crossed. Elbows on the table. Glasses on. Tablet closed.
Ana looked up. “He brought the new one,” she said to Valtteri, as if he weren’t standing right there.
Valtteri Bottas, seated beside her and halfway through a coffee, grinned.
“Fresh blood,” he said. “Finally.”
Bono grinned and pulled out a chair. “Welcome to Tuesday Lunch Club.”
“What?” Kimi said. “There’s… a club? I thought this was lunch?”
“This is lunch,” Bono said, already halfway through unpacking his tabbouleh. “This is the best lunch.”
“There is a club,” Ana said, deadpan.
“We’ve been meeting here since… what, 2020?” Bono offered.
“2021,” Ana corrected. “Valterri was grandfathered in,” Ana added.
“And now you’re here,” Valterri said cheerfully. “Poor you.”
Kimi looked around the table. Three terrifyingly competent adults. One overwhelmed teenager.
“Who—who else is in this club?”
“Just us,” Valtteri said. “It’s exclusive.”
Bono leaned in conspiratorially. “We all hated being social, so we made a social group where we didn’t have to be.”
“We don’t talk unless we want to,” Ana added. “We don’t take questions. And if you bring someone unvetted, they get exiled.”
“I’m unvetted, ” Kimi pointed out.
“Exactly,” Ana said. “One wrong move and you’re out.”
“Do I get a trial period?”
“This is your trial,” Bono said. “Valtteri voted to adopt you after your third simulator session.”
“I did,” Valtteri confirmed. “You drive like a man who knows pain.”
Kimi stared. “This is the weirdest thing that’s ever happened to me.”
Ana passed him the bread. “You’ll get used to it.”
Kimi stared at them.
Ana went back to her tablet. Bono opened a bag of crisps. Valtteri took a bite of his sandwich and offered no comfort whatsoever.
No one said anything for a full minute.
And weirdly… Kimi didn’t hate it.
It was the first moment all day that no one asked how he felt about being Lewis Hamilton’s successor. No one asked about media duties. No one tried to make him prove he belonged.
They just let him eat.
After a few minutes, Ana slid a second cookie onto his tray without looking up.
“Ground rule one,” she said. “No PR speak.”
Kimi blinked. “Okay.”
“Two,” Valtteri added, “no talking about George unless it’s to complain.”
Ana raised a brow. “And three—if you leak this lunch club to anyone in marketing, we will feed you to Toto.”
“This is… every Tuesday?”
“Yes,” Ana said. “No media. No meetings. No George.”
“That last one is important,” Bono muttered.
Kimi looked around at the trio — a brilliant, terrifying engineer, a suspiciously caffeinated Finn, and an overqualified race engineer who kept group minutes on laminated cards.
He took a bite of pasta.
“…I think I love it here.”
Later, when he left the room an hour later — full of surprisingly good food and existential career advice from Bottas — he realized something strange:
He felt calmer.
Like maybe this wasn’t just a lunch.
Maybe it was
infrastructure.
Maybe this was how Mercedes stayed sane.
By putting the smartest, driest, most overqualified people in a room once a week and letting them pretend they weren’t all secretly holding the team together with sarcasm and espresso.
***
Text Messages: Kimi Antonelli & Oliver Bearman
Kimi:
bro
i just had lunch with ana wolff
valtteri
and bono
Oliver:
you WHAT
Kimi:
they have a club.
a secret lunch club.
every tuesday.
i’ve been conscripted.
Oliver:
what do you MEAN “conscripted”
was there hazing?
do you need rescue?
Kimi:
no
they gave me tabbouleh and existential advice
Oliver:
this is the most mercedes thing i’ve ever heard
you okay?
Kimi:
they don’t speak unless they want to
they don’t allow george
they passed me bread and stared at me in silence for like 3 full minutes
i think i passed some kind of ancient test
Oliver:
sounds like a cult
but with more espresso
Kimi:
ana gave me a second cookie and said “no PR speak”
valtteri told me i drive like a man who knows pain
Oliver :
are you sure you didn’t just hallucinate this during media day burnout
Kimi:
they threatened to feed me to toto if i told anyone in marketing
so if i disappear
tell my story
Oliver:
noted.
i’ll light a candle in the sim room
***
FIA Press Conference Transcript
Location: Suzuka Circuit, Japan
Date: April 2025
Participants:
- Toto Wolff (Team Principal, Mercedes-AMG Petronas F1 Team)
- Fred Vasseur (Team Principal, Scuderia Ferrari HP)
- Andrea Stella (Team Principal, McLaren Formula 1 Team)
Tom Clarkson:
We’ll go next to a question from Giorgio Rossi at
La Gazzetta.
Giorgio Rossie´:
Thank you. Question to all three—how are preparations going for the 2026 engine regulations, and there are already whispers that Mercedes might be ahead of the curve. Care to comment?
Toto Wolff (smiling, guarded):
I think everyone’s working hard. It’s a big change—electrification, new fuel, new balance of performance. I’m confident in the people we have in Brixworth and Brackley. But I wouldn’t say we’re
ahead
. That’s a dangerous assumption in Formula 1.
Fred Vasseur:
Come on, Toto. We all hear the same rumours. Mercedes is three months ahead of the rest of us, and everyone’s too polite to say it.
Fred:
I tried to poach his systems engineer three times this year, by the way. The woman behind half his magic.
( Laughter from the media. )
Andrea Stella (grinning): Only three?
Toto:
You what?
Fred:
I did! I emailed her directly. Asked if she’d be interested in hearing about our power unit project in Maranello.
Tom:
And what happened?
Fred:
She sent me a copy of her birth certificate the third time. No message. Just a scan. (
beat
)
I took the hint.
( Laughter breaks out across the room. Toto shakes his head, trying not to grin. )
Toto (completely deadpan):
That sounds like Anastasia, yes.
Tom (grinning):
Just to clarify, Fred, you're talking about Toto’s daughter, Ana Wolff?
Fred:
Oui. I made the mistake of thinking I could lure her away with red overalls. Apparently not even the Pope could manage that.
Toto (mildly):
The Pope drives a Mercedes, actually.
(more laughter)
Fred:
Touché.
Chapter 3: Chapter 1: Imola
Notes:
...I wrote smut filled with racing metaphors. Y'all are welcome.
Chapter Text
MotorsportGP.com - Toto Wolff to Miss Imola GP for Son’s Graduation
Mercedes Team Principal Toto Wolff will be absent from this weekend’s Emilia Romagna Grand Prix as he attends his son’s graduation ceremony.
Wolff, who remained in the United States following the Miami Grand Prix, is celebrating the academic milestone of his 23-year-old son, Benedict, who is graduating from the University of Southern California.
In Wolff’s absence, key responsibilities will be handled by the senior trackside leadership team at Mercedes throughout the Imola weekend.
***
Twitter Thread: Ana Wolff Spotted at the Imola GP – Wait, What?!
@/gridtea:
Toto Wolff is skipping Imola to attend his son Benedict’s USC graduation.
So imagine everyone’s surprise when Ana Wolff showed up at the paddock gate this morning with her headset, sunglasses, and exactly zero sentimentality.
@/gridtea:
This is the
first
time Ana has been seen at a race weekend without Toto also present.
She’s usually kept behind the scenes or shows up with her father for powertrain briefings.
Today? Solo.
Black Mercedes fleece. Hair in a braid. Coffee in hand. Iconic.
@/gridtea:
To clarify: she is not attending Benedict’s graduation.
You know, her half-brother.
The one Toto is flying across continents for.
And she’s at Imola.
Working.
@/gridtea:
No official statement from Mercedes.
Reminder: Ana is notoriously private. Doesn’t do press. Doesn’t do media days.
And while she was raised with Benedict and Rosa in theory, they’ve never really been seen together publicly.
(Except one awkward photo at a family wedding in like… 2016.)
@/gridtea:
Is she estranged from that side of the family? Who knows.
Does she look like she would rather tune engine maps in a thunderstorm than sit through a USC graduation with family she barely speaks to?
Absolutely yes.
@/gridtea:
Say what you want, but Ana showing up to a race her father is
not
attending, while skipping a family milestone, says
a lot.
And none of it is sentimental.
@/gridtea:
Anyway, we salute Ana Wolff:
– Emotionally unavailable
– Brilliant under pressure
– Would rather chase .02 seconds of hybrid efficiency than watch a valedictorian speech
– Still scary
– Still hot
***
Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Anastasia “Ana” Wolff
Max:
media day complete.
i’ve answered 14 stupid questions, signed 9 hats, and resisted the urge to throw a mic at someone.
can i see you now?
Ana:
Are you incapable of subtlety?
Max:
are you incapable of saying yes without pretending you hate me first,
Poekie
?
Ana:
You are insufferable.
And I’m working.
Max:
you’ve been “working” all day.
even saw you stalking around the paddock like an angry ghost with a torque wrench.
just say it.
Ana:
Say what?
Max:
you want to see me.
same as always.
thursday. after media. When you are at a race. your routine is practically clinical.
Ana:
You are not part of any
routine.
This is convenience. Nothing more.
Max:
and yet…
room 507
same as last time.
door’s open.
***
Max Verstappen’s Hotel Room, Imola, Italy - 15 May 2025
Logically, rationally, logistically—this made perfect sense.
Ana was already in Imola. So was Max. They were both here for work.
Two consenting adults. With matching schedules.
It was just smart time management.
Ana knocked once. Then let herself in.
It wasn’t like she didn’t know the layout. Same hotel. Same floor. Same Max, half-reclined on the bed like this wasn’t a catastrophic decision waiting to happen.
He looked up from his phone and smirked. "Seven minutes late. Slipping."
She rolled her eyes. “Traffic.”
He quirked an eyebrow. “We’re in Imola. You walked here.”
“Your point?”
He didn’t answer. Just watched her with that look—the one that made her skin itch and her thoughts blur. She hated that he could do that with a glance. That her body responded before her brain could deploy the usual internal firewall.
Still, she stayed in the doorway for a beat too long. Still trying to pretend this was logical.
Because it was logical.
They were in the same place.
That was all.
No distance. No need to pretend they didn’t know how the other moved, how the other breathed, how her name sounded when he whispered it into her collarbone like a secret.
Just… proximity. That’s what it was.
A series of convergences. Track by track. Year by year.
It had started years ago. They were eighteen. Monaco. She was on a summer engineering placement with Renault (2016. Courtesy of Fred Vasseur.) and he was on his second season in Formula 1, impossibly fast and impossibly smug.
He was also the first person she’d ever slept with.
And unfortunately for every other man who had come after him, he’d also been the best.
Objectively speaking.
It was—statistically— excellent sex.
Which would’ve been fine if it weren’t for the fact that no one else had ever compared.
No one else.
Infortunately, for every other man who had come after him, that benchmark had been set far too high.
There had been others, sure.
The Cambridge grad student who tried to explain his research model mid-kiss.
The charming sustainability consultant in Berlin who wore wire-frame glasses and cried during sex for reasons she still did not, and never wanted to, understand.
But none of them had felt right.
None of them had made her forget about seams or pressure points or skin-on-skin discomfort.
None of them had made her safe .
Only Max.
It wasn’t supposed to be good. It was supposed to be a mistake. A one-time experiment. A scratch to itch.
Figuring out why sex made other people stupid.
Well, Ana hadn’t figured that out, because sex with Max made her stupid as well.
It had been her first time having sex and it hadn’t felt like being studied and misread and slowly unravelled under a microscope.
Because with Max… nothing ever scratched.
Nothing burned.
Nothing set off the bright, buzzing alarm in her brain that said
stop touching me now.
And years later—nothing had ever come close to him.
She had long since accepted that sleeping with him was a practical decision.
She stepped further into the room, letting the door fall shut behind her.
Max’s eyes dragged over her—black trousers, black tank top, hair still slightly damp from her hotel shower. He didn’t move to greet her. He never did. He just waited.
And that, somehow, made her feel more undone than anything else.
“I’m not staying long,” she said, even as she dropped her bag and kicked off her boots.
“You never do,” he said quietly.
She climbed onto the bed and into his hands, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
His hands were warm.
Calloused from the wheel, the gym, years of living too fast—but still warm, still familiar. They found her waist like they always did, with a kind of reverence she refused to name. She climbed into his lap and straddled him, bracing her palms against his shoulders as if anchoring herself against the part of her brain still screaming, this is dangerous.
Max didn’t kiss her.
Not yet.
Just looked at her.
And Ana hated that more than anything. The quiet way he looked.
Like he knew something she didn’t. Like he was cataloguing her expression, the tension in her jaw, the slight tremble in her fingers—like she was a problem he already understood but didn’t want to solve too quickly.
She leaned in and kissed him first. Hard. Deliberate.
Because if she was going to do this, she had to be the one in control.
Or at least pretend she was. (She knew that wouldn’t last for long anyway).
His hands tightened on her hips, and she kissed him deeper, faster, like if she pushed hard enough she could drown out the things his silence made her feel. Max kissed back with the same calm pressure he always had—like he wasn’t in a rush. Like she wasn’t going to vanish again in an hour, wrapped in guilt and cynicism and the emotional armor she wore to every Grand Prix.
She pulled his shirt over his head.
He let her.
Her hands moved to his shoulders, tested the familiar ridges.
Ana told herself to focus on physicality, on sensation: the warmth of his skin, the blunted ache building in her ribcage, the press of his thigh between hers. She kissed him harder.
He shifted, rolling her beneath him as easily as rolling a car onto the racing line.
Max had always been good at physics, leverage, the small, cruel tactics that made him unbeatable in a race and also in matters like these. He kissed her throat with the same patient calculation he reserved for overtakes at the chicane: timing, pressure, relentless focus on the opening.
She breathed in sharply, immediately embarrassed by the sound. He caught it, of course—of course he did—and made a low noise in answer.
She tried to focus on the shape of his mouth on her collarbone, the drag of his short, uneven hair against her cheek, the heat in her chest threatening to blue-screen her brain. His weight pressed her into the mattress, immovable, like he knew she needed something solid on top of her.
Somewhere in the back of her mind, a sensible subroutine cycled through the consequences: the inevitable goodbye, the way his eyes would find her in the paddock the next day and act like nothing had happened. Like this was just something they did, between races and deadlines, beneath the fluorescent gloom of hotel rooms.
But here, now, her body didn’t care about tomorrow—or anything except the way Max’s hand slid up her thigh, steadying her like a metronome.
She clutched the back of his neck, fingers tangling in his hair. She could feel the heat of his skin, a damp line tracking from his temple down to her collarbone.
There was a rhythm to this—hard then soft, pressure then mercy. He knew exactly how she broke apart, and there was something almost infuriating about it.
Some part of her hated him for it, for reading her like a data set and then bending physics to cheat his way across the gap.
It felt like falling, except it wasn’t.
Falling was supposed to come with panic, but this was closer to inevitability. Like gravity, but a harsher kind.
In this case, falling felt like his broad hands on the zipper of her trousers…like the same hands that stripped her bare beneath him.
By the time his fingers slipped beneath her panties, she was already embarassingly drenched.
Ana’s legs twitched involuntarily—humiliating—and she tried to pull his hand away, but he caught her wrist, pinned her to the sheets with an ease that bordered on offensive.
His grip was firm but not painful, callused pads rough against her skin. She could feel her heartbeat in three places at once: behind her eyes, in her wrists where he held her, and everywhere he touched her, a kind of stuttering, arrhythmic pulse.
He pressed two fingers inside her, slow and heavy and certain. She jerked her hips up, startled at how much she’d missed him, how efficiently he could make nonsense of her resolve. She didn’t dare look at his face. Not when she could already feel the smugness radiating off of him like engine heat.
“Shut up,” she whispered, even though he hadn’t said a word.
He nipped her neck in response, smile dragging against her skin. “You’re the loud one,” he muttered into her skin, and she almost hit him for the accuracy.
Instead, she arched her hips forward, trying to regain the upper hand by grinding down against his knuckles. He let her, watching with half-lidded eyes, and part of her hated the way her body gave itself away so completely. He pushed her further, curling his fingers just so, and she felt her breath stagger in her lungs.
A moment later, he circled her clit.
She bit down on her lip, hard. Metal tang. The room spun around that small, methodical pressure, everything else narrowing to the thumb circling, the flex and release, the coil forming in her lower back and gathering speed. She hated him for knowing; hated herself for needing this, for needing all of it.
Her free hand clawed at the sheets, because she needed somewhere to put the tension, somewhere to anchor the tidal, helpless feeling rising inside her.
“Good girl,” he cooed at her. She had half a mind to hit him for real this time.
She didn’t want to make a sound, but she couldn’t—not with his thumb on her, two fingers inside her like that. The pressure flickered and built, tragic and criminal. Fuck. She was so embarrassingly close, and he knew it.
She bit his clavicle. “Don’t,” she warned, half threat, half plea.
He did anyway.
A second later she was coming, harsh and high-pitched and absolutely impossible to stifle, struggling against his grip like it mattered. The aftershocks wrung through her, liquid and humiliatingly sweet, scraping the last rational thoughts from her brain.
He released her wrist and she shoved at his shoulder—a weak, petulant shove, but he just laughed under his breath, pleased with himself. She’d never met a man so addicted to his own competence. It was actually sort of tragic, if she considered it for more than a microsecond.
Max grinned like a wolf, then kissed her slow and sweet, as if it was a reward for finally letting go.
She shoved him, hard, palm to sternum. "Stop acting like you invented orgasms," she hissed, but her voice was more ragged than angry.
He shrugged, a little crooked. "Someone has to do it properly,” he said drily. He cocked his head to the side. “How long has it been, Ana? When was the last time somebody properly fucked you?”
She looked at the ceiling, as if the industrial acoustical tile could supply a better response than her brain. “I don’t see how that’s relevant.”
He kissed her jaw, gentle, like there was time to waste. “It is always relevant,” he said. He feathered her hair back behind her ear, and for a second her heart panged, senselessly, ridiculously.
He shifted, all smooth confidence, and reached down to pull down his sweatpants. She let him. She could’ve stopped him, easily—could’ve told him to fuck off, or threatened to rewire his entire car with polonium—but she just lay there, loose and too warm, skin buzzing from the comedown.
“I can leave,” she tossed back, but the threat was mostly for show. She felt boneless, her thigh pressed against his hip as if molded there. Because it was easier to be adversaries than—anything else. This was routine, established in the world’s blandest hotel rooms from Abu Dhabi to Austin: fight, fuck, fake amnesia.
She let herself look at him. His cheeks were flushed. There was a bead of sweat at his temple, wicking down where the grey hotel air could not touch it. She wondered if he noticed it, if he cared.
She wondered why she cared. He ran a thumb along her jaw—not soft, not tender, just collecting a sample. “You’re not going anywhere.”
“That a challenge?” Her voice was rough, almost daring herself to get up and leave.
Max just rolled his eyes at her as he grabbed a condom from the bedside table.
He rolled the condom on with the same easy carelessness as everything: like it was not a negotiation, but an inevitability. She hated that she found it reassuring.
On his knees, he surveyed the damage. Her tank top was already rucked up to her ribs, her trousers and underwear pooled around one ankle, her skin still pink and splotchy from aftermath. He paused, something like a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth, before he pulled her up on her knees.
“What, and now you want me to do all the work?” she snapped at him.
Max’s eyebrows rose at that.
“Alright, you asked for this,” he told her, a dark chuckle escaping him.
He flipped her over without a forewarning.
The bedsprings gave a traitorous groan as she landed, knees scuffing forward on the comforter. His hands were already on her hips, maneuvering her with one bracing clamp. He didn’t exactly give her time to adjust. It was a quick, hungry thing, almost punishing, and it made her suck in breath through her teeth, the air hissing sharp and cold.
She could feel him at her back, flush as a shadow; his thighs bracketed hers, pinning her in place, a neat physics problem with her at the fulcrum. One hand threaded through her hair, pulling her up just enough to tilt her neck—the exact angle she hated to admit she liked. The other hand clung to her waist, fingers splayed, the pressure more grounding than she wanted to admit.
The first thrust made her knees buckle. It wasn’t pain, not really, more the intensity of being pinned, filled, claimed. He started slow, measured as a metronome, and it was almost worse than if he’d just fucked her rough and quick. Each stroke seemed rigged to drag it out, to make her feel every inch. He held her there, clamped around the waist, like he knew she’d try to get away if he let go.
He set a rhythm and stuck to it, relentless and methodical, and she hated him for making her so goddamn predictable. Her body gave itself away in increments she couldn't hide—the way she clenched down, the way her shoulders tensed, the way she cursed at him under her breath in three languages. Each time she swore, he only pressed harder, like he was collecting receipts for every time she'd run from him in the paddock, every deflecting joke, every sidelong glance handed off in the grid.
She braced a forearm against the headboard, scrabbling for purchase on the battered vinyl, determined not to let him know how close she was again. But he didn't need telling. The man was a fucking computer when it came to her; always had the data, always knew the line, always found the margin. He used it against her now, timing his thrusts to the exact second she'd start to break.
He reached under her, fingers slick and sure, and found her clit again. She bit down on a curse, stifling the sounds in her own clenched jaw. He worked her relentlessly, thumb moving in rhythm with his hips, never letting up, timing it so well she almost believed in fate, or at least the perverse inevitability of physics and chemistry.
She hated how she wanted it. Hated how her body betrayed her, how the tension wound through her like wire, every muscle tight and on the verge. She clawed at the blanket, the headboard, searching for something to moor herself to, something other than him. But every time she tried to squirm away, he simply hauled her back, not letting up, locking her in place with all that muscle and willpower and that certainty that made him a winner on the track, and a goddamn tyrant in bed.
“Fuck,” she hissed, voice gone to gravel.
She could feel his laugh rumble through her lower back, cruel and smug. He wasn’t even out of breath. If anything, he was getting off on how close he had her, like it was a competition only he knew how to win.
“Say it,” he breathed, mouth on her ear.
She nearly bit her tongue. “I’m gonna kill you,” she spat, but the sound was barely more than a gasp.
She lasted three more thrusts. Then everything inside her detonated, sharp and total, the kind of release that bordered on violent. She yelped, hand scrambling for anything to hold, and he didn’t let up, not even a little. He just rode her through, relentless as always, until she finally sagged forward, chest heaving, hair plastered to her face and pillow.
Max collapsed to his elbows behind her, for a moment less a person than a heat source, sweat beading and running from his hairline onto her back. He stayed there, boxing her in, their breaths in rough stereo.
Ana didn’t move. Couldn’t. Her thighs twitched with aftershocks, every muscle registering as static fuzz. She pressed her cheek into the pillow, slow to surface. Through the hotel wall, a faint TV jingle. Down the corridor, a vacuum whined. The mundanity of it almost stung. She counted her breaths to forty before she trusted her voice.
“Get off,” she muttered, words muffled by pillow and pride.
He finally did. Peeled himself back, a slow exhale sliding off her spine. There was a pause while he stripped the condom, knotted it, and dumped it in the trash—no fuss, no show. She heard the squeak of the bathroom door, then the tap run for two seconds, then the plonk of the glass as he filled it from the minibar bottle. He returned with water and a stack of hotel-brand tissues.
Ana rolled to her side and tried to reclaim her sense of self, if not her dignity.
She took the water and drank three gulps—lukewarm, flat, hospital-sterile. It helped. Kind of.
He watched her, still standing, sweat cooling on his chest. He looked saturated with smugness.
It should not have been possible for anyone to look so infuriatingly pleased while still naked. But Max had always managed to exist in the overlap of arrogance and nonchalance, like if you peeled back his skin there would just be a thin layer of Teflon and then pure statistical certainty. Ana glared at him, not even bothering with the pretense that she wasn't watching the way his chest rose and fell, the bright marks her teeth had left at the base of his neck.
He tossed the tissues at her. "You should hydrate," he said, tone too flat to be properly mocking.
"Don't tell me what to do," she snapped, but drank anyway.
He grinned wider. "Noted."
***
Text Messages: Toto Wolff & Anastasia “Ana” Wolff
Ana:
Tell Benedict congratulations.
Toto:
You could have told him yourself.
Ana:
I did.
Via text.
As one does.
Toto:
It’s not the same.
Ana:
Neither is pretending we’re a family when we’re all in the same room.
Toto:
He would have liked to see you.
Ana:
No.
I’m pretty sure he prefers it when I’m not there.
Toto:
That’s not true.
Ana:
It’s not
not
true.
Toto:
Anastasia
Ana:
I have work to do.
***
University of Southern California, California, USA - 17 May 2025
The ceremony was beautiful.
Of course it was. Perfect California sun. Perfect speeches. Perfect smiles. Rows of proud parents standing with phones in hand, clapping for futures they felt they helped build.
Toto clapped. Took photos. Smiled in all the right places.
But his mind wasn’t here.
Not really.
It wandered—out of the stadium, across the time zones, all the way back to Italy. To Imola. To the telemetry desk where he knew exactly where she’d be standing, team polo, refusing to meet anyone’s eyes for too long.
He stood beside Susie on the sunlit lawn while Benedict posed for pictures with classmates.
He cleared his throat.
“She texted this morning,” he said.
Susie glanced over her shoulder. “Ana?”
He nodded.
“She said to tell Benedict congratulations.”
Susie gave a small, sad smile. “Did you tell her she could’ve said it herself?”
“I did.” He rubbed a hand across his jaw. “She said he prefers it when she’s not there.”
Susie didn’t say anything at first. Just looked back out at the LA skyline like it might offer a better version of the past.
Toto spoke again, softer now. “Do you think I should’ve insisted she come? Put her on a plane. Told her—”
“No,” Susie said, cutting him off. “Let’s not do historical revisionism, Toto.”
He looked at her.
“Stephanie hates her,” Susie said plainly.
Toto winced. “It’s not hate.”
Susie raised an eyebrow. “It’s not love. Stephanie never tried to hide it. And Rosa and Benedict grew up in a house where that was the baseline. You think Ana doesn’t feel that?”
He exhaled through his nose, long and steady. “I thought time would help.”
“No, you thought if you put her far enough away, everyone could pretend she was a footnote.”
That one landed. Not cruel. Not unfair.
Just true.
He thought of 2005.
Vienna. The knock at his door.
Eight years old.
Wiry arms. A backpack and one tattered suitcase. A Russian passport.
Her mother didn’t cry. Just said something clipped and cold— “It’s your turn. You deal with it. I’m done.”
Anastasia didn’t cry either.
She stood in his hallway for nearly twenty minutes without speaking. Just… watching him, like she was trying to solve for x without any of the constants.
Benedict and Rosa had been toddlers at the time. Sleeping upstairs. Stephanie had been out. It wasn’t until two hours later, when she came home and saw Ana sitting silently at the kitchen table, that the house had truly changed.
Stephanie saw her as proof of something ugly. A thing to be tolerated, not embraced.
And Anastasia—Anastasia didn’t speak German. Only Russian. Wouldn’t even say da to him at first. Just stared like she was waiting to be handed back.
Stephanie had made her opinion clear before the day ended.
Toto. This is not my child.
No, she wasn’t.
She was his.
And he hadn’t known what to do with her.
Not really.
He’d tried. He’d bought the books. Hired a tutor.
When Anastasia was thirteen, he sent her to boarding school. The brochure had promised discipline and academic excellence. He thought it would help her focus. Give her structure. A future.
He thought she’d thrive.
She never said otherwise.
Now, in Los Angeles, under a cloudless sky, he watched Benedict throw his arm around Rosa’s shoulder for a photo and felt the emptiness settle like dust in his lungs.
“I tried,” he said aloud.
“I know,” Susie replied, her voice soft.
“I thought I was doing the right thing,” he murmured now.
“You thought it would be easier for everyone,” Susie replied. “Including you. But love doesn’t always feel like love to a child who thinks they were dropped off because they weren’t worth keeping.”
Toto swallowed.
“And now?” he asked.
Susie looked at him. “Now she doesn’t go where she’s not wanted.”
***
Autodromo Internazionale Enzo e Dino Ferrari, Imola, Italy - 18 May 2025
Ana didn’t particularly enjoy the Imola paddock. Too many people. Too much press. Too much gravel . She had already seen four engineers track it into the garage that morning and had mentally listed each one like an offense on a war tribunal docket.
And then there was George Russell.
Unfortunately, George Russell was everywhere .
He was already in the garage when she arrived—smiling in that sharp, media-polished way he always did. (She did suppose it made sense that he was in the garage. He was their driver after all.)
And now, George Russell, in all his PR-groomed, permanently polished glory, was hovering next to the coffee machine.
“Morning, Ana,” he said brightly, with that smile that always felt like it had been pre-approved by five brand consultants. “You’re a sight for sore eyes,” he said cheerfully, leaning back like he thought he was in a cologne ad.
Ana didn’t look up from her tablet. “Sore eyes should go to the medical unit.”
George laughed. “You know, sometimes I think you’d be even more well-liked if you tried softening your edges.”
Ana just stared at him. His smile faltered for a fraction of a second. “Just—some people find you a bit intense, that’s all. I’m trying to help you out here.”
She stared at him. “Help me not be accurate?”
George seemed unbothered by the sarcasm. He leaned against the counter like he thought this was a moment . Like they were bonding. “Just saying, Ana. People like someone who knows how to read a room.”
She had no idea what to say to that, so she elected not to say anything at all.
Quite frankly, she had still not figured out what George Russell actually wanted from her.
Probably fix her. Which was never gonna happen.
“You know,” he’d said once, a year or two ago, smiling that neat, politician-in-training smile of his, “you catch more flies with honey.”
She’d looked up from her engine map, blinked once, and replied, “Why would I want flies?”
George had laughed—like she was charming, like she was being cute.
She wasn’t. She just didn’t like insects.
Or George.
It wasn’t that she hated him. Hating him would have required energy. George was just… irritating. Constantly hovering at the edge of her periphery like a well-dressed mosquito with soft eyes and the world’s most exhausting belief that everyone could be “nicer.”
He meant well. That was the problem.
He always meant well.
He’d once suggested she smile more during post-race debriefs. “You’ve got a brilliant mind, Ana. You should let people see how approachable you can be.”
She’d stared at him for five full seconds before deadpanning, “I’m not.”
George had tried again a week later, offering her a book called The Power of Softness: How to Lead with Empathy in Male-Dominated Workspaces. He’d left it on her desk with a Post-it that said Thought of you!
Ana binned it by lunchtime.
The irony, of course, was that George believed he was helping her. Fixing her. Making her better, more polished, more… palatable.
He didn’t realise that Ana had already been broken down and rebuilt—by boarding schools and silence and a stepmother who never learned to hide her loathing. She’d already been shaved into shape. Polished into steel. She wasn’t interested in becoming soft again just because George thought a kinder Ana would go better with the Mercedes brand.
The thing was: Ana didn’t hate George. That would’ve required emotional investment. And George Russell didn’t warrant emotional investment.
But she did dislike the way he treated her like she was a problem to be smoothed out.
As if she was a social Rubik’s cube that could be solved with enough small talk and polite smiling.
As if her bluntness wasn’t the reason she was good at what she did. As if her silence needed to be filled with something other than precision and calculation.
To Ana, George Russell was like a LinkedIn notification you never asked for—always well-intentioned, rarely relevant, and fundamentally unable to take a hint.
***
Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Anastasia “Ana” Wolff
Max:
just found out your dad’s not here this weekend
Ana:
Correct.
Max:
because of your brother’s graduation?
Ana:
Yes.
Max:
so why aren’t
you
there?
Ana:
Because I’m working.
Max:
bullshit
Ana:
Excuse me?
Max:
you’re the most terrifyingly efficient person I know
you could’ve rearranged your schedule three months ago if you wanted to go
you didn’t want to
Ana:
Not everything is a conspiracy.
Max:
no, sometimes it’s just pain you don’t talk about
Ana:
That’s a bold statement for someone who once ghosted Netflix for six months.
Max:
Nastya.
why didn’t you go?
Max:
do you think they didn’t want you there?
Ana:
I
know
they didn’t.
Max:
your dad wanted you there
Ana:
He wanted the
idea
of me there.
***
The Townhouse, Brackley, England - 18 May 2025
By the time Ana got back to Brackley, the sky had turned the colour of old steel. Clouded over. Quiet. Like the whole town was holding its breath.
Her suitcase thumped softly against the wooden floor as she pushed the door open and stepped into the stillness of her narrow little house—a weathered red-brick terrace just off the high street.
It was a modest place. One of those old brick rows tucked just behind Brackley High Street—two bedrooms, a too-small kitchen, and a garden that she mostly ignored. She could afford something bigger, of course. But she liked the containment. The privacy. The control.
Home.
If it could be called that.
It was her space. Her rules. Her refuge.
And yet, the quiet sometimes had edges.
Inside, it was exactly how she’d left it before Imola. Clean, quiet, symmetrical. Slate walls. Minimal furniture. A row of shoes placed precisely by the door. Three mugs in the drying rack. The living room lamp on a timer.
She slipped her shoes off—carefully aligned beside the others—and placed her carry-on by the stairs without turning on the light. She didn’t unpack. She never did on race nights. The suitcase would sit by the stairs until morning, half-zipped like a wound she didn’t want to close yet.
The familiar creak of the old floorboards greeted her like a worn-out sigh.
The silence was good. Predictable. Hers.
The walls were clean. Sparse.
Ana didn’t like clutter. Too much noise. Too many edges.
The only visible decoration was a row of bookcases and a framed print of a vintage Soviet space programme schematic in the living room—black and red and faded gold. It reminded her of Moscow.
Or rather, the idea of Moscow. The one she remembered from childhood. The city that existed only in memory now—snowflakes on glass, her grandmother’s tea samovar steaming by the window, the soft hush of Russian lullabies before bed.
A children’ fantasy of Moscow that had nothing to do with world politics and wars, that was untouched by anything but her memories.
Sometimes she missed it so sharply it hurt.
She missed a language that made sense to her bones.
She missed the version of herself that hadn’t known she’d become a burden.
The version of herself that had died at age 8, in the hallway of Viennese apartment building.
She was eight when her mother left her with her father. Eight when her mother dropped her off at the doorstep of her father’s apartment like she was an awkward package that no longer fit the décor of a new life.
“It’s better this way,” her mother had said breezily, straightening her jacket like it was a job interview. “You’ll be better off with your father. He has the means. And the space. And the patience.”
She’d said it like a logic problem. Like Ana was just a term that didn’t balance the equation anymore.
She was eight. Her mother had been wearing pearls. Her suitcase had been read. One of the zipper pulls had been broken.
It wasn’t about patience.
It was about inconvenience.
Ana had been inconvenient—too bright, too rigid, too much. Her mother had been getting remarried. A new husband, a new flat, a new life. There had been no room in that blueprint for a daughter who flinched at certain fabrics and couldn’t bear to wear tights. Who memorized star charts and catalogued her meals by texture and temperature.
Toto had taken her in, of course. With a kind of awkward gentleness she hadn’t expected.
He hadn’t known what to do with her at first. She was small and silent and cried when the tag on her shirt itched. He bought books. A tutor. Eventually, a therapist.
He tried. That was more than could be said about her mother. (Still, sometimes he still looked at her like she was a puzzle he couldn’t solve.)
Her mother had remarried. Started fresh. Sent birthday cards a few years. Then stopped.
Ana hadn’t see her mother in 20 years. Not once.
Ana didn’t turn on the main lights. Just the warm lamp in the corner, casting soft golden pools across the quiet, safe edges of home as she sat down on her couch.
She liked her house. Her sanctuary.
No one here would ask her to “try smiling more.”
No one here would say she was too cold, too clinical, too precise.
No one here would speak to her the way Stephanie always had.
Not cruelly. Not overtly.
Toto had been married to Stephanie. Had two toddlers. Benedict and Rosa.
A storybook life that Ana had crashed.
Stephanie — her stepmother , though Ana had never called her that aloud—was never unkind in ways anyone could point to.
Stephanie was perfectly pleasant in the way that cool marble was pleasant. Civil. Beautiful. Unwelcoming.
Like Ana was a piece of unfamiliar furniture she’d agreed to house, but never touch.
Benedict and Rosa had belonged to that life. Blonde and bright, with matching holiday sweaters and an Instagrammable Christmas card photo every year like clockwork.
Stephanie…she had made it clear that Ana was not part of the storybook family she had planned.
In every glance, every stilted dinner table silence, every subtle scheduling of family things without Ana.
There was a photo on Stephanie’s desk in Vienna once. Just four people in it: her, Toto, Benedict and baby Rosa. Ana had been ten at the time.
She remembered standing there, just looking at it. Quiet. Still.
And Stephanie had smiled and said, “It’s a lovely photo, isn’t it?”
Ana had nodded.
Ana had always felt like the ghost in the hallway.
Stephanie had tried, in her way. But everything about Ana had unnerved her.
Her bluntness. Her silences. The way she flinched at polyester tags and gagged at the smell of certain perfumes. The way she could memorise differential equations at ten but forgot how to look people in the eye at dinner.
Ana had always been too much or too strange or simply… in the way.
When she was ten, the psychologist’s report had landed with quiet finality: Autism Spectrum Disorder. High-functioning. Sensory sensitivities. Atypical emotional processing.
Ana remembered that moment in piercing detail—the scent of lemon polish on the table, the itch of her wool cardigan, the way her tea had gone cold before she’d worked up the courage to sip it.
Stephanie had just sighed: “Well, at least that explains why she is like that . ” Like Ana had been a complicated equation that now came with footnotes no one really wanted to read.
Toto hadn’t said anything. Just pinched the bridge of his nose like it was a problem with the chassis.
Ana remembered hiding in her room that day.
Nothing changed after that. Except it got worse. Stephanie’s voice a little tighter. The forced patience a little more brittle. Rosa started ignoring her altogether.
“She’ll grow out of it,” Stephanie had said once to a therapist. “We’ll just have to teach her how to behave better.”
It wasn’t said with malice. Just certainty. Like Ana was a glitch to be corrected. A patch in the software.
She never quite forgave her for that. Not even now.
Toto’s and Stephanie’s marriage hadn’t lasted much longer than that.
Ana still wondered if she had been the catalyst that had let to the eventual breakdown. Benedict and Rosa thought so.
So Benedict not inviting her to his graduation hadn’t come as a surprise.
She saw the photos on Instagram: Stephanie in pearls, Toto in sunglasses, Rosa with her film camera, Benedict in robes that looked tailored.
She sent a polite congratulations text. Got a thumbs up in return.
She wasn’t angry. Not really. Just… tired. Of existing at the edges. Of being the wrong shape.
It had never been like that with Susie.
Maybe it was because she had already been a teenager when her father and Susie had become a couple. Had already been at Boarding School in England. Had only been with her father during the breaks.
But still…it had never been like that with Susie.
It was different with Susie. And with Jack.
Susie made room without asking Ana to shrink. She never flinched when Ana corrected her. Never told her she was too much or too sharp or too strange.
Susie was the first adult who saw Ana’s autism as something other than an obstacle.
And Jack—Jack was joy incarnate. He didn’t care about diagnoses or expectations.
God, Jack. Jack, who never cared how weird she was. Jack, who liked that she talked to herself when she did math. Jack, who once told his nanny she was “like a computer but cooler,” and refused to built LEGO without her
Jack was hers.
Jack was the only sibling she actually felt like she had . Not a distant branch of family tree or a polite Christmas obligation. He was her brother. Full stop.
She caught herself, her fingers twitching, tapping the edges of her thighs in that familiar 6/8 rhythm she always slipped into when her thoughts spun too fast and too far.
Tonight it was Shostakovich.
It usually was, when she was unsettled.
It was a form of stimming that no one ever noticed unless they looked closely. One of the quieter ones. The less alarming ones. The socially acceptable ones.
But she didn’t need to be socially acceptable around here.
Her eyes fell on the piano that stood tucked opposite the windows.
She could play.
Her fingers moved to the keys without conscious thought, drawing out the first bars of Prelude in E Minor. Dark and deliberate. The notes fell like footsteps on wet pavement, slow and sure, bleeding grief and logic in equal measure.
Ana wasn’t a performer. She’d never learned for recitals. She played the way some people breathed—mechanically, instinctively, to stay alive.
When she was a child, it had been the only time the world made sense. Notes didn’t lie. Dynamics didn’t require eye contact. You didn’t have to guess what people meant when they were notes on a page.
You just read.
And then, you played.
***
Chapter 4: Chapter 2: Monaco
Chapter Text
Mercedes F1 HQ, Brackley, England - 21 May 2025
Ana was halfway through running thermal model revisions when her phone buzzed.
She ignored it at first. Most texts could wait until after the hybrid cooling simulation finished processing—except the ones from Jack (urgent), her father (usually technical, occasionally sarcastic), or Susie.
This one was from Susie.
Ana opened it.
SUSIE WOLFF:
Invitation on the way to your inbox.
Would
love
for you to come. Big moment for the girls.
No pressure ❤️
Frowning, Ana opened her inbox and clicked the attached .pdf.
F1 ACADEMY x NETFLIX WORLD PREMIERE
Red Carpet Event – London – 19:30
Formal Attire Required
Her entire body tensed.
Formal.
As in: tight. Scratchy. Structured. Unyielding.
As in: pain.
She blinked at the words like they might morph into "shirt and trainers okay."
The last time someone forced her into a formal outfit, it ended with her nearly clawing the side seam open in a bathroom stall because the lining was too stiff and her skin felt like it was crawling.
Even the Mercedes team shirts drove her mad—polyester blend, no stretch, horrible collar. She always had to wear a cotton tank underneath or risk losing focus the entire day just from how it felt against her shoulders.
And now she was being asked to wear a gown.
To a red carpet.
With people.
Her natural environment was carbon composite and controlled conditions. Engine bays. Cold labs. Not warm lighting and champagne and reporters trying to figure out what kind of Wolff she was.
Ana didn’t do red carpets. She didn’t do events . She had spent years successfully evading every gala, dinner, and motorsport charity ball thrown her way. (The last time someone tried to schedule her for a media day, she sent back a list of equations explaining how much PU development time would be lost, and they never brought it up again.)
She didn’t do things like that.
Ana did engine bays and dyno runs and spreadsheets that had cells nested six layers deep. Ana did Brackley and Brixworth, and her office, and her laptop and her blue light filtering glasses.
Ana did comfort, because that was the only way she could function.
But this wasn’t just a media circus.
It was F1 Academy.
And Susie.
Susie—who had never once asked Ana to change who she was. Who showed up, quietly and consistently, even when Ana was all sharp edges and avoidance. Who raised Jack with kindness and made room for Ana like it was second nature.
Ana could picture Susie now—standing in front of Netflix cameras in a sharply cut suit, flanked by girls Ana had silently cheered for all season. Smiling like she'd pulled the entire sport two inches closer to where it should be.
Girls who reminded Ana of herself—young, brilliant, not built for the mold.
And Ana thought, She would never ask if it did not matter.
Ana sighed.
Of course Susie made it harder to say no by being kind.
It mattered to Susie.
And Susie had shown up every damn time.
For Jack. For Toto. For Ana.
Even when Ana hadn’t known what to do with it.
So yes, fine.
Of course, she was going to go.
Even if she had to rip the tag off.
Even if she had to pre-wash the dress three times and cut out the lining.
Even if she had to stand there with her arms locked to her sides so she wouldn’t fidget like a nervous wreck.
Even if it meant being visible.
She’d go.
Even if it meant standing in front of cameras and pretending she wasn’t trying to calculate turbine temperature deltas in her head the entire time.
Ana opened her calendar. Cleared the evening. Replied to the email.
I will be there.
***
Text Messages: Toto Wolff & Anastasia “Ana” Wolff
Toto:
Before you say no, hear me out.
but I’d like you to consider attending the F1 Academy Netflix premiere next week. I know it’s not your scene, and I know you’d rather be elbows-deep in a simulation, but this is important to Susie. And it would mean a lot to have you there.
Toto:
You don’t have to stay long.
Just… show up. Represent the name. Show the girls what’s possible.
Toto:
I’ll owe you a favor. One free turbo tantrum. No questions asked.
Just think about it. Please.
Ana:
Already said yes.
Toto:
… what?
Ana:
Check with Susie. I replied to her invite twenty minutes ago.
Toto:
I’m just… surprised.
I was expecting at least an argument.
Ana:
Believe it or not, I am capable of doing things I do not like when it is for someone I care about.
Shocking, I know.
Toto:
You really didn’t have to, you know.
She would’ve understood.
Ana:
I know.
But she asked.
Toto:
She’ll be happy to see you there.
So will I.
***
Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Dr. Anastasia “Ana” Wolff
Ana:
Question.
Max:
uh oh
Ana:
If I sent you three dress options, would you tell me which one looks objectively best?
Max:
hold on
you’re asking
me
for fashion advice??
Ana:
Yes.
Because I know you’ll be honest.
Brutally, stupidly, tactlessly honest.
Max:
flattered
but also
you
are
aware i wear the same red bull polo 200 days a year, right?
Ana:
Exactly.
You have no agenda. No taste. No aesthetic bias.
I trust you to judge this with the emotional detachment of a wind tunnel.
Max:
you’re weird
i like it
you panic so romantically
Ana:
I have already tried on six options.
Three made my skin crawl. One made me break out in hives.
This is my final shortlist before I commit to burning the building down.
Max:
well now i
have
to help
send the dresses
and don’t forget your murder expression
Ana:
On it.
( A minute later, three mirror selfies arrive. Ana in black, navy, and burgundy. She looks stunning in all of them. She’s scowling in each one.)
Max:
option 1
the black one
you look like a woman who’s about to accept a Nobel Prize and then stab a man for asking a stupid question
i’m scared and aroused
it’s perfect
Ana:
The inside is soft cotton. No lace. No sequins. I don’t want to claw my skin off.
So… thank you.
Max:
you’re going to look beautiful.
no one’s ready.
Ana:
Thanks.
Max:
anytime,
Poekie
.
***
Grimaud Karting Track, Grimaud, France - 22 May 2025
The wind cut sideways across the circuit, biting through the sleeves of her Mercedes fleece and whipping strands of hair loose from Ana’s braid. It smelled like rubber and rain and the kind of overpriced fried food sold from trailers with faded signage. The kart engines screamt past in bursts—sharp, twitchy things, all fury and ambition and eight-year-old nerves.
Ana should be home. Or better: back at Brackley, elbow-deep in the calibration program for next week's dyno run.
Ana should be anywhere that wasn’t here, pressed against the fence with her jaw clenched and her boots sinking slightly in the wet grass.
But Jack asked her to come to his Karting Race before the Monaco GP weekend.
And Ana—surprise, surprise—couldn’t say no to Jack.
She never could.
He was her youngest brother. 20 years between them.
A whole life time.
Rosa and Benedict were closer to her in age. Born in 2003 and 2004 to Ana’s 1997.
They hated her.
Well, maybe that was dramatic. Benedict…tolerated her. Rosa ignored her existence entirely.
Ana didn’t fault them for it. They were the products of Toto’s first marriage that had produced a step-mother and step-sibling cold war no one ever formally declared but even Ana understood.
Stephanie had made her opinion of Ana crystal clear from day one: a mistake in human form, dropped off in Vienna like excess baggage from a bad Moscow decision Toto had made nearly a decade ago.
Ana wasn’t theirs. Ana was Moscow. Ana was her . An inconvenient truth they were expected to be polite about but never warm to.
Stephanie had tolerated her presence like one might tolerate a wasp at a picnic: inconvenient, unpleasant, and likely to sting if you got too close.
Rosa and Benedict had followed their mother’s lead.
And Ana? She’d learned to make herself small. Smart. Untouchable. The kind of girl who didn’t need hugs or affection.
Jack though…
Jack had been born when Ana had already been studying at Cambridge.
Ana hadn’t expected to love him.
But she did.
Jack was sharp and wickedly funny and shamelessly affectionate in a way that still made her short-circuit. And he liked her —not the version of her that built engines and fixed telemetry faults and didn’t cry at funerals. Just Ana.
He’d once told her she was the coolest person he knew.
Jack didn’t care about origins or optics.
He didn’t care that she was born out of scandal and silence and a mother who didn’t want her. He didn’t care that she was sharp-edged and chronically bad at small talk. He just liked her.
When he FaceTimed her, it was to ask about combustion cycles and why his kart didn’t have DRS.
He didn’t look at her like she was a reminder of something awkward.
He looked at her like she was his sister.
Maybe because Susie raised him.
Maybe because Jack was eight and still thought the sun rose when someone he loved showed up to watch him drive.
Ana had missed a lot of his early karting meets, always using work as an excuse when really, she wasn’t sure she’d be wanted.
But Jack had insisted. Called her himself. Come watch me race. Please. I want you there. You’re the coolest person I know.
And how the hell was Ana supposed to say no to that?
Her gaze flickered to the small figure in the kart, tackling the chicane like it was nothing. He was good. He got instinct. And he was not afraid of the throttle. A little heavy-handed, maybe, but Ana was already mentally drafting feedback. She would draw it out on his iPad later if he asked.
Behind her, a few parents murmured. Someone recognized her. Wolff. The Mercedes engineer. Toto’s oldest.
But she kept her eyes forward. Locked on Jack.
Because for all the degrees and podium passes and engines she’s coaxed to life with a whisper and a wrench and lines of code, he was the one who saw her. Not as a symbol. Not as a scandal. Not as a shadow of a Moscow mistake.
Just as Ana .
The checkered flag waved. Jack crossed the line P2, which he would no doubt narrate with the dramatic flair of a Netflix monologue later, but Ana saw it for what it was: a smart, clean race.
Controlled. Well judged. Jack was growing into the kart—thinking his way through corners now instead of just flinging himself into them like a dare.
The moment the race ended, the tension in her spine didn’t leave. It never did. But she exhaled through her nose and stepped back from the fence, brushing a smudge of damp grass off her jeans.
"That was kind of you," said a familiar voice to her right. "Coming out here."
Ana turned slightly. Susie stood nearby, arms folded lightly across her chest, her scarf tugged tighter against the wind. The expression on her face was, as always, unreadable but kind.
Ana gave a nod. “Jack asked.”
“I know. He was thrilled.”
Ana glanced down, tucking her hands into the pockets of her fleece. “He did well.”
“He did,” Susie agreed. “He listens to you, you know. About the technical stuff. About everything, really.”
There was a pause. Ana didn't reply, not immediately. Praise hit strange in her ears—like she was waiting for the correction to follow.
But none came. Just the wind, the hiss of deflating tyres, and Jack’s distant laughter as someone clapped him on the back.
“You could come to dinner,” Susie added, offhand. “Jack would love it.”
Ana’s first instinct was to deflect. To say something sharp or evasive.
If she was in Monaco, for the grand prix, she tended to stay at a hotel not at Susie and her father’s apartment. Just so that she didn’t feel like she was intruding into something she had no place to intrude into. And so that she wasn’t going to get any questions if she went back to her room at 3 in the morning after visiting Max.
An overpriced Hotel Room, an balcony, and a dinner consisting out of room service. Alone.
But Susie was asking. Not out of obligation. Just a door, left ajar.
“I will think about it,” Ana said quietly.
Susie smiled.
Then: “No one special waiting for you back at Brackley?”
Ana blinked. “What?”
“You know. A partner. Someone…” Susie gave a vague hand gesture, the universal symbol for emotionally attached nonsense. “Someone who makes you smile when you’re not glaring at engine simulations.”
Ana’s mouth twitched. “No.”
“Really?” Susie asked, more amused than skeptical.
“I don’t—” Ana shook her head. “I do not have time for that.”
Susie tilted her head, amused. “You sound like your father.”
“God, do not say that,” Ana muttered.
Susie laughed. “He said the same thing, once. Right before I married him.”
Ana rolled her eyes. “Well, lucky for you, you’re charming and emotionally available. I am neither.”
“You’re more emotionally available than you think.”
“Do not say that either.”
Susie didn’t press. Just gave Ana’s shoulder a soft squeeze, then turned to wave at Jack as he came running up the pit lane, helmet tucked under his arm, cheeks flushed with joy.
Ana stayed still a second longer, bracing herself. But when Jack launched into a retelling of the overtake into turn 3, grabbing her hand and dragging her along, she let herself smile.
It was easier, with him.
It always was.
***
Text Messages: George Russell & Anastasia “Ana” Wolff
George:
Hey Ana!
There’s a private stream for the F1 movie premiere tonight.
Toto and Susie are going—I assumed you’d be there too?
Ana:
Why would I go?
George:
Well… it’s a big moment for the sport!
Historic, really. Thought you might want to be part of it.
Plus, your family will be there. Could be nice to show your face, yeah?
Ana:
I show my face in the dyno room daily. No one’s ever complained.
George:
Haha 😅
Sure, but this is more… social. Public-facing.
You’d look great dressed up for once.
Ana:
I have plans
George:
Come on, Ana. Don’t be like that.
It’s not about the carpet. It’s about the community.
Ana:
Community implies consent.
I did not consent to watch actors pretend to fix front-wings with the wrong tools.
George:
It’s just a bit of fun. You know, lighten the mood?
You work so hard—you deserve a break.
Ana:
I took a break. I ran diagnostics from a balcony. It was lovely.
George:
You’re impossible sometimes. 😅
Still—if you change your mind, I’ll save you a seat.
***
Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Anastasia “Ana” Wolff
ANA:
I am in Monaco.
For the race.
Obviously.
(Just in case your observation skills are at an all-time low.)
MAX:
hello to you too 🥰
are you texting me because you miss me
or because your father is currently watching the F1 movie with your stepmother?
ANA:
Do you have plans?
MAX:
i do now.
come over.
I’ll leave the door unlocked.
ANA:
What if I am just coming for dinner?
MAX:
then I’ll feed you
and take your pants off after.
ANA:
Unbelievable.
MAX:
can’t wait to see you either, poekie 💙
***
Team Redline Stream Transcript
Enzo: Max, you gonna ready up or you just staring at your phone again?
Max (mutters): One sec.
Rudy: He’s been on that phone since quali finished.
Jeffrey: Max Verstappen texting like a 17-year-old girl. History is being made.
Chat:
MAX DROP THE PHONE
is he texting his cat or what
max blink twice if she’s hot
tell her we say hi
“one sec” famous last words
Max (grinning): Alright. I’m ready.
Atze: What did she say?
Max: Shut up and drive.
Enzo: OH??
Jeffrey: That wasn’t a denial.
Rudy: Who is this girl anyway?
Max: None of your business. Go green already.
Chat:
“shut up and drive” rihanna voice
wait he really has a gf??
tell us who it is coward
max never posted a soft launch and I feel betrayed
Rudy: Max, you going full race distance?
Max (checking phone again): Mmm. Probably not.
Enzo: Wait, what?
Jeffrey: Man’s bailing early.
Max: I have dinner plans.
Enzo: You live in Monaco. What dinner takes priority over sim racing?
Max (dryly): The kind where dessert isn’t virtual.
ALL:
"OOOOHHHHH!"
Chat:
MAX VERSTAPPEN YOU DIRTY DOG
someone’s getting fed more than data tonight
bro logged off for 🍑 not lap times
dinner plans?? oh it’s serious
max in his softboi era and I support him
imagine being the girl who gets Max to quit a sim race
whoever she is, she's powerful
Max (laughing as he logs off): Later, boys.
Atze: Don’t do anything we wouldn’t do.
Rudy: Which isn’t much, to be fair.
Jeffrey: Tell her thanks for stealing our world champion.
Max: I’m not telling her anything. Bye.
***
Twitter Thread: Max Verstappen’s mysterious girlfriend
@/F1shionista: max verstappen skipping the actual f1 movie premiere streaming watch party but showing up to sim racing just to TEXT SOMEONE and then log off early because he “has dinner plans” is… objectively hilarious.
@/tirewarmersupreme:
he said no to
brad pitt on screen
and yes to being a simp.
king behavior.
@/qualiwifey:
he didn’t even deny he was texting a girl.
just said “shut up and drive.”
like ??? max. who is she.
@/enrich_degrader:
the team redline stream was basically:
– max ignoring everyone
– grinning like an idiot
– texting for 10 minutes
– bailing before race end
– saying dessert is not virtual 💀
@/f1_memegirl:
max: “I’m not telling her anything. Bye.”
also max: literally radiating heart eyes emoji energy for 30 minutes straight
@/MonacoMysteries:
imagine being
the girl
who made max verstappen quit a sim race early
you hold the power of a thousand DRS zones
@/fastcurbs: MAX VERSTAPPEN just ditched a sim race mid-stream for “dinner plans” and I cannot stress how unserious that is behaviorally.
@/missdownforce:
Sir you said “the kind where dessert isn’t virtual” ON STREAM???
I’m in
shambles
@/f1shadequeen:
not max saying “later boys” and logging off like a man with
a woman and a purpose
but WHERE was he??? because he sure as hell wasn’t at the F1 Movie event like the rest of them
@/charlesmeltdownupdates: the verstappen fandom rn trying to figure out if he has a secret girlfriend, a situationship, a cat-sitter or just exceptional takeout
@/gridwivesanonymous:
F1 PR departments:
carefully coordinating appearances for driver visibility
Max Verstappen:
leaves mid-sim race to go hook up with a ghost and skips the F1 movie
Marketing legend tbh.
@/gridgremlin: Max Verstappen skipping the F1: The Movie premiere but logging off his sim race early because of “dinner plans” is the most Max Verstappen thing to ever happen.
🧃💻🏁 → 🍽️💋
I fear the girlfriend rumors have legs.
@/turntwodrama:
everyone else: at a red carpet
max: in his apartment texting some girl and bailing on sim racing like a teenage boy in love
i am obsessed with whatever this feral little situation is
@/ricciardobestie:
“the kind where dessert isn’t virtual”
someone PLEASE take this man’s phone away
we’ve lost him
he’s GONE
***
Verstappen Residence, Monaco - 23 May 2025
Max had tidied.
Not cleaned—he wasn’t insane—but he’d made the bed, cleared the coffee table, and shoved his laundry into a closet. He’d even changed into a black T-shirt that didn’t have a Red Bull logo, which for him was practically a tuxedo.
Because Ana was coming over.
And technically, they’d called it dinner.
But neither of them had eaten the last time they called it dinner, so Max wasn’t expecting much from the food.
The real course would be the kiss hello. The weight of her against him. The sound she made when he pulled her in by the hips and she forgot how to pretend they weren’t a mistake.
But that was before Sassy intervened.
It started the moment Ana stepped through the door.
Max opened his mouth to say something charming. Or smug. Or at the very least functional.
And then—
Sassy launched herself across the room.
Like an arrow from a bow. Or a very fluffy missile. Right at Ana’s legs.
Max froze.
Ana froze.
Sassy purred .
“What,” Ana said, not moving, “is happening.”
“I…” Max blinked. “I think she’s… saying hello?”
“She is rubbing her face on my shin.”
“Affection.”
“I do not “do” cats,” Ana said flatly. “I have never owned a cat in my life. I am a known non-pet-haver.”
Sassy meowed up at her. Loudly. Devotionally.
Ana looked down, visibly baffled. “Are you malfunctioning? Is this a hostage situation?”
Max still hadn’t moved.
Because Sassy—the cat who had clawed Lando Norris, hissed at Daniel Ricciardo, and once tried to climb Charles Leclerc like a tree—was now weaving figure-eights around Ana’s ankles like they were old friends. Or lovers.
Ana crouched slowly. One hand extended, tentative.
Sassy headbutted it like she’d just found her soulmate.
And then—
Jimmy trotted out from the hallway, let out a chirpy meow, and climbed into Ana’s lap like he’d been waiting for this moment his whole life.
Ana looked at Max, stunned. “She’s purring.”
“She’s never purred.”
“I do not do animals,” Ana repeated.
Max crouched next to her, watching as Jimmy settled contentedly against her leg and Sassy practically melted under her hand like she’d been domesticated by a higher being.
“Well,” Max said, voice low, “maybe they do you.”
Ana narrowed her eyes.
“You are going to make a comment.”
“I wasn’t,” he said innocently.
“You were about to say something about instincts or how even the cats know I am secretly a soft touch.”
“I would never.”
Sassy purred louder.
Jimmy flopped over, exposing his belly like a tiny traitor.
Ana sighed. “This was supposed to be about sex.”
Max smirked. “It still could be.”
Ana leveled him with a look. “With them watching?”
Max looked at the cats. Then back at her. “You’re the one they’ve apparently imprinted on like ducklings.”
Ana sighed again, long-suffering, even as Jimmy nuzzled her side.
“You are enjoying this.”
“Oh, very much so,” Max said easily, sitting back on his heels and watching her like she was a miracle he hadn’t earned.
***
It took thirty-seven minutes for the cats to fall asleep.
Thirty-seven minutes of Max smugly watching from across the couch while Ana sat stiffly, like moving might shatter the spell and result in claws to the jugular. She’d tried to nudge them off—gently, of course—but Jimmy had whined, and Sassy had tightened her grip like a barnacle on a mission.
“I think I have been adopted,” Ana muttered.
Max, stretched out beside her with a water bottle he wasn’t drinking, just grinned. “Welcome to the family.”
She shot him a look. “Say that again and I am leaving.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Excuse me?”
“You stayed through Sassy’s courtship ritual and Jimmy’s cuddle assault. You’re emotionally compromised.”
“I am not.”
Max tilted his head. “You let them stay.”
Ana scowled. “They were warm.”
“And adorable.”
“And manipulative.”
Max didn’t argue. He just leaned a little closer. “So…”
“No.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You did not have to. You have that face.”
“What face?”
“The I would like to very respectfully ruin your life face.”
Max smiled slowly. “Respectfully?”
Ana looked down at the cats, both curled up like they owned her. She exhaled. “They are asleep.”
“Deeply.”
“Do you think I can move without being murdered?”
“Probably not. But,” Max said, shifting to stand and offering a hand, “I can promise you’ll die in excellent company.”
Ana hesitated. Then took his hand.
They tiptoed out of the living room like fugitives escaping a war zone.
And as soon as the bedroom door clicked shut behind them, Ana turned and shoved him.
Max stumbled back, laughing. “That’s how we’re starting this?”
“Do not ever let it go to your head that your cats liked me.”
“Oh, it’s already in there. Locked in. Carved into the wall.”
Ana rolled her eyes. “You are insufferable .”
“And yet,” he murmured, voice lower now, hands sliding to her waist, “here you are.”
She hated how easily he did that. Hated how her body leaned into his without permission.
But God, she wanted him.
She always had.
From the moment she was eighteen and overwhelmed and brilliant and he’d cornered her in that stupid Monaco nightclub with that same cocky glint in his eyes.
And he was still all sharp angles and quiet strength, his touch careful despite how badly they both wanted to shatter the silence between them.
When he kissed her, it was hungry. Familiar. Like picking up a story they’d never actually finished.
She let him press her back onto the bed. Let his hands skim up under her shirt. Let herself forget the world outside the walls of his apartment.
Because this was the thing about the thing Ana Wolff had with Max Verstappen: He was sadly the best thing she had ever found to make her brain shut the fuck up.
Just like he did now.
He kissed her, his tongue slipping into her mouth and her mind turned quiet just for a few seconds.
Calloused hands rasped over her ribs, her shirt ending up tugged over her head.
She felt the world blurring to just sensation and the solid, familiar weight of him on top of her, at once foreign and more intimate than anything else in her life.
Her hands splayed across his back, tracing the vertebrae she remembered too fucking well, and she bit his lip—not gently, because he’d like that, and because she did too.
For a moment there was only heat and friction, then Max broke away to mutter, “God, I missed this,” into her neck like it was an apology. He left a constellation of bites from her collarbone to her jaw, and the urge to say something cutting and clever dissolved under his mouth.
He pulled back just enough to look at her, pupils almost swallowing the blue, breathing hard, hair already a mess. There was too much in his expression—want, yes, but also that stubborn care that had always made her crazy.
His palm splayed over her stomach, thumb slipping under the edge of her bra. She could feel her pulse there, fluttering, and somewhere in her brain a belligerent committee was making notes about vulnerability—about letting someone in this close, with no secrets in the room except the kind that made her want him.
Ana opened her mouth to banter, to drag them both into safer ground, but he kissed her again, slow and rough at the same time, and all of her quips got lost in the static.
She raked her nails over his shoulder blades, relishing the way his muscles jumped under her touch. He growled, a real goddamn animal noise, and she laughed against his mouth, letting him tangle her legs up with his, knees knocking, nowhere left to go but closer.
He made quick work of the rest—her bra (snapped off with ridiculous, practiced efficiency), her pants (unzipped with a shrug and a wicked grin), and in a breathless, headlong landslide, she was wrapped up in him, lost to the logic she clung to everywhere else.
The meanest things about Max Verstappen was probably that he knew exactly what he was doing.
(And that he liked to be in control in all aspects of his life, from the cockpit of a racecar to the bedroom.)
And still, every time, it shocked Ana how quickly he could reduce her to a shuddering mess.
By the time he shouldered her thigh apart with broad shoulders and ducked his head between them, her back was arching and she had lost at least half her IQ points.
ana also lost her composure—left it somewhere between the rough scrape of his jaw on her thigh and his hands anchoring her, bright spots burning behind her eyelids, heat curling low and brutal.
She bit her lips to keep quiet, but Max clearly had no mercy for her pride tonight. He pressed her right to the edge, then gripped her hip with a bruising possessiveness and let her go hurtling off it.
By the time he came back up, she was gasping, limp, her face squashed into the pillow, the only words left in her vocabulary some unholy mix of Russian, German, and “oh, fuck.”
He looked triumphant and unbearably soft, somehow. His mouth gleamed, his cheeks flushed, but when he kissed her—delicately, just on the tip of her nose—he wiped it all away and started the tally again.
She may have lost count of how often she came, until finally, finally, he gave in and filled her with his cock.
The first thrust nearly undid her again. The blunt force of it, the way her knees automatically locked around his waist, the animal sound she made, half protest, half plea.
Max got into a rhythm, slow at first—smooth and clinical, like he was testing boundaries on an unfamiliar track. Then he picked up speed, gaining confidence, knowing exactly how to push her.
Ana dug her fingers into his shoulders, feeling the hard, corded muscle beneath slick skin. She tried to meet his gaze, but he was everywhere at once—pressing his forehead to her cheek, biting her collar, lacing their fingers together, pinning her arm back above her head. The precision of it would have pissed her off any other time. Now it made her want to shatter.
He drove into her, each thrust measured, relentless.
He kept the pressure up, perfect and awful, watching her come apart until Ana felt hollowed out, nerves twitching like live wires. Her head lolled to the side and her cheek stuck to the pillowcase, damp from sweat or maybe tears—she couldn’t remember the moment she’d started trembling, or if it had ever stopped.
She clamped her legs around Max’s hips, holding on for leverage, enough to give him a run for his money. He answered by shifting his angle, changing the depth, an adjustment so precise Ana could have hit him for it if she wasn’t dizzy with need. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, teeth scraping down to her shoulder.
She said something, a curse or an endearment, voice raw and unfamiliar in her own ears.
Max lost the rhythm for a half-second, just long enough for her to sense him edging closer to the line. He groaned, the sound vibrating through his chest into hers,
Then he was gone, shuddering hard against her, buried deep and spilling inside the condom, every muscle straining like he could anchor himself there forever.
Max made a sound, low and almost wounded, and collapsed carefully beside her, catching himself on one forearm so he didn’t crush her flat. For a second there was nothing but the frantic, out-of-sync click of their lungs, the stinging hiss of sweat cooling on skin.
And then, after, when she was sweat-slick and fucked out and the overhead light cast little mangled halos in his sleep-ruffled hair, Ana let herself be soft. For two minutes. Three, at most. She ran her fingers through his damp waves (so unfair, him being allowed waves, on top of everything else), let him press a slow kiss to her temple, let out the kind of sigh she would never have handed over to basic oxygen.
Max shifted, rearranged, then collapsed on his stomach like he'd sprinted a marathon. "You're doing it again," he said, voice muffled by the pillow, but she could hear the smile.
"You have to be more specific," Ana replied. "I have done a lot of things. Just now."
He grunted. "Thinking too loud."
"And you call yourself a world-class driver." She rolled to her side, propped up on an elbow. "Shouldn't you be better at filtering out background noise?”
"What does that say about your technique?" Max said, not bothering to open his eyes. He was already halfway back to sleep. Typical. Ana considered poking him in the ribs, but her limbs felt boneless and pleasant, like she’d been wrung out and left to dry.
***
Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Lando Norris
Lando:
Come out
Let’s go clubbing
You, me, some tequila, some girls who pretend to know what DRS is 😎
Max:
No thanks
Lando:
No thanks??
Are you feeling okay? Blink twice if you're being held hostage by your cats
Max:
I’m just tired
Long day
Not really in the mood for noise and fake eyelashes tonight
Lando:
You used to
thrive
on fake eyelashes
Who are you and what have you done with Max Verstappen
Max:
Maybe I’ve evolved
You ever think of that?
Lando:
No, because you're not a Pokémon
You sure you're not secretly dating someone? 👀
Max:
🙄
Lando:
Oh my god you ARE
You’ve gone soft
You’re probably watching a documentary with her right now and petting a cat
Max:
You say that like it’s a bad thing
Lando:
Who
is
she
Max:
Goodnight, Lando.
Lando:
You’re the worst
A mysterious, emotionally unavailable simp
I hope your cats step on your sim pedals
***
Text Messages: Daniel Ricciardo & Lando Norris
Lando:
bro
be honest
do you know if Max has a girlfriend?
Daniel:
👀
why?
Lando:
he won’t come out
he won’t party
he won’t even
look
at women
Daniel:
😭😭😭
oh young grasshopper
you have
no
idea
Daniel:
Max Verstappen has been emotionally unavailable since 2016
maybe even earlier
he is the Formula 1 of repression
fast, cold, and never explains himself
Lando:
so that’s a yes???
Daniel:
that’s a “there’s a story i could tell you but i value my life”
so no
no girlfriend
but also yes
kind of
in a weird, tragic, slow-burn, will-they-won’t-they, psychological drama sort of way
Lando:
what the actual hell
Daniel:
exactly.
good luck 🍀
***
Twitter Thread: Ana Wolff’s rare red carpet appearance
@/f1redcarpet:
🟦🖤 SPOTTED: Dr. Anastasia Wolff makes a rare public appearance at the #F1Academy Netflix premiere in London.
The notoriously private Mercedes systems engineer stunned in black, posed briefly for cameras (read: 7 seconds), then retreated to the sidelines with her little brother Jack in tow.
#F1 #AnaWolff #WolffPack
📸📸📸
@/tirewarmerslut: if i were ana wolff i too would hide behind an 8-year-old. queen of calculated discomfort
@/brackleyfiles: her face says “I hate being perceived” but her dress says “I will dismantle you emotionally and technically”
@/susiesearring:
the way she’s just… standing there like she’s mentally reciting torque ratios to survive
relatable content honestly
@/f1archivegirls:
Ana Wolff has the vibe of someone who didn’t want to be there,
is
there, but only for someone she loves
and that? that’s more powerful than any glam shot
@/pitlanecryptid: her facial expression was “I could be solving hybrid cooling inconsistencies right now” and honestly? relatable
@/chicaneheart: Ana Wolff really said “fine I’ll show up but I’ll emotionally disassociate the entire time in couture” and that’s art
@/brackleyfiles: me @ Toto Wolff: how did you make a daughter who looks like that and acts like an algorithm with abandonment issues
@/F1DailyTea:
🚨 STOP THE PRESSES.
Ana Wolff just gave a
quote.
To the actual
press.
On purpose.
Asked about F1 Academy and the premiere, she said:
“I don’t usually do red carpets, but Susie asked. And I’m very proud of her. What she’s built here matters.”
Then she walked away and went back to standing with her little brother.
A moment of silence for everyone emotionally unprepared.
@/gridsidegoblin:
ANA WOLFF SPOKE.
AND IT WAS SINCERE.
AND ABOUT SUSIE.
and I may never recover
@/motormindsblog:
She really said:
"I don’t do this. But I’ll do it for
her.
"
And now I’m crying in carbon-neutral lighting.
@/paddockhaunts:
genuinely. what makes this hit so hard is knowing how
rare
it is.
ana wolff doesn’t do statements. doesn’t do feelings. doesn’t do being seen.
but she did
this.
because Susie matters to her.
and that’s everything.
@/gridburnttoast:
her voice was so quiet. she said “i’m very proud of her” like she meant every syllable and then immediately bee-lined to jack like he was her handler
i want to cry
@/gridsidegoblin: The way Ana smiled at Susie on the carpet???
Not just a smile. Like. A genuine moment of warmth.
If I didn’t see it myself I’d accuse someone of deepfake editing.
@/gridtensionarchive: the way Toto beamed at Ana after she gave that quote??
@/verstappensburner: funniest part of the night was Toto very proudly standing beside Ana for photos while Ana looked like she was trying to figure out if she could hide behind a decorative fern
***
Leicester Square, England - 27 May 2025
Susie Wolff didn’t cry at public events.
Not during grid interviews, not when she was passed over for roles she’d earned twice over, and certainly not when she was being handed microphones by Netflix executives with slightly too-white teeth.
But there was something about seeing Ana standing near the entrance—in heels, in a dress, in the kind of atmosphere Ana normally avoided like it was a contagious disease—that made Susie’s throat tighten unexpectedly.
Ana didn’t look particularly comfortable , mind you.
Ana was tucked to the side, one hand in the pocket of a perfectly tailored black dress, her blonde hair pulled back into something sleek and minimal. She looked more like a very intimidating government agent than an engineer. And she was—very clearly—pretending not to exist.
Her posture was defensive, wary, like she was expecting someone to ask what she was doing there and demand credentials.
But she’d come.
Not for Netflix. Not for branding. Certainly not for herself.
She came for Susie.
A quiet pulse of emotion pushed behind Susie’s ribs.
Jack had a grip on Ana‘s hand like he was never letting go.
And Toto was standing nearby, watching the two of them with a kind of quiet fondness that always softened the stern edges of his face.
Susie hadn’t expect Ana to come.
She had extended the invitation, of course. Sent the formal email, then followed up with a casual message— "No pressure, but it would mean a lot to me" .
Ana was… complicated. All ironclad logic and precise distance. A girl raised in the shadows of other people's mistakes, who never asked for attention and recoiled from anything that felt like sentiment.
Susie loved her anyway.
From the moment she had first met her, when Ana had still been a lanky teenager, knee deep into her A-Levels. Quiet and sharply intelligent behind the dark eyes she had inherited from Toto and the kind of mile high walls that Susie didn’t think she was ever going to scale.
Susie had figured Ana would plead engine simulations or “priority dyno data” or some Brackley-related excuse that sounded vaguely plausible but was really just a soft way of saying: this isn’t my thing, Susie. I don’t belong on red carpets.
But still there she was. Hair up. Black dress. Uncomfortable expression barely softened by makeup.
—and Jack tugging on her sleeve with excitement, like he couldn’t believe his big sister was actually here —
Susie felt her throat catch.
Susie stepped closer. She didn’t want to make it a thing —God forbid she emote and scare Ana off—but still, she touched Ana’s arm lightly.
“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” she said, gently.
Ana didn’t look at her right away. “You invited me.”
“That doesn’t usually mean much,” Susie said with a small smile. “Still. Thank you.”
Tonight she was here. For this . For her .
And that meant something.
“I’m proud of you,” Ana said suddenly, quietly, as if saying it louder would make it too real. “For the series. For the girls. For making something from scratch that actually… matters.”
Susie blinked hard. “Thank you,” she said, her voice softer than she meant it to be.
And Ana, who could rewire an engine mid-meltdown but had never known what to do with love freely given, just nodded once.
Like it was no big thing.
Behind them, Toto gave her a knowing look. Jack beamed like he’d just won a championship.
Susie didn’t need a whole Netflix documentary to feel like she’d won tonight.
She had this .
***
Text Messages: George Russell & Anastasia “Ana” Wolff
George:
Saw you at the F1 Academy premiere last night 👀
You looked great. Really elegant.
Didn’t know you did red carpets now 😊
George:
Was nice seeing you there with your family.
I’ve always thought you should be more visible. You’ve got so much to offer—not just the brains 😉
Maybe next time we could go together?
Ana:
I attended for Susie.
George:
Of course! Just thought it was really nice seeing you out like that.
It suits you, being in the spotlight a bit more.
Ana:
It doesn’t.
I don’t like spotlights.
Or cameras.
George:
Just meant you’re too brilliant to stay in the background.
You could be… warmer, sometimes. Just a thought.
Ana:
I wasn’t asking for thoughts.
Good night.
***
Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Anastasia “Ana” Wolff
Max:
👀
Look at you. Red carpet. Heels. A
smile.
Who are you and what have you done with my favourite emotionally avoidant engineer?
Ana:
Shut up.
Max:
No really. I’m impressed.
Did you survive all the small talk without spontaneous combustion?
Ana:
I only went because Susie asked.
It was important to her.
Max:
That’s what makes it impressive.
You hate this kind of thing.
And you still showed up. For her.
Max:
You looked good, you know.
Uncomfortable as hell. But good.
Ana:
It was a dress. It had pockets.
Let’s not make this a thing.
Max:
It’s already a thing.
There are Twitter accounts thirsting over your boobs.
Ana:
I will personally reroute your cooling system into your cockpit if you don’t stop.
Max:
You’re threatening me. 🥰
All is right in the world.
Max:
Seriously though.
I’m proud of you.
Ana:
I didn’t do it for them.
I did it for her.
Max:
I know.
Doesn’t make it any less impressive.
Or any less
you.
***
Group Chat: “WHO IS MAX VERSTAPPEN DATING”
(Members: Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, Carlos Sainz, Daniel Ricciardo)
Lando:
alright boys
we have a mission 🕵️♂️
Operation: who tf is Max Verstappen dating
Oscar:
???
Is he dating someone?
Carlos:
Wait, he told you that?
Lando:
nope.
that’s the problem.
he hasn’t told
anyone
which means: he’s definitely dating someone
because he's acting weird
Daniel:
he’s been acting weird since 2017
this is not new behavior
Oscar:
Define weird
Lando:
- won’t go out
- stares at his phone with soft eyes
- left a sim stream session early
- SAID NO TO CLUBBING IN MONACO
Carlos:
Okay that last one is suspicious
Daniel:
he left a sim session early???
what did he say?
Lando:
said he had “dinner plans”
with WHO??
Oscar:
maybe he’s just growing up
Lando:
no one grows up that fast
it’s a girlfriend
has to be
Carlos:
Maybe he’s seeing a therapist
Lando:
if it is a girlfriend
she has to be terrifying
or a literal ghost
or both
maybe it’s a celebrity
someone from like
Dancing With the Stars Monaco Edition
Oscar:
How would he meet one??
Carlos:
Through Helmut probably. That’s how all terrifying things begin.
Daniel:
Listen. I know things.
But I also know silence = survival
So I will only say this:
She’s
real
She’s
brilliant
She’s
a little scary
And Max is
so far gone it’s adorable
Lando:
WHO
IS
SHE
Daniel:
Can’t say
Won’t say
Would like to live
Enjoy the puzzle 🧩
Lando:
lies. betrayal. treason.
you're protecting him
Carlos:
I cannot believe I opened this chat
Lando:
I need eyes, ears, and espionage
Carlos, you're in the Williams garage. Observe. Report. Seduce if necessary.
Oscar. He talks to you. Find his weaknesses.
Daniel. spill. the. beans.
Daniel:
I told him I wouldn’t say anything.
Also, she’d end me.
Lando:
YOU’VE
MET
HER????
Daniel:
...🤐
Oscar:
This is a disaster.
***
Mercedes F1 HQ, Brackley, England - 28 May 2025
Toto knew the lights would still be on.
He found Lorelai—Ana’s long-suffering PA and the unofficial gatekeeper to most things involving paperwork, sanity, and nuclear-grade scheduling—outside Ana’s office, clutching a mug of peppermint tea like it was the last line of defence between herself and meltdown.
Toto raised an eyebrow. “How is she?”
Lorelai didn’t look up. Just sipped and muttered, “She’s in a mood .”
That didn’t bode well.
“I need her signature on the updated testing proposal.”
Lorelai tilted her head toward the office door with the heavy sympathy of someone who had tried . “Enter at your own risk.”
Toto knocked once, then opened the door.
He wasn’t sure what he expected—furious typing, perhaps, or a pit wall model spread out across every surface—but it definitely wasn’t Ana standing stiffly by her desk, yanking at the collar of her team polo like it had personally insulted her.
She hadn’t noticed him yet.
Her back was half-turned, one hand pressed to her collarbone, rubbing slightly—quick and sharp, not quite scratching, but urgent, like she was trying to erase something that wasn’t there.
He cleared his throat lightly.
Ana looked up, startled but not embarrassed. Just... tense. Her eyes darted to his hand, where he was holding a folder.
“Need something?” she asked.
“Only a signature,” he said, stepping in, holding out the folder. “Unless you’re actively engaged in hand-to-hand combat with your clothes.”
She huffed. “Something like that.”
He handed her the folder, and she set it on the desk with a pen, but didn’t open it right away.
“You alright?” he asked.
“Fine.”
That tone again. That clipped, cool precision she used when she didn’t want to explain something. He knew it well. He’d heard it since she was eight years old and refusing to eat mashed potatoes that were the wrong texture.
“You’ve never liked those polos,” he said, trying for casual.
Ana gave a humorless breath. “They’re polyester. They feel like sandpaper dipped in hot glue.”
Toto blinked.
“Wait. Is this a... material thing?”
She glanced at him now, properly. Calm. Unsurprised.
“I have sensory issues, Papa,” she said, dry. “That wasn’t a childhood phase.”
“You still have that,” he said quietly. “The sensitivity.”
Ana rolled her eyes, but the motion was tight.
“It’s not seasonal hay fever. “It doesn’t disappear because I work 80-hour weeks and carry three engineering departments on my back.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“Yes, you did,” she interrupted. “You’re surprised.”
Toto exhaled. “I just haven’t seen it in a long time.”
“That’s because I’ve spent most of my adult life designing around it.” Her tone wasn’t angry—just tired. The kind of weariness that comes from making a thousand invisible accommodations.
He sat down across from her, slowly. “You never said anything.”
He thought back. To the childhood tantrums over tights. The ripped-off school uniforms. The way she always changed into pyjamas the second she got home, even as a teenager. He’d chalked it up to stubbornness. Drama. Even control.
He’d never thought: maybe the world just hurts her more than it hurts us.
She tugged at the polo again, lifting the hem to reveal a thin cotton tank underneath.
“I have to wear something under it or I can’t think straight,” she muttered. “The seams scratch my ribs. The tag makes my neck itch for hours. Last year’s version was worse—I nearly fed it to the wind tunnel.”
Toto blinked. “Why didn’t you request a different cut?”
She gave a small shrug. “Didn’t want to explain it to procurement. Or PR. Or the junior engineers who’d suddenly wonder why I get a different kit. I didn’t want to be that person.”
“Because I didn’t want to explain it to the procurement team,” she muttered. “Or to the junior engineers. Or to the women in marketing who already think I’m difficult because I won’t do branded Instagram posts in heels. Or anyone. I didn’t want them thinking I was difficult.”
“You’re the reason we’re ahead of schedule on a 2026 engine, Ana. You can ask for a different shirt. ”
She huffed. “I know. But still.”
He looked at her then — really looked.
Brilliant. Controlled. Composed.
And still, at 27 years old, quietly managing a body that turned against her over collar seams and fabric blends.
Toto reached for the polo where she’d dropped it.
“Let me take care of this,” he said.
Ana raised an eyebrow.
“You’re going to… what? Redesign the team kit?”
“I’m the CEO. I can approve a variation. No one’s going to bat an eye if you wear something different. Especially if the alternative is you walking around feeling like your skin is on fire.”
“I’ve managed this long.”
“And you shouldn’t have had to.”
That, oddly, made her pause.
She didn’t get teary. Ana never did. But her expression shifted — just slightly. The kind of crack that showed up in winter steel after too many years of pressure.
“Don’t make a thing out of it,” she said.
“I’m not,” Toto said, gently. “I’m just making it better.”
***
Wolff Residence, Monaco - 29 May 2025
The house was quiet, lights low, the kind of silence that only happened when neither of them was traveling and no engineers were texting after midnight.
Susie sat at the kitchen table, hair pulled back, sipping herbal tea. The newspaper was folded beside her, unread.
Toto dropped into the chair across from her, exhaling slowly. Like the day had finally caught up to him.
She looked at him. “That’s the sigh of a man who found something surprising.”
He didn’t answer at first. Just rubbed his hands over his face and said, “I found Ana half-out of her team polo today.”
Susie blinked. “...I’m sorry?”
“She was pulling it off. Said the fabric felt like glue and sandpaper.” Toto muttered.
Susie raised an eyebrow.
“She said she wears a cotton tank underneath every time. Otherwise she can’t think straight.” He paused. “And I realized… I had no idea she still struggles like that.”
Now Susie just stared at him.
Toto frowned. “What?”
She set down her mug, leaned back in her chair.
“Toto. She has autism. You don’t grow out of that.”
The words hit with a kind of softness that still managed to sting.
He opened his mouth. Closed it again. “I know. I just—she’s so…”
“High-functioning?” Susie offered, gently.
He rubbed the back of his neck. “I suppose I thought she just… learned to manage it.”
“She does manage it,” Susie said gently. “Every day. Every hour. That doesn’t mean it goes away.”
He sat down at the breakfast table, suddenly remembering all the little things he’d filed away under eccentricity .
The way Ana flinched at fire alarms even as a teenager.
How she never wore anything new without washing it three times first.
The exact way she layered her clothes before flights — soft inner shirt, always cotton, tags snipped.
The way she never, ever went shopping unless she had to.
“She always hated clothes shopping,” he murmured.
Susie snorted. “She still does. Last time we went, she walked through three stores and bought nothing. Said every shirt was too stiff, or the neckline was too wide, or the sleeves hit the wrong part of her wrist.”
Toto smiled, a little helplessly. “I never saw that side of her.”
“She doesn’t show you,” Susie said. “Because you’re the one she’s still trying to prove herself to.”
That landed like a pin dropped into silence.
“I didn’t mean to—”
“I know,” Susie said softly. “But she doesn’t need to prove anything. Not to you. Not to anyone. Least of all over a bloody polyester shirt.”
Toto sighed. “I offered to change the team kit.”
“She’d rather claw her own skin off than admit she needs that. Just make it happen. Quietly.”
He nodded.
***
Email Subject: 2025–2026 Staff Apparel Revision
From: Toto Wolff <[email protected]>
To: Team Kit Procurement <[email protected]>
CC: Claire Hammond (HR), Marcus Reidl (Design Lead)
Dear all,
Ahead of our apparel review cycle for next season, I’d like to formally request some specific adjustments to the standard apparel offerings.
Please ensure the following:
- All future team shirts (polos, base layers, technical wear) are available in soft, tagless cotton-blend options as an alternative to the standard polyester versions.
- Seam placement and inner lining should be reviewed for individuals with tactile sensitivity.
- Ensure at least one collarless option is available.
- All garments must be pre-washed or pre-softened during production before distribution.
Additionally, I would appreciate if one of these adjusted prototypes could be expedited internally for review.
This is not a general request. Please treat it as a priority adjustment and handle with discretion.
No external announcement is required. If you need clarification, contact me directly.
Regards,
Toto Wolff
CEO & Team Principal
Mercedes-AMG PETRONAS Formula One Team
***
Slack Channel: #brackley-nerds
Private Channel. ~30 members.
amelie.procurement:
uh
did anyone else just get that email from…
Toto Wolff?
matt.merchandise:
yes
yes I did
and I am now questioning all of my life choices, starting with why I work in motorsport textiles
sara.branding:
“tactile sensitivity”
“pre-softened cotton-blend”
“seam placement”
OH GOD WHO DID WE UPSET
matt.merchandise:
no because why is he asking about TAGLESS SHIRTS
this isn’t “we made a driver itchy” energy
this is “someone he loves flinched in a shirt” energy
amelie.procurement:
what if this is about Ana
she
never
wears the standard polos properly
she always has that tank top on under it
every time I’ve seen her she looks like she wants to punch the sleeves
jess.hr:
wait
WAIT
IS THIS
“papa wolff” level protection
sam.transmission:
you’re telling me Toto Wolff is quietly reorganizing the
entire apparel system
because Ana hates polyester???
kayleigh.powerunit:
…respectfully
iconic behavior
Ellie.electronics:
also can we talk about how
none of us
like the current shirts either??
they’re stiff. they get hot. the zips are aggressive.
lucy.comms:
Ana Wolff: suffers in silence for 2 years
Toto:
snaps one day and burns the teamwear to the ground
Liam.eng-lead:
so do we think she asked or like
he
noticed
nicola.sim:
she definitely didn’t ask. she probably rolled her eyes and called it “a textile-based sensory hell” and walked off
amelie.procurement:
i am just saying
if my dad wrote an email with the words "tactile sensitivity" on my behalf
i would crawl into the floor
but also cry from gratitude
liam.engine:
final verdict:
Papa Wolff saw his daughter having a meltdown in a polyester polo and declared war
lorelai.pa
hi yes
can confirm she did
not
ask for the change
she was actively trying to rip the polo off in her office while whispering death threats to it
Toto walked in.
Silence. Eye contact.
Five minutes later I got the Outlook ping and a migraine
I’m calling it “a win for my sanity”
benjy.data:
final FINAL verdict:
Thank you Ana
Queen of Soft Fabrics
Deliverer of Cotton Options
Protector of Intern Skin
Chapter 5: Chapter 3: Barcelona
Chapter Text
Text Messages: George Russell & Dr. Anastasia “Ana” Wolff
George:
How’s Brackley holding up without me?
Ana:
Efficient.
Mostly quiet.
Perfect, really.
George:
Ouch 😅
See, that’s what I like about you. You’re so direct.
No drama. No fluff.
A bit cold-blooded, but in a
cool
way.
Ana:
I’m sorry—
Are you comparing me to a lizard
George:
😂
No no
Just saying it’s refreshing, you know?
Most women are so
emotional
But you’ve got that ice-in-your-veins thing
Cold as a fish but gets the job done 💪
***
Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Dr. Anastasia “Ana” Wolff
Ana:
I wish I didn’t have feelings.
Max:
Okay
That’s a hell of a way to start a conversation,
Poekie
What happened?
Ana:
Do I come across like I don’t?
Like I’m cold. Or clinical. Or a refrigerated fish?
Max:
Where is this coming from?
ANA
George.
He said I’m “cold as a fish.”
Max:
Ana.
Ana:
I do wish it was true.
That I could shut everything off.
Not feel so much. Not
care
so much.
About work. About everything.
Max:
You think
not
feeling would make your life easier
But it’s your heart that makes you
you
And it’s the best part. There’s nothing wrong with you.
People like George just don’t know what to do with you, because they are stupid.
You feel
deeply.
You just don’t outsource it.
You keep it close.
Private.
Precious.
Ana:
I think I’d be easier to love if I were less…
me.
Max:
Don’t you
dare.
Don’t you
dare
try to be easier.
***
Circuit de Barcelona-Catalunya, Montmeló, Spain, - 1 June 2025
The Spanish Grandprix 2025 could probably be summed up in one word: Catastrophe.
McLaren had built two unbeatable rocketships.
RedBull had fucked up the strategy.
Hard compound, safety car restart, lap 61.
10 second time penalty. 3 more penalty points.
P10.
1 Point for the championship standing.
In hindsight, Max did realise that what he had done to Russel into Turn 5 had not been his smartest move.
He shouldn’t have done it.
He knew that even as he lined it up— he saw the space open, just enough to plant his Red Bull down the inside of Russell, and some ancient, stubborn reflex in him clicked like a trigger.
He went.
And he hit him.
Not hard. Not enough to retire the car. But enough for contact. Enough for the stewards to start circling.
Enough to know, immediately , that it had been stupid.
Because it hadn’t been strategy. It hadn’t even been racing instinct.
It had been personal .
Somewhere between the apex and the runoff, Max had remembered what Ana told him.
George had called her a cold fish .
Ana, who had spent a full twenty minutes spiralling over the idea that she didn’t know how to feel. Who had asked him— him —if maybe she was broken after all.
Because George Russell , with his rehearsed smirks and PR-scripted charm, had decided her quiet meant unfeeling. That her composure meant cold. That her distance meant emptiness.
Like she wasn’t the smartest person in any room. Like she wasn’t the woman who spent nights calibrating engine maps down to the nanosecond, who had once held Max’s face in her hands like it was sacred , who felt everything but didn’t bleed it out for applause.
And George had called her a cold fish.
Said she didn’t have feelings.
And Ana—his Ana—had texted him asking if it was true.
And something in Max had snapped .
Because she wasn’t cold. She wasn’t robotic or hard to love. She was private. Careful. Brilliant in a way that lit up slowly and then consumed you, if you were smart enough to wait for it.
And George Russell didn’t get to flatten that down into a punchline.
Not about Ana.
Not ever.
So Max had hit him.
A decade of work to master his temper and he’d still hit him.
Not with his fists. With his car. In the middle of a race.
Like his father.
The realization sat in his chest like gravel.
He saw red, and he made it someone else’s problem.
That was dangerous. Stupid.
And it scared him.
Because Ana deserved better. He was supposed to be better.
Not the man who weaponised his anger. Not the one who made it everyone else’s fault.
Max pressed his palms to his face after the race, after the press. Inhaled. Exhaled.
It hadn’t helped that even before the race had been hell. That he had been driving at 110% percent to somehow claw himself to P3.
That he knew that he didn’t have a chance against Lando or Oscar, not because he wasn’t driving good enough, but because the car wasn’t there.
The race had been hell.
Not spectacularly, crash-and-burn hell. No. That would’ve at least come with adrenaline.
This was worse. This was futility.
And Red Bull— his team, the team he’d bled and won and clawed with—had just shrugged.
“We’ll review it.”
“We’ll get it fixed before Silverstone.”
“Bad luck today, mate.”
Max had nodded. Said the right things to the cameras.
Now, he just sat.
Still.
Drained.
And for the first time—not in anger, not in a surge of rage, but in something quieter, colder—he thought:
What if it’s time?
He’d given everything to this team. And in return, he’d gotten four championships, a dynasty, and—now—a ship quietly splintering at the keel.
Red Bull was falling apart.
And Max was tired of pretending that he couldn’t feel it too.
Max was tired. Not physically—he’d trained through worse. But mentally. Emotionally. Like he was pushing against a wall that wasn’t going to move, no matter how many laps he strung together or how precisely he hit his braking zones.
He was tired of being the fastest driver in a car that wasn’t built to win anymore.
And Mercedes…
2026 regulations loomed. And Mercedes, quietly and steadily, had stopped stumbling.
The car looked coherent . The power unit had held steady. And maybe most damning of all— they looked like a team that knew what it was building toward.
Mercedes had a plan.
Mercedes had 2026 circled in red, and every whisper said their power unit was terrifying.
He stood slowly, knees stiff.
The thing was… he didn’t even know if it was about performance anymore.
His head leaned back against the wall, eyes fluttering shut for a moment.
He wasn’t angry anymore.
He was just tired.
Tired of dragging a team that couldn’t keep up.
Tired of pretending he didn’t already know where this was going.
Because Ana was there. In Brackley. Building something that worked. That made sense. That held .
And maybe—just maybe—he didn’t want to win another championship alone.
Maybe he wanted to win it where she could see him.
He could see it—clearer than ever.
A fresh start.
A reset.
A future that didn’t feel like death by a thousand strategy errors.
And maybe more than that— her.
He wouldn’t say it out loud. Not yet. Not even to himself.
But the thought curled low in his chest, warm and terrifying.
If I went to Mercedes… I could be near her. Not just at night. Not just when we’re pretending it’s nothing. Every day. In the same garage. On the same side.
He let out a slow breath.
Maybe it was selfish. Maybe it was reckless.
But Max Verstappen had never been afraid of taking a corner flat.
And this?
This was starting to look like the cleanest racing line he’d had in months.
***
Mercedes F1 HQ, Brackley, England - 1 June 2025
It was a Sunday.
A quiet one — at least in theory.
Granted it was Race Day, but most of the needed staff was in Barcelona, at the track. Most other staff was at home.
Ana was in her office. Waiting to get a call from trackside that they had broken one of the cars. Or getting a headstart on telemetry…or doing some very much not needed budget spreadsheets…
Because, well… she didn’t really do hobbies.
She’d tried. Once. Or twice. Bought watercolours. Took one yoga class.
But the truth was this: spreadsheets made more sense than socialising, engine maps were easier than emotion, and a baseline simulation was as good a distraction as anything else. Better, even. Machines didn’t ask her how she was feeling. They just did what they were told.
She had one monitor running component lifing data for 2026. Another with simulation outputs from a recent bench test. The third screen — muted, mostly ignored — was the live F1 broadcast from Spain. Lap 60.
Ana wasn’t paying it much attention. Not until she saw the timing screen glitch — yellow flag, Turn 5 — and her peripheral vision caught a flick of a Red Bull diving off-line.
She blinked, sat up straighter, and clicked the stream into full screen.
Her jaw tightened.
It was Max.
She watched the replay feed switch to show it: Charles and Max going side-by-side down the straight, a brush of contact.
Then Russell lunging up alongside Max…
Ana’s hands curled slightly against the edge of her desk.
And then—
The overtake attempt.
The so-called “let through.”
And then the second lunge.
The impact.
Ana flinched.
Not visibly, maybe. But her stomach twisted.
She knew that look in Max’s driving. The one that said he wasn’t thinking clearly. That the red mist had taken over.
She’d known him long enough to recognise the difference between aggression and anger. Between instinct and intent.
That… had been intent.
“Goddamn it, Max,” she muttered, too quiet for anyone to hear.
And then, a beat later, George came on the radio. Cheerfully smug. Like he hadn’t just nearly sparked a full collision. Like he hadn’t—
She sat back in her chair, exhaling slowly, a hard knot pressing under her ribs.
Ana had always been able to compartmentalise. That was her gift. Her survival mechanism. But this—
This was personal.
Not the race. Not the lunge.
But the memory of George’s message from days before. The casually cruel line. Cold as a fish.
She hadn’t told anyone how much it hurt.
Not even Max.
And now he’d—
Her phone buzzed on the desk. A message from engineering ops. She ignored it.
Instead, she rewound the race footage. Just to be sure.
She watched it again. The lunge. The contact. The way Max didn’t even try to hide the retaliation.
It was reckless. It was stupid. It was absolutely not championship-calibre driving.
And it was for her.
Ana wanted to scream.
***
Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Dr. Anastasia “Ana” Wolff
Ana:
Are you insane?
Max:
Hi
I’m fine, thanks for asking
Ana:
You got a ten-second penalty for trying to punt George into the wall.
That’s not “fine”
Max:
In my defense
he had it coming
Ana:
That is not a defense
That is premeditated stupidity on cold tyres
Max:
He called you a cold fish.
I wasn’t thinking clearly.
Ana:
So you decided to retaliate at 280km/h during a live race?!
Max:
I know.
It was dumb.
Ana:
I am not going to argue about that.
It was
dangerous
.
Max:
Yeah.
I know that too.
It wasn’t about the race.
It was about…
I saw him. And I thought about what he said to you.
And I got angry.
Max:
So you weaponised a Red Bull chassis.
Great. Rational behaviour.
Max:
I didn’t mean for it to go that far.
I just—
Sometimes it gets ahead of me.
The anger.
I hate that I still do that.
That I
am
like this.
Max:
I don’t want to be like my father.
Not on track. Not off it.
Not ever.
Ana:
Then maybe don’t crash into people at 280km/h when you’re upset.
Max:
…
Ana:
Don’t do it again.
I don’t need defending.
I need you safe.
Max:
Copy that.
No more defending your honour with multi-million-dollar carbon shrapnel.
Ana:
Good.
Also, apologise to your engineer and maybe the team.
***
Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Victoria Verstappen
Victoria:
WHAT the heck was THAT, Maxie???
Just saw the replay.
Are you trying to reenact
Fast & Furious: FIA Edition
???
Max:
Hi Vic
Love you too
Victoria:
Don’t “Hi Vic” me
Turn 5??
Turn 5?!
Did GP put you on Red Bull and rage or were you just feeling a little unhinged for the weekend??
I just watched you try to yeet George Russell into another zip code in front of the entire world.
Are you trying to collect penalties like Pokémon?
Max:
Okay yes
I know
It was reckless
I got emotional
VICTORIA
It was reckless.
It was
stupid
.
And it was
exactly
the kind of shit Jos used to pull when he lost control.
Victoria:
Max.
I need you to hear me properly right now.
Victoria:
Do
not
become like he was.
Not even a little bit.
Not even when it feels justified.
Not when you’re angry or frustrated or hurt.
Because it starts like this—these little moments—and then one day you look in the mirror and he’s
there
.
Max:
Vic—
Victoria:
No.
You’re better than that. You always have been.
But
better
doesn’t just happen. You have to
choose
it.
Every single time.
Max:
I know.
I
know
.
And I hate that today I didn’t.
It scared me too.
Victoria:
Good.
Let it scare you.
Then remember you have people around you who will drag you back if you start slipping.
Even if we have to slap sense into you mid-race.
Max: You’d absolutely do it.
Victoria:
Damn right.
Now go apologise to whoever had to explain that radio message to the Sky Sports team.
And maybe buy GP a bottle of something expensive.
Max:
Already on it.
Victoria:
Stay good, Maxie.
Not perfect. Not soft. Just
good
.
You owe that to yourself.
And to us.
***
Group Chat: “WHO IS MAX VERSTAPPEN DATING”
(Members: Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, Carlos Sainz, Daniel Ricciardo)
Lando:
BRO.
Lando:
WHAT DID WE JUST WATCH.
Oscar:
Which part? The Leclerc move? The Russell collision? The radio tantrum?
Daniel:
No no. The
emotional unravelling of a man in real time
.
Carlos:
That was not racing. That was
vengeance
.
Oscar:
Okay but can we just agree—this wasn’t about George.
Carlos:
…yes.
Oscar:
This was about
something
else. Or like…
someone.
Daniel:
I’m just saying.
You don’t risk a 10-second penalty unless you’re fighting for
something personal
.
Lando:
Do you think he’s in love?
Carlos:
You think he’s in love
with George
?
Lando:
NO—
I MEAN IN GENERAL
Not
with George
Oh my god Carlos.
Daniel:
Plot twist: Verstappen’s long game has always been to date George Russell and then drive him into a wall.
Oscar:
Honestly I’ve seen worse dating strategies.
Carlos:
We are getting off track.
Oscar:
Max’s been weird all year.
Carlos:
He looked at George like he was trying to commit
manslaughter with a carbon front wing.
Lando:
Okay but…
WHO IS IT THEN.
Carlos:
He’s hiding something.
Daniel:
You don’t say...
Oscar:
Ten bucks says there’s someone we’ve
never
seen. Someone completely under the radar.
Lando:
No WAG content
No paparazzi
No vacation leaks
Nothing
Carlos:
He’s a
married man
and we’re going to find out when she files the tax returns.
Oscar:
Whoever she is…
She has that man in an emotional chokehold.
Lando:
He literally risked a podium to
make a point
.
***
Group Chat: “TEAM 33”
(Members: Max Verstappen, Jos Verstappen, Raymond Vermeulen)
Max:
I want to talk to Mercedes.
Jos:
…what are you talking about?
Raymond:
Is this a joke?
Max:
No.
I’m serious.
Raymond:
Max, we’ve had these offers before. You always said no.
Max:
I’m not saying no anymore.
Jos:
Is this about Red Bull?
The car?
Max:
It’s about everything.
The car. The future. The team direction.
The way I’m driving at 110% just to get P4.
And the fact that I’m tired of hearing
next year
every week.
Raymond:
You’ve never once seriously considered leaving.
Not since you joined.
What’s changed?
Max:
I think I’ve given everything I can here.
And I want to win.
Not manage damage every Sunday.
Jos:
Are you sure this isn’t emotional?
You’ve had rough seasons before.
Max:
No.
This is different.
I don’t trust the plan anymore.
Raymond:
If we talk to Mercedes, it’ll leak.
Are you ready for that?
Max:
Let it leak.
Let everyone lose their minds.
But set up the meeting.
Jos:
And if they offer something real?
Max:
Then I take it seriously.
For the first time.
***
Lambiase Residence, Milton Keynes, England - 2 June 2025
GP didn’t even bother offering Max a drink. Just pointed to the kitchen chair like this was a routine —which, after nearly a decade, it kind of was.
They were sitting in his kitchen, a quiet space full of mismatched chairs and half-finished house projects, telemetry open on the tablet between them. Francesca’s, GP’s fifteen year old daughter, school prospectus laid forgotten on the counter. The kettle had boiled twice and been ignored both times.
Max the dog had greeted Max the human with a wagging tail and had then trotted off behind Eloisa, GP’s wife, up into the home office.
Max dropped into the seat with a groan.
GP didn’t sit yet. Just leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching him.
“You want to explain what that was with Russell?”
Max didn’t answer right away. Just sighed, dragging a hand over his face like he was trying to wipe the whole race off with it.
GP raised a brow. “Max.”
There was a beat. Then another. And then, finally—
“It was because of Ana.”
GP nodded once. “Ah.” He didn’t even pretend to be surprised. “Of course.”
“Don’t start,” Max muttered.
“I’m not starting, ” GP said mildly. “I’m just… continuing. The ongoing saga of You Two: Will They, Won’t They, Why Haven’t They.”
Max exhaled like someone had punched the air out of him. “She texted me after qualifying. Asked if I thought I was a cold fish, because George said she was.”
GP winced. “Christ. That man has the emotional intelligence of a spoon.”
Max laughed, hollow. “She said she wished she didn’t have feelings. And then you told me to give him the position back and I…” He gestured, helpless. “I snapped.”
GP finally sat across from him. “Yeah. You did.”
Max didn’t look up. “I lost it. I just—there was already the Leclerc move, the tyres were cold, I was pissed off, and then I thought about that . And I wanted to prove something. I don’t even know what , exactly. But I didn’t think. I just drove angry.”
GP didn’t say anything for a moment. Then: “Well, that’s deeply fucking stupid.”
Max huffed a laugh. “Yeah.”
“You’re lucky nobody got hurt.”
“I know.”
GP ran a hand over his head “You’re not your father, Max. But you don’t get to pretend you’re not his son either. You’ve got his instincts—good and bad. And if you don’t finally learn to catch yourself before the fuse runs out, you’re going to burn the whole damn garage down.”
“I don’t want to be like him.”
“Then don’t . Especially not for a man who thinks a woman’s worth is in how she reacts to him .”
Max looked up. Something raw and earnest flickered behind his eyes.
GP’s voice softened. “You care about her.”
Max nodded. “Too much, maybe.”
GP leaned back in his chair, studying him. “You know,” he said slowly, “you two are exhausting.”
“Thanks.”
“I mean it. Tiptoeing around each other like there isn’t a whole decade of… whatever the hell this is.”
Max didn’t answer.
GP narrowed his eyes. “Are you ever going to stop?”
There was a pause. Then Max looked up, voice low but certain.
“I want to talk to Mercedes.”
There wasn’t a dramatic pause. No gasp of surprise. Just GP, sitting back in his creaky kitchen chair like Max had confirmed something he already knew.
“Alright,” GP said, after a moment. “You’ve thought it through?”
“I’ve been thinking about it for weeks.” Max rubbed a hand over his jaw, gaze fixed somewhere over GP’s shoulder. “At first it was just a maybe. A backup plan if things didn’t change. But then… it became the plan.” he said, voice low. “I know you have a job at Red Bull.”
GP didn’t look up. “That’s an understatement.”
“I’m not asking you to leave it.”
That made GP glance over.
Max shifted, elbows on knees, fingers laced tight. “I just… If I do this—if I really consider it—I’m not expecting you to come with me. You’ve been here forever. You’ve got your team, your systems, your—”
“Let’s go to Mercedes.”
Max blinked. “What?”
GP leaned forward now, calm and serious and unflinching.
“I said let’s go to Mercedes,” GP repeated, with a casual shrug like they were talking about a road trip and not blowing up a decade-long dynasty. “You, me. Pack up the telemetry server and your dramatic helmet collection and let’s go.”
Max stared at him. “I’m not joking.”
“Neither am I. Let’s go. If this is where it ends, then it ends. But I’m not doing this job without you. I didn’t sign up to babysit whoever they throw in that car next.”
Max stared at him. “You’re serious?”
GP shrugged. “Mate. You think I’m going to hang around here while Christian and Helmut do budget gymnastics and blame the floor for the fact we haven’t been competitive in four months? You’re the reason I come to work.”
Max’s mouth parted. “You don’t even want to hear the rest of the plan?”
“I’ve heard enough. The car’s shit. Helmut thinks solving performance issues means yelling louder. The team’s scattered. You’re exhausted. And I’ve been watching you drive like you’re trying to drag a wheelbarrow through quicksand.”
Max laughed, startled. “Jesus, GP.”
GP leaned forward, setting the mug down with a quiet clink. “Max, I’ve been at Red Bull longer than I care to admit. I’ve survived engine changes, regulation chaos, Christian’s PR disasters, and your puberty.”
Max huffed. “Barely.”
“But I’ve also watched this team stop evolving with you,” GP continued. “And I’ve watched you carry more than your share of the weight while pretending you weren’t.”
He paused. “You’ve outgrown this place. That’s not betrayal. That’s just truth. ”
Max looked away, jaw clenched.
“And for what it’s worth,” GP added, “I’ve already downloaded every file I care about. They’ll probably revoke my login the second you say yes, so I might as well get a head start.”
That made Max laugh. Quiet. Surprised.
“I thought you’d fight me on this.”
“I am fighting you,” GP said dryly. “I’m fighting for you to finally have a car that deserves you and that doesn’t chew its own floor upgrades. And for me to stop spending Thursdays arguing with people who think duct tape is a performance solution.” Win-win.”
They sat in silence for a moment longer.
Max looked down at the table again. “I just didn’t want to ask you. I didn’t want to make you feel like you had to choose.”
“You didn’t ask,” GP said simply. “I chose anyway.”
“You don’t owe me anything.”
GP gave him a look. The kind that said don’t be an idiot. The kind he usually reserved for Friday debriefs and bad tire management.
“Max,” he said, “you’re not just a driver I work with. You’re—” He stopped. Then rolled his eyes. “—okay, I’m not doing the emotional bit. But you know.”
“Yeah,” Max said, voice low. “I know.”
“Besides, someone’s gotta keep you from crashing into people just because your crush got her feelings hurt.”
“She’s not my—”
GP held up a hand. “Save it. I have a teenager. I know denial when I hear it.”
Max huffed. “You’re insufferable.”
They sat there for a beat. The weight of it all—ten years, four championships, one legacy—settling around them like dust.
Max swallowed. “You really think it’s the right call?”
“I think,” GP said, “if you want to win again—and I mean really win, build something new, start fresh—you’re not going to do it in a car that eats its own gearbox every Sunday.”
Max nodded slowly.
“And,” GP added, “if there’s ever been a time to walk into Brackley, it’s now. You’ll have leverage. You’ll have options. You’ll have her. ”
Max looked up sharply.
GP just smirked. “You’ve carried this team long enough, Max.”
Max exhaled slowly. “So… Mercedes. Let’s talk to them.”
GP nodded once. “Mercedes,” he said. “Guess I better start brushing up on my passive-aggressive British email etiquette. You start figuring out how not to try and kill someone in turn five.”
“Noted.”
And just like that, the next chapter began — not with fireworks, but with cold tea, a messy kitchen, and the kind of loyalty that didn’t need to be asked for to be given.
***
Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Toto Wolff
Max:
Toto.
I think it’s time we had that conversation.
Toto:
Max.
Let’s talk.
***
Wolff Residence, Monaco - 2 June 2025
The sun had just started to dip beneath the horizon, casting a soft orange haze across the quiet Monaco sky. Susie was perched on the terrace sofa, legs curled beneath her, glass of white wine in hand, reading out messages from Jack’s school group chat and occasionally sighing at the absurdity of it all.
Toto’s phone buzzed once. Then again.
He glanced at it without much interest—he’d told his assistant not to bother him tonight unless something was on fire or Kimi had managed to break another sim rig.
But it wasn’t his assistant.
It was Max Verstappen.
Max:
Toto.
I think it’s time we had that conversation.
Toto stared at the screen. Blinked.
“Is it Ana?” Susie asked gently from across the terrace, noting the sudden stillness in his posture. “Everything alright?”
He didn’t answer immediately. Just turned the phone slightly in his hand like he needed a different angle to confirm the name.
“No,” he said slowly. “Not Anastasia.”
He held the phone up slightly for her to see, then clicked it back on to show her the screen.
Susie’s eyebrows rose. “Well. That’s a short sentence with very large implications.”
Toto ran a hand over his mouth, heart ticking up just slightly—not with nerves, but with the weight of knowing what might be coming.
He looked out toward the sea, then back at his phone. His voice was low.
Susie set her wine down. “Do you think it’s real this time?”
Toto’s voice was quieter than usual. “I think something changed.”
She nodded slowly. “Spain?”
He nodded back.
They both knew. Max Verstappen didn’t lose control often. And when he did, it wasn’t over tyre temps or DRS issues. Not really. Something had cracked.
“I thought he’d wait until after the summer break,” Susie said. “After Spa, maybe.”
“I did too,” Toto admitted. “But maybe he’s done waiting.”
He didn’t say what else he was thinking.
That maybe this wasn’t just about engines and chassis and unstable rear ends. That maybe this had as much to do with the exhausted look Max had worn all weekend
He stood, the motion slow but certain, already reaching for his laptop on the small table nearby.
Susie watched him move with the kind of quiet amusement that came from over a decade of knowing when something big was about to land.
“You’ll keep it professional,” she said.
Toto gave her a tight smile. “Of course.”
Then paused, thumb hovering over the message thread.
“…but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy the thought of beating Christian Horner at his own game.”
Susie raised her glass slightly. “You always did like chess.”
Toto:
Max.
Let’s talk.
Toto sent the message, closed his laptop, and stared out at the darkening sky.
Let the endgame begin.
***
Mercedes F1 HQ, Brackley, England - 3 June 2025
Tuesday lunch had never been about comfort.
It was about silence. Sanity. A brief, ritualized act of mutual disengagement from the absolute circus they all worked in.
Which is why, when Kimi Antonelli slumped into his usual chair at exactly 12:01, Ana said nothing.
Just passed him a plate.
He didn’t take it.
That was new.
She looked up.
Kimi was doing the thing where he stared at the floor like it had personally offended him. His arms were crossed. His curls were still damp from the simulator session. His entire energy radiated the vague hopelessness of someone trying not to cry in a public restroom.
No one said anything. That was the rule.
Ana unfolded her linen napkin, took a bite of her salad, and watched Kimi absolutely vibrate with unspoken crisis.
It took four full minutes before he cracked.
“I think I’m going to fail everything,” he muttered.
Valtteri didn’t look up. “Define everything.”
“School. Exams. Life. Racing.”
“Racing is dramatic,” Bono said mildly, slicing an apple. “It was an oil pressure issue. Not your fault.”
“You didn’t even get a dramatic exit.” Valtteri said with a shrug. “DNFs sucks.”
Kimi made a noise halfway between a laugh and a cough. It was small. But it counted.
Ana’s gaze was still on Kimi.
He was slouched. Defensive. His tray untouched.
She could see the patterns. The same sharp-edged spirals she used to chase down in code. Fractal-level self-doubt.
“And school?” she asked, voice softer now.
“I suck at actual exams. I panic. I go blank. I’m going to bomb everything and then next year when I crash out of Q1 someone’s gonna be like ‘he couldn’t even pass maths and it’ll be on a meme page forever. Italian, History, I’m okay. But maths is a mess. And I forgot the ethics reading and now I’m behind on revision and I still don’t understand half the equations and—”
Ana reached for her tablet. “What’s on your syllabus?”
Kimi blinked. “What?”
“Your syllabus,” she repeated. “For math. Show me.”
He stared. “Why?”
“I want to know what kind of nonsense is making you think you’re stupid.”
Bono snorted.
Valtteri hid a laugh behind his coffee.
“What part don’t you understand?” she repeated, tone flat. “Give me an equation. Or a concept. What’s tripping you?”
Kimi opened his mouth. Closed it.
Then: “How is that your reaction?”
“Because failure isn’t useful,” she said. “Give me something I can solve. Show me what the question was,” she said. “We’ll start there.”
Kimi stared at her, like she’d just offered to rebuild his entire life with a screwdriver and a stable baseline.
“…Okay,” he said, finally. “But don’t judge my handwriting.”
“I’ve seen Bono’s post-race notes,” Ana replied. “Nothing can be worse.”
“Hey,” Bono said, mildly wounded.
By the time lunch ended, Kimi had explained three exam problems, Bono had offered him an espresso for every passing grade, and Valtteri had somehow convinced him that DNFing in Barcelona was a rite of passage.
Kimi left the room with his shoulders slightly straighter.
Ana went back to work with a pencil smudge on her sleeve.
She would never say it aloud — certainly not to Kimi — but it reminded her, distantly, of Max. Not in the way he drove, but in the way he carried failure . Quietly. Like a debt to be repaid in blood.
It made her chest ache, in a way she didn’t have language for.
So she didn’t dwell. She just went back to her schematics, her engines, her simulations.
But she made a mental note to follow up on the exam dates.
Just in case.
***
Unnamed Restaurant, London, England - 4 June 2025
The restaurant was nearly empty by late afternoon. It was cool, quiet, and sharply efficient—just like everything else about them.
Raymond Vermeulen was shown into a private room near the back. No cameras. No journalists. No names on the door.
A small table. Two chairs. Andreas Stein, one of Mercedes’ senior liaisons, stood as Raymond entered. They shook hands—brief, firm, and with the wary politeness of men who had danced around each other for years but never like this.
Not when it mattered.
“Raymond,” Andreas said evenly. “Pleasure.”
“Let’s not waste time,” Raymond replied, taking the seat across from him.
He’d said it before. Over the years, they’d entertained offers. Ferrari. Mercedes. Aston. But it was always gamesmanship. Leverage. A chessboard move to keep Red Bull sharp.
But this time, Max wasn’t bluffing. For the first time since he was 16 years old and grinning next to a Toro Rosso, Max Verstappen was thinking about leaving.
And Raymond wasn’t sure Red Bull even realized it yet.
This wasn’t the first time someone from Mercedes had reached out. There had been feelers. Quiet compliments in passing. Once, an envelope slid across a table during an off-season dinner with vague performance clauses and large numbers. Max had laughed. Crumpled it up without even reading past the first page.
That had been six years ago.
But now?
Now he was here.
Not to posture. Not to threaten. To listen.
And that, more than anything, told Raymond how real this had become.
Andreas didn’t offer small talk. He didn’t need to.
“So. You’re here.” A faint smile. “That already says something.”
Raymond leaned back in his chair, one leg crossing over the other. He’d never liked this part—the cloak-and-dagger meetings, the half-truths and legal gray areas. But this wasn’t about leverage anymore. This was about possibility.
“I didn’t come all this way for coffee.”
Andreas inclined his head slightly. “Then I’ll be direct. If Max is serious, so are we. The door is open.”
Raymond didn’t blink.
“You’d have to clear a seat.”
“We’re aware.”
“You’d have to buy him out of a very expensive contract.”
“If he wants to come,” Andreas said, “we’ll make it work.”
There it was. No flinching. No hedging. Just quiet, German certainty.
And it hit Raymond with more weight than he’d expected: they still wanted him. Even after everything. The dominance, the title fights, the perception of him as too embedded in Red Bull to ever leave. They were still ready to tear up their roadmap and rebuild around Max Verstappen.
And this time, Max might actually say yes.
“You’ve courted him before,” Raymond said slowly. “He’s always said no.”
Andreas didn’t move. “Has he said no this time?”
Raymond looked away, eyes flicking toward the darkened window that separated them from the paddock.
“He’s asking questions,” he said finally. “Big ones.”
“What changed?”
“He’s driving at 110% every weekend just to finish fourth. He’s tired. We all are.”
Andreas nodded once, not interrupting.
“There’s no unity anymore,” Raymond continued. “The leadership is fractured. Nobody’s thinking long-term. Everything is about putting out the next fire.”
Andreas didn’t pretend to be surprised.
“We can offer long-term,” he said. “You know that. The 2026 power unit’s already deep in development. We’re ahead of schedule.”
Raymond gave a short, skeptical breath. “That’s what everyone says.”
“I don’t mean PR-deck ahead. I mean actual, reliable, wind tunnel-validated, track-modeled progress. We’re not playing catch-up this time. We’ve learned our lessons.”
A pause.
“The engine,” he said simply. “Ours is further ahead than most believe. And it’s not just hardware. The integration work’s been meticulous.”
Raymond tilted his head. “I’ve heard rumors.”
“You’ve heard fragments,” Andreas corrected. “The architecture is clean. Adaptable. Fast off the line and efficient where it counts. Not draggy. Not stiff.”
“And who’s leading that?”
Andreas didn’t hesitate.
“Dr. Anastasia Wolff.”
That name caught Raymond off guard. His eyebrows lifted. “Toto’s daughter?”
“Yes. And not because of her surname. She’s been deep in the development cycle for over a year. Quiet. Brilliant. Brutal in data reviews. The team calls her the scalpel. She’s leading the systems architecture for 2026. The hybrid interface especially. Max would have direct input.”
Raymond didn’t reply immediately. It wasn’t news—he’d heard whispers. Seen the articles that mentioned her name deep in the technical columns. He just hadn’t realized how close she was to the core of it.
He exhaled slowly. “That explains a few things.”
“2026 is a clean slate. New regs, new engine philosophy. He could be the centerpiece,” Andreas said.
Raymond gave a quiet, humorless breath. “You’ve already written the press release, haven’t you.”
Andreas smiled faintly. “We’ve dreamed about it.”
Later that night, Raymond stepped out into London air and called the only person who would understand the weight of what had just shifted.
Jos picked up on the second ring.
“How did it go?” he asked, voice gruff.
Raymond hesitated. Not for drama. Just because saying it aloud made it too real.
“They’re serious,” he said.
A pause.
“And Max?” Jos asked.
Raymond swallowed.
“He’s more serious than I’ve ever seen him.”
And somewhere, deep in the pit of his stomach, Raymond felt it for the first time—the slow, seismic crack in the foundation of everything they’d built.
Raymond exhaled. “If we keep talking, it’ll leak.”
“I assume he’s ready for that?”
Raymond nodded once. “Let them lose their minds.”
***
Mercedes F1 HQ, Brackley, England - 4 June 2025
The box was sitting on her desk when Ana arrived.
Unmarked. Medium-sized. A printed label with her name, nothing else.
Ana frowned.
She didn’t do surprises. She didn’t like surprises. Surprises, in her experience, rarely meant something good. Surprises were miscalculations in clean systems. A last-minute reg change. A test that failed. A driver ignoring strategy.
Still, she peeled back the lid carefully, ready to find spare simulation notes or sensor modules.
But what she found was—
Clothing.
Folded with precision. Nestled in tissue paper. A small black envelope on top, unsealed.
She opened it.
Let me know what works.
We’ll make more.
She would recognise her father’s handwriting everywhere. Ana stared at the card for a long moment, then reached for the first item.
A team polo.
Same cut. Same design. Same branding.
But softer.
She ran her hand across the inside hem and her chest clenched.
It didn’t bite.
It didn’t snag.
There were no tags.
The seams were flat-locked and pressure-tested.
The collar was gently structured, not stiff.
The cotton blend was like air. Like comfort. Like someone had listened.
This wasn’t from stock.
This had been made.
Specifically.
For her.
Ana didn’t move for several long seconds.
Then she reached beneath the polo and found more:
Beneath the polo was more:
- A black zip-up team jacket in brushed cotton fleece, no inner lining, no collar tags.
- A long-sleeved shirt with elastic cuffs that didn’t squeeze.
- A matching hoodie with her initials embroidered inside the cuff in matte thread.
All of them in her standards. Her sizes. Her tolerances. Her sensory profile, without ever needing to say the word.
She rubbed it between her fingers, then pressed it against the inside of her wrist.
It didn’t sting.
She exhaled slowly.
No one had said anything. No one had made a show of it. There’d been no big team email. No label that marked her as different.
Just this box.
Just a quiet, practical kindness.
Not because she had submitted a request.
Not because she’d complained.
But because Toto—her father—had noticed.
She hadn’t asked for this.
Because asking had always felt dangerous.
Toto hadn’t even known she existed until she was eight years old. One day she’d been a quiet, stubborn child in her mother’s apartment in Moscow; the next, she was standing on the steps of a townhouse in Vienna with her hand in her mother’s and a suitcase at her feet, being told this was her father.
Toto had been a stranger then. A man built of steel and ambition, who hadn’t even known she existed until her mother—beautiful, and already done with parenting— had dropped Ana off, kissed her forehead once, and never came back.
She’d tried to behave.
She’d tried not to take up space.
He hadn’t known what to do with her.
Not at first. Maybe not even now.
He tried — she would never say he didn’t try — but he tried in the way engineers try to fix a machine they didn’t build. He tried with spreadsheets and plans and the occasional misfired offer to go karting.
She remembered the early years with him like walking through a museum on tiptoe—careful not to knock anything over. She was too quiet, too smart, too strange. He hadn’t known how to talk to her. She hadn’t known how to ask for what she needed. Somewhere along the way, that became their normal.
So she learned to manage herself.
To be small. Quiet. Perfect. To learn early that needing things just made her difficult. That emotions were inconvenient. That pain was better ignored.
She’d learned to eat what didn’t upset her stomach, to wear what didn’t make her skin scream, to find silence where she could and control what she couldn’t.
And then one day, after twenty years of managing herself, she had tugged at the collar of her Mercedes team polo and muttered, “They’re polyester. They feel like sandpaper dipped in hot glue.”
And Toto had heard her.
He’d listened.
She’d never really believed she fit anywhere in his life. She was the footnote. The consequence. The Moscow Mistake. The burden someone had left him with and that he’d… kept.
And yet—
This box.
This box was not the work of a man who had forgotten she existed.
It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t emotional. There was no speech, no label, no ceremony.
It fit. For once, something fit.
***
Text Messages: Toto Wolff & Dr. Anastasia “Ana” Wolff
Ana:
The shirts arrived.
They fit.
Ana:
Thank you.
Toto:
You shouldn’t have had to work in something that hurt.
You don’t have to ask to be comfortable.
Ana:
I didn’t want to be a problem.
Toto:
You’re not.
You never are.
Ana:
…Okay.
Still.
Thank you.
Toto:
You’re welcome,
Sternchen.
***
Group Chat: “TEAM 33”
(Members: Max Verstappen, Jos Verstappen, Raymond Vermeulen)
Raymond:
Spoke to Andreas.
It’s real.
They’d move pieces if you’re serious.
Jos:
What kind of pieces?
Russell?
Raymond:
Didn’t say.
Didn’t deny either.
Max:
They’d do it.
And honestly… I’m leaning that way.
2026 looks promising.
Jos:
The engine?
Max:
The whole package.
The new hybrid system.
The energy deployment modeling.
It’s miles ahead.
Raymond:
That’s what they claimed.
Said it’s being led by Dr. Anastasia Wolff.
Max:
Yeah. It is.
She designed most of the integration protocol herself.
Used her degrees from Cambridge.
Plus her doctoral thesis laid the foundation for her work.
Jos:
…
How do you know that?
Raymond:
Wait. How do
you
know that?
Max:
What?
Raymond:
Her
doctoral thesis
?
Jos:
Cambridge degrees?
Max:
I’m just saying—if she’s part of that project, it’s going to be serious.
She doesn’t work on nonsense.
Raymond:
Max, do you usually read the academic credentials of Mercedes’ engineering staff?
Max:
…I’m interested in the project.
Jos:
You’re interested in
her
, clearly.
Max:
That’s not—
I mean—
We’ve talked. About work. A few times.
Raymond:
You just cited her
entire CV
like it’s burned into your brain.
Jos:
Max.
Do you have a thing for Toto’s daughter?
Max:
That’s a wild accusation.
Raymond:
Oh my god.
This is about
more
than just the car.
Jos:
You’re switching teams for a girl?
Max:
I’m switching teams because my current one’s imploding.
But the possibility of working with someone I respect doesn’t hurt.
Raymond:
Does “respect” usually include memorizing their thesis?
Max:
Goodnight.
Raymond:
We’re circling back to this.
Max:
No, we’re not.
***
Text Messages: Jos Verstappen & Raymond Vermeulen
Jos:
Tell me I’m wrong.
Raymond:
About what?
Jos:
About Max changing teams because of a girl.
Raymond:
…
You think?
Jos:
I
know
.
The way he was going on about Anastasia Wolff.
he brought up her
degrees
, Raymond
her
doctorate
he was quoting her
credentials
like he’s a LinkedIn profile in love
Raymond:
He did have a tone.
Jos:
Tone??
My son is ready to defect to Mercedes because Wolff’s daughter builds sexy battery systems.
Raymond:
So what are we saying here
You think Anastasia Wolff is the reason he’s considering leaving Red Bull?
Jos:
I think it’s a factor
He’s always been loyal—to people, not just teams
And if
she’s
at Mercedes…
Raymond:
To be fair, she’s not Toto 2.0.
She’s more like… Terminator with a PhD.
Jos:
God help us.
He’s changing cars for a girl.
Raymond:
He hasn’t changed yet.
Jos:
No, but he’s
thinking
with something other than the steering wheel. That’s how it starts.
Raymond:
To be fair, he stayed loyal to Red Bull for nearly a decade.
Jos:
Because he had the fastest car.
Now he has
feelings
.
This is a disaster.
Raymond:
So what do we do?
Jos:
We pray Mercedes screws something up.
Or that Anastasia Wolff breaks his heart before he signs the damn paperwork.
Raymond:
That’s dark.
Jos:
I
raised
him. I know what he’s like when he’s in love.
He goes all in.
Raymond:
You don’t think it’s the car?
Jos:
Oh, it’s the car.
But it’s
also
the girl.
Raymond:
God help us.
Jos:
God help
Toto
.
If this goes the way Max wants it, he’s going to be father-in-law to a four-time world champion.
***
Chapter 6: Chapter 4: Brackley
Chapter Text
Mercedes F1 HQ, Brackley, England - 5 June 2025
She didn’t expect anyone to notice.
It was just a shirt.
A black Mercedes team polo — same logo, same structure, same sharp lines.
Only it wasn’t.
It was softer. Cotton. Hers.
The first time in years she’d walked into the engine lab without feeling like her skin was crawling under her collar.
She was reviewing tire temperature data on her tablet when she felt it: eyes.
Not staring. But… watching.
First from one of the junior mechanics, a man with his hair tied in a tight braid and sweat forming under the high-poly collar of his regulation kit.
Then from Fatima — PR, usually glued to screens and two phones, now blinking owlishly at Ana’s sleeves.
Then from a second-year aero analyst who tugged at the hem of her stiff-fitted polo and kept looking away like it hurt to stare.
Ana tapped a graph.
Waited.
Finally, Fatima stepped closer, voice pitched low. “Sorry — can I ask something?”
Ana glanced over. “You just did.”
Fatima grinned nervously. “That shirt. Is it… different?”
Ana paused.
Then nodded once. “Cotton blend. Custom seams. No tags.”
Fatima exhaled like someone had just opened a window. “God, I knew it. You don’t look like you’re dying.”
One of the mechanics — Leo, Ana remembered — leaned in. “I get rashes from these sleeves every race week. Yours look… soft.”
Another person joined. Then a fourth.
“Do you think they’ll make it standard?” someone asked. “The… your version.”
Ana blinked.
She hadn’t thought of that.
She hadn’t thought about anyone else when the prototypes arrived. Just getting through a day without feeling like she was battling her own clothes.
But now she looked around and realized: they were all tugging at their cuffs.
Unbuttoning their collars. Picking at the embroidered tags inside their necklines like they were trying to scratch out a secret.
Maybe she hadn’t been the only one suffering. Just the only one who refused to normalize it.
“I don’t know,” Ana said slowly. “But I’ll ask.”
Fatima smiled, wide and unguarded. “You should. It’d be the first time teamwear didn’t feel like armor.”
Ana didn’t say anything to that.
But later — in her office, with the door half-closed and the polo still loose against her skin — she opened her email.
***
Email Subject: Cotton Blend Uniform Feedback
From: Dr. Anastasia Wolff <[email protected]>
To: Team Kit Procurement <[email protected]>
CC: Toto Wolff (CEO) Claire Hammond (HR), Marcus Reidl (Design Lead)
Dear All,
Several members of staff have expressed interest in the cotton prototypes.
If we can accommodate wider distribution, please proceed.
Also — suggest reviewing future apparel through a sensory accessibility lens.
Regards,
Dr. Anastasia Wolff
Lead Systems and Hybrid Performance Engineer
Mercedes-AMG PETRONAS Formula One Team
***
Mercedes F1 HQ, Brackley, England - 5 June 2025
Toto read Ana’s email twice.
Then a third time.
Then he slowly took off his glasses and set them down with an almost reverent sort of care, like the weight of the message had finally sunk in.
He hadn't expected this.
He thought the clothing issue was singular. Specific. Ana-specific.
He thought — wrongly — that this was about her and her alone.
But then he reread the line:
“Several members of staff have expressed interest in the cotton prototypes.”
“Recommend trial sizes for track staff and junior team members.”
And another:
“Suggest reviewing future apparel through a sensory accessibility lens.”
He leaned back in his chair.
God.
How many people had just quietly endured because they thought complaining about a shirt made them sound soft? Weak? Replaceable?
How many of them were right to be afraid?
He looked over at his assistant, who was sorting emails across the room.
“Leonie?”
She looked up. “Yes?”
“Can we… get feedback from staff before we finalize the 2026 team kit?”
She paused. “You mean from the senior leads?”
“No,” he said, frowning. “I mean… everyone.”
She blinked.
Toto tapped the desk absently. “Anonymous if necessary. Ask what they actually want to wear. What bothers them. What doesn’t work. Give them options. Not just sizes — materials. Seam styles. Fastenings. Tag placements. Everything.”
Leonie opened her laptop again, rapidly typing. “I’ll draft a feedback form today.”
He nodded.
Then, softer: “I don’t want anyone on this team to feel like they have to earn the right to be comfortable.”
She glanced at him, surprised.
“Not after this,” he added, motioning toward Ana’s email.
And he meant it.
***
Slack Channel: #brackley-nerds
Private Channel. ~30 members.
lorelai.pa:
GUYS
THE FORM
THE FORM JUST DROPPED
THIS IS NOT A DRILL
sam.transmission:
wait the
anon
team kit feedback form??
jules.elec:
YES
check your inbox
“2026 Apparel Feedback – Optional & Anonymous”
Toto’s name is on it. He wants our thoughts.
jess.hr:
this feels like that scene in Les Mis where everyone’s like “do you hear the people sing” but about polyester
ellie.electronics:
someone’s finally listening 😭
i’m going to cry over a cotton-blend hoodie
fatima.pr:
entered “the polos give me existential rage and also chafe my neck like I’m being strangled by a team sponsor”
nicola.sim:
I said: “I have a recurring dream about removing the inner tags with fire”
follow-up question was “any preferred materials?”
i said:
yes. soft.
rachel.aero:
I just want a version of the rain jacket that doesn’t make me sound like a pissed-off bag of Doritos when I move
Sima.calibration:
I said we should bring back zip-off trousers for variable pit lane conditions
you’re all laughing now but you’ll thank me at Monza when it’s 37 degrees
Lucy.comms:
I asked if we could have those polos with the half zips again
but in bamboo this time
don’t judge me
leo.mechanic:
I said “please no more fitted sleeves that cut off circulation like a blood pressure cuff from hell”
liv.strategy:
I literally typed “I want to wear my team kit without itching like a Victorian ghost girl with TB”
benjy.data:
someone’s gonna read this and be like “we’ve made a terrible mistake”
kayleigh.powerunit:
seriously though
do we think this is because of Ana?
👀
zahra.aero:
100%
she wore
The Cotton Polo
and now we have a form
she is the revolution
jules.elec:
she suffered so we could be free
leo.mechanic:
I still think Toto saw her pick at her collar once and commissioned an entire line of custom-engineered knitwear
lorelai.m:
give that man a dad medal
wrapped in organic bamboo jersey
tom.sim:
if we get a fleece-lined travel hoodie that doesn’t trap heat like a dying star
i will get “w21 lives forever” tattooed across my knuckles
***
Twitter Thread: Max to Mercedes?? Let’s Talk About It
@/F1Whispers: 🚨 Hearing whispers that the Max-to-Mercedes conversation isn’t just paddock fantasy anymore.
Apparently someone from Verstappen’s camp had an informal sit-down with a senior Mercedes figure post-Spain.
We’ll be watching this one very closely. 👀
↳@/charlottechicane:
“Informal sit-down” = espresso and ruin.
I am so ready.
↳@/pitlanecryptid: no bc imagine Toto walking into that meeting like “so are you finally done pretending Red Bull isn’t imploding?”
↳
@/DataLapDan
: i know we’re all excited but if max actually goes to mercedes i’m gonna be
insufferable
like "my world domination au is CANON" levels of unbearable
↳ @/verstappensburner: this entire fanbase is going to emotionally combust if max shows up to silverstone even looking at the Mercedes hospitality
@/laurensleftshoe:
you’re telling me that in the same season Red Bull fumbled strategy, pissed off Verstappen, and Mercedes quietly fixed their engine??
oh this is SILLY silly season.
@/PaddockWhispers:
Not saying anything definitive (yet), but there’s a
vibe
shift happening.
Hearing from more than one source that Mercedes talks with Max Verstappen aren’t as dead-in-the-water as they used to be.
👀
@/javi_ontrack:
you mean to tell me we’ve entered the “what if Max leaves Red Bull” timeline
in THIS economy????
@/amberflagf1:
Reminder: Max has a Red Bull contract until the end of 2028.
Also reminder: contracts in F1 are written in pencil and everyone knows it.
@/formula_flirt:
I cannot emotionally handle Max Verstappen in Mercedes silver.
I would combust.
Respectfully.
@/f1firestarter:
Max Verstappen to Mercedes would be the biggest defection since Lewis left McLaren.
This sport hasn’t known peace since 2007 anyway. Let chaos reign.
@/deaddownforce:
Christian Horner if this actually happens:
👨🦲🪑😭📉📉📉📉📉
@/helmutvision: Toto’s going to sign Max out of pure spite and call it “a long-term strategic investment.”
@/emiliapits:
just saying… Max Verstappen looks one engine failure away from handing in a transfer request
#SpanishGP
@/tirewearupdates:
We are entering that delicious stage of Silly Season where the rumors go from “lol imagine” to “wait is that actually happening”
Max to Mercedes is no longer a meme
it’s a
threat
@/f1teaaccount:
👀 multiple paddock sources are now saying that Max has “
not ruled out
” a conversation with Mercedes about 2026
Red Bull’s collapse + Mercedes’ 2026 PU project = ✨spicy✨
@/wheresthegrip:
red bull’s falling apart, toto’s wearing that tight smile like he knows something’s already signed, and max looks 4.6 seconds away from choosing violence every sunday
we’re so back
@/karunactually:
Look, it’s all smoke until there’s fire, but I’ll say this:
Mercedes’ power unit development is the most locked-down I’ve seen it in years.
And Max is asking very smart questions about 2026 aero.
@/engineerera:
If Max goes to Mercedes and GP goes with him… I will simply combust.
Red Bull who? I don’t know her.
***
Text Messages: Kimi Antonelli & Oliver Bearman
Kimi:
OLIVER.
Have you seen Twitter.
Oliver:
Always a good start to the day
Which bit this time?
Kimi:
VERSTAPPEN TO MERCEDES???
People are saying it's
real
now
Like
meetings
and
talks
and
performance clause drama
levels of real
Oliver:
Lmao yeah.
That’s just a rumour. Chill.
Kimi:
NO YOU DON’T GET IT
If it’s true I’m SCREWED
I’m a
rookie
George has won
races
They’re not going to fire the guy with media training and four trophies
They’ll fire
me
Oliver:
Okay.
One: You haven’t even done half a season.
Two: You literally out-qualified him in Miami.
Three: You are Toto’s
investment
.
They’re not firing you.
Kimi:
I saw Toto smiling in the paddock after Spain
Like a
knowing
smile
Like a “I’ve just offered Max Verstappen a multi-year deal” kind of smile
I’ve barely been here five minutes.
I
just
stopped getting lost in the motorhome.
Toto’s going to be like “you’ve had a nice gap year, off you go.”
I’ll be back in F2 by Spa.
Oliver:
Toto is not sending you back to F2.
Kimi:
He’ll send me to Formula E.
Or worse.
Endurance.
Oliver:
Please breathe.
Kimi:
He’s going to call me into his office.
And I’ll walk in and he’ll just gesture at a Mercedes shirt and be like “This is for Max. Pack your things.”
Oliver:
Kimi.
Kimi:
I JUST STARTED UNPACKING MY THINGS
Oliver:
Kimi.
Kimi:
Do you think Red Bull would take me?
Do you think I could learn how to smile for their videos?
Oliver:
You hate their social media team.
Kimi:
Yes but I love not being unemployed.
Oliver:
You're not getting fired.
You're 18 and terrifyingly good.
Max to Mercedes isn’t about you. It’s about Red Bull imploding.
***
Group Chat: “WHO IS MAX VERSTAPPEN DATING”
(Members: Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, Carlos Sainz, Daniel Ricciardo)
Lando:
GUYS
WAKE UP
WAKE UP WAKE UP WAKE UP
Oscar:
It’s 6:14am.
What is wrong with you.
Carlos:
You better be dying
Lando:
HAVE YOU SEEN TWITTER
check your feeds right now
go go go
Oscar:
Oh.
Wait.
What.
Carlos:
Oh
qué coño
“Verstappen to Mercedes 2026”?
Are they serious???
Lando:
HE’S JUMPING SHIP
MAX. TO. MERCEDES.
I KNEW SOMETHING WAS OFF
Daniel:
...what did I
just
wake up to
Lando:
I KNEW HE WAS HIDING SOMETHING
and now he’s packing his bags and heading straight into Toto’s loving arms???
THIS IS A GRID-LEVEL EVENT
Oscar:
There’s no confirmation. Could just be speculation.
Carlos:
You don’t switch teams because of one bad race. That’s not Max.
Lando:
that’s what
you
think
but I think…
it’s the girlfriend 😐
Oscar:
No.
Carlos:
Lando.
Daniel:
God.
Lando:
what if she’s a
Mercedes
girl
what if he’s been SLEEPING WITH THE ENEMY THIS WHOLE TIME
what if she's one of Toto's engineers
or like. his race strategist
or his
cat sitter
, I don’t know, everyone in that team is suspicious
Oscar:
This is why no one tells you anything.
Daniel:
I know for a fact she’s not Toto’s cat sitter. BECAUSE HE DOESN’T HAVE A CAT
Lando:
SO YOU
DO
KNOW HER
WE’VE CIRCLED BACK
CONFESS
Carlos:
Can we stay on topic
Lando:
I
am
on topic
Max is leaving red bull for love
for romance
for goddamn
affection
, carlos
Oscar:
Or maybe for stability and a better engine
Lando:
you’re no fun
Daniel:
You really think Max Verstappen would switch teams because of a
girlfriend
?
Lando:
Yes.
Do we need to stage an intervention???
Carlos:
You’re acting like he joined a cult.
Oscar:
I’m muting again.
Daniel:
Same.
Lando:
YOU’RE ALL BLIND
HE’S DEFECTING
AND HE’S TAKING HIS SECRET GIRLFRIEND WITH HIM
OPEN YOUR EYES SHEEPLE!
***
Group Chat: “TEAM 33”
(Members: Max Verstappen, Jos Verstappen, Raymond Vermeulen)
Raymond:
I just got three missed calls from Helmut.
One from Christian.
And one from someone in communications asking “how hypothetical this all is.”
Jos:
😂
Raymond:
You think this is funny?
Jos:
A little.
They’ve spent the last year ignoring him.
Now they remember his number?
Max:
I got a text from Christian.
Just said: “Are you free to talk later today?”
Didn’t even put a smiley face.
Raymond:
Yeah, they’re rattled.
Now everyone’s watching
every
move you make.
Max:
Good.
Maybe now they’ll realize “next year” isn’t a plan. It’s a stall.
Jos:
Told you this would get their attention.
Should’ve done it back in Hungary.
Raymond:
They’re already trying to spin it internally.
Said you’re “frustrated but committed.”
Which is rich, considering you’ve barely committed to a
sandwich
lately.
Max:
I’m not saying anything to them until
we
decide what we want.
Let them sweat.
Jos:
They deserve to sweat.
They built an empire around you and assumed you'd never walk away.
Raymond:
You sure you’re ready for the chaos if this keeps escalating?
Sponsors. Media. Internal leaks.
They’re going to start dangling upgrades and favors like candy.
Max:
Let them.
I'm not interested in words.
I'm interested in performance.
And in options.
Jos:
He means Anastasia Wolff.
Raymond:
Oh for god’s sake
Max:
I mean
winning
.
And maybe a competent power unit.
Jos:
Just admit it, you want a new car and the girl to match.
Max:
I want a future that actually exists.
***
Mercedes F1 HQ, Brackley, England - 9 June 2025
Ana didn’t usually pay attention to gossip.
She didn’t have the time. Between engine simulations, thermal load mapping, and trying to outsmart the very laws of physics that governed engines, her brain had better things to do than scroll through rumor threads or listen to whatever the hell the factory gossip mill spat out between coffee breaks.
Gossip was for bored comms interns and second-tier Twitter accounts and the anonymous message boards she refused to acknowledge she read. Gossip was an inefficient use of processing power, and she had an engine to build.
Well—part of an engine.
Ana was deep in the work. She liked that about engines: either it ran, or it didn’t. It didn’t hide behind charm or half-truths or the kind of smile that curled just at the corner like it knew what your heartbeat did at 2 a.m. when it whispered your name.
She was elbow-deep in the systems diagnostic interface when it happened.
“...bet Toto’s buzzing. I mean, Verstappen in Mercedes? That’s headline stuff.”
Ana didn’t look up immediately. The interns chatted all the time. She’d learned to tune them out like background static.
But then someone laughed.
“That’s the thing, though. Apparently the talks are real this time. Like, post-Spain. Horner looks ready to combust. Heard Max’s team asked for a second round of briefings already.”
Her fingers froze. Not stopped— froze . A full system hang. The kind that required a hard reboot.
She stood up too fast, knocking over a container of diagnostic strips. “What are you talking about?”
Three junior engineers blinked at her like deer in carbon-fibre headlights.
“I—uh—sorry?” one offered. A kid. Probably twenty-three. Probably didn’t know the laws of thermodynamics, much less the laws of personal space.
Ana’s voice came out cold and precise. Like dry ice instead of fire.
“You said Verstappen and Mercedes. What talks?”
He hesitated. “It’s just, um, what people are saying. Apparently he’s… not thrilled at Red Bull. And with the new regulations—”
“What talks?” she repeated, sharper now. “With who? When? On what basis?”
Silence. Someone coughed.
Another engineer—Liam—spoke up, clearly trying to calm the waters. “Ana, it’s probably nothing. Just paddock noise. Silly season stuff.”
“I don’t care if it’s silly season or the Book of Revelations,” she snapped. “You don’t bring that name into this building without—”
She cut herself off.
She had not meant to sound that emotional. She didn’t do emotional.
Emotional was messy. Emotional got you left in a cold Vienna apartment when you were eight years old and didn’t understand why Mama never came back. Emotional got you 10 years of therapy and a lifelong fear of letting anyone close enough to notice that your heart beat out of time when Max Verstappen so much as looked at you.
“Forget it,” she muttered, already crouching to pick up the diagnostic strips. “Get back to work.”
She tried to focus again. Truly, she did.
But all she could see was him .
Max, in a Mercedes fireproof. Max, in her garage. Max, here.
That wasn’t just gossip.
That was personal .
And she had to find out from watercooler gossip that he might be walking straight into her father's garage next year?
She dropped into her chair, jaw tight.
She was going to kill him.
***
Slack Channel: #brackley-nerds
Private Channel. ~30 members.
liam.engine
:
okay so… ana just full-on snapped because someone mentioned max verstappen in the breakroom
tom.sim:
like snapped snapped?? or ana-normal snapped??
liam.engine
:
diagnostic strips were flung. her eye twitched. she pulled rank with a voice that could’ve cut titanium.
kayleigh.powerunit
:
i was THERE. i thought she was going to throttle poor benjy. he looked like a ghost.
tom.sim:
to be fair benjy always looks like a ghost. poor child lives on vending machine coffee and hope.
ellie.electronics:
wait wait back up. what about verstappen?
liam.engine
:
someone mentioned the rumors he’s been in talks with merc and she lost it. like. visibly rattled.
sam.transmission
:
are we… not supposed to know that?
because we
all
know that.
jess.hr
:
you didn’t hear it from me but… there
have
been board-level discussions. like actual meetings.
kayleigh.powerunit
:
george is going to combust. first his championship dream, now his dream girl??
mans cannot catch a break.
ellie.electronics:
okay first of all. ana does NOT know george exists in that way. he flirts, she blinks and changes the subject to engine temperature mapping.
tom.sim
:
yeah but he
tries
. like, tragically hard. someone should tell him.
liam.engine
:
we have. multiple times.
sam.transmission
:
i think he genuinely believes if she just
softens a little
she’ll like him.
jess.hr
:
spoiler alert: trying to “soften” Ana Wolff is a career-limiting move.
liam.engine
:
but imagine…george losing both the girl and his seat to the same man. brutal.
tom.sim:
“he came, he saw, he took your garage and your girl” – max verstappen, probably
kayleigh.powerunit
:
no but seriously, if verstappen joins next year…ana is going to short-circuit.
liam.engine
:
she already
has
. i swear i saw her hand shaking when she went back to her desk.
ellie.electronics:
…do we think they’ve got history?
tom.sim
:
mate. that wasn’t “history.” that was “I will end you for not telling me yourself.”
liam.engine
:
also. george absolutely walked past Toto’s office ten minutes ago and didn’t even look inside.
he
knows
.
kayleigh.powerunit
:
press F for george russell.
he’s not getting the girl.
he’s not getting the seat.
sam.transmission
:
this team is going to be absolute chaos next season.
liam.engine
:
so…basically.
max to mercedes: 90% confirmed
george: 90% doomed
ana: 100% about to kill someone
kayleigh.powerunit
:
can we get hazard pay?
***
Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Anastasia “Ana” Wolff
Ana:
You unbelievable, reckless, arrogant bastard.
Max
:
Hi Poekie 🥰
Ana:
Don’t you
dare call me that.
is it true?
Max:
you’ll have to be more specific.
i do many things. most of them well. 😏
Ana:
Is it true you’re talking to mercedes?
Max:
define “talking”
Like… theoretically, if a man was tired of his car dying every other Sunday and wanted to drive something that didn’t sound like a blender full of nails and steers like a shopping trolley, would that be so shocking?
Was wondering when that would land in Brackley.
Impressive it took this long, honestly.
Ana
:
You think this is
funny?
Max
:
I think it’s
adorable
that you're this worked up.
Is that a little engine rage I sense? Or something else?
Ana
:
You’re unbelievable.
Max
:
You say that every time I make you come.
Ana:
You’re smirking through text. I
know
you’re smirking.
Wipe it off your face or I swear to God I will personally rig your MGU-K to explode.
Max:
You threatening to blow me up is the highlight of my week.
I wasn’t hiding it.
Just… hadn’t mentioned it yet.
It’s not official. I haven’t signed anything.
But yeah. I’m thinking about it.
Ana
:
Why?
Max
:
Because Red Bull’s a shitshow.
Because the car’s not where I want it.
Because 2026 is a clean slate.
Because Mercedes has the best shot at nailing the regs.
Max :
I was waiting for the right moment to tell you.
You know. When you weren’t actively building the engine I might end up driving.
Ana:
You absolute—
Max:
Careful. You call me enough names, I might think you
miss
me.
Ana:
You were going to let me build that engine and not say a word?
Max:
I think it’s poetic.
You building the engine I win my next championship with.
Ana:
You’re not funny.
Max:
A little bit.
Also…
If I do come to Mercedes, I’d get to see you more.
You
sure
you want to complain?
Ana:
Max.
Max:
Ana.
Ana:
This isn’t funny.
Max:
It’s not meant to be.
It’s serious. I’m serious.
This team. This future.
And you.
Max:
You can throw everything you want at me, but I’m not pretending this isn’t personal.
Max:
You and I never
weren’t
personal.
Ana:
Stop flirting with me.
Max:
You texted
me
first. Angry.
You’re always hottest when you’re mad.
Ana:
unbelievable.
Max:
you should see how good i look in silver
might need you to help peel the fireproofs off after practice. for research. obviously.
Ana:
I hate you.
***
Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Victoria Verstappen
Victoria:
Are you seriously considering Mercedes or was that just a fever dream I saw on Twitter this morning?
Max:
Depends.
Victoria:
MAX.
Are you actually considering it??
Max:
I’m thinking about it.
New regs. New challenge.
New team that isn’t Red Bull collapsing in on itself like a dying star.
Victoria:
So that’s a yes.
Max:
It’s a
maybe
.
A serious maybe.
Victoria:
And what does your
situationship
think about this?
Max:
She’s not my situationship.
Victoria:
Max.
Max:
What?
Victoria:
You’ve been sleeping with the same woman since 2016.
You once skipped a Red Bull sponsor dinner because she had the flu.
You got into an argument with Charles Leclerc because he flirted with her.
You remember what day her mother left and make sure not to say anything soft around her that week.
That’s textbook situationship energy.
Max:
No.
That’s Ana refusing to process any emotion stronger than mild caffeine withdrawal energy.
It’s different.
She’s
not
my situationship.
She’s the love of my life.
She just doesn’t know how to be loved yet.
Victoria:
Oof. That’s devastating.
And also weirdly poetic.
Have you told her that?
Max:
She’d run.
Victoria:
So you’re just gonna… casually defect to her team and hope the proximity therapy works?
Max:
Basically, yeah.
Victoria:
You’re unhinged.
Max:
She’s worth it.
Victoria:
Jesus.
Victoria:
Fine.
But I’m getting front row seats when she inevitably explodes at you in the Mercedes garage and you just stand there like a golden retriever in love.
Max:
She already threatened to rig my MGU-K.
Does that count?
Victoria:
God. She
so
loves you.
Max:
I know.
Victoria:
I reserve the right to say I told you so if she makes you cry in an airport again though.
Max:
That was one time and I was
jetlagged
***
Mercedes F1 HQ, Brackley, England - 11 June 2025
The thing about working for 48 hours straight is that eventually, the code starts humming. Not metaphorically. Literally. The numbers pulse on the screen like they're breathing. The engine model almost sings.
It was beautiful. Or maybe that’s just the hallucination talking.
Ana hadn’t meant to do this. Not really.
But the rumours wouldn’t shut up.
Every thread. Every whisper in the office. Every poorly disguised hallway conversation that cuts off when she walks by. They all hum with the same goddamn thing:
Max Verstappen.
Mercedes.
2026.
So Ana did what she’s always done best: work.
And then kept working.
And then kept working past the part where most people would’ve gone home, or taken a nap, or consumed anything other than coffee and three-day-old protein bars.
The Max-to-Mercedes rumors had detonated in her skull like a landmine, and the only solution was to outpace the noise. To code faster than she could think. To simulate until reality bent around the dyno and all that existed was pressure ratios and heat recovery systems.
Ana had not slept in—well. She couldn’t quite remember. Forty-eight hours, give or take. Possibly more.
Sleep was inefficient. Feeling things was inefficient. If she could out-engineer her central nervous system, maybe she wouldn’t have to think about him walking into her garage wearing her team kit and asking her to act like they were nothing more than a very well-documented HR violation waiting to happen.
Nope. Absolutely not. Rejected.
It was fine.
Totally fine.
She stayed.
Skipped lunch. Skipped dinner. Drank whatever sludge passed for coffee in the staff kitchen. Ate two protein bars and a half-bag of Haribo from someone’s drawer.
By hour 36, her eyes twitched when she blinked. By hour 38, One of the CFD renderings had started to look like Max’s smile and she’d closed the window with so much force the monitor flickered. By hour 42, she had a conversation with the exhaust flow diagram.
Ignoring your feelings via work?
Ten out of ten. No notes.
The door to the systems lab opened, and James—sweet, anxious James—peeked in with the caution of a man trying not to get yelled at.
“Hey, uh… Ana? You’ve been here a while.”
She didn’t look up. “I’m busy.”
“Yeah. No, I see that. It’s just… someone said you haven’t gone home since Monday?”
“I took a nap during the CFD cycle.”
“You mean the thirty-two-minute cooldown window?”
She adjusted her monitor. “Power naps are valid recovery strategies.”
James stepped back like she was radioactive. “Okay. Yeah. Coolcoolcool.”
***
There were a few things Lorelai had learned about Dr. Anastasia Wolff after working as her PA for years:
- She did not like phone calls.
- She did not tolerate inefficiency.
- She did not, under any circumstances, do emotional meltdowns.
Which was why Lorelai was… confused.
Because there was currently a meltdown happening. A very quiet, very clinical, very Ana-coded meltdown. But still—an undeniable one.
The first sign something was off: Ana had skipped her 2 p.m. apple.
Now, most people wouldn’t clock that. But Lorelai kept receipts. Not metaphorical ones—literal, detailed, colour-coded records of Ana Wolff’s habits. Not because she was creepy (debatable), but because being Ana’s assistant was like managing a billion-dollar Formula 1 car that had decided to develop sentience and reprogram itself with C++ and repressed trauma.
And now Ana had been in the systems lab for forty-eight hours .
Which is why Lorelai—personal assistant, keeper of the calendar, shepherd of wayward engineers—was deeply, profoundly concerned.
F orty-eight hours .
Straight.
No shower breaks. No meal breaks. Just coffee, simulations, and whatever slowly crystallizing protein bar graveyard she’d built next to the dyno monitor.
And the thing was… no one knew why.
At first Lorelai thought maybe it was a tight deadline. A design review. A manufacturing delay. Ana loved a crisis, thrived on impossible timelines like a cryptid built from caffeine and elite academic trauma.
Something was wrong.
And it had started the exact same day the rumors about Max Verstappen coming to Mercedes had hit the media cycle like a wrecking ball dipped in silver paint.
Lorelai had seen the slack channel, of course. Heard the whispers. Everyone had.
Max Verstappen. Mercedes. 2026.
A little gossip grenade tossed casually into the Slack channels and now rolling around under everyone’s desks.
Still, she didn’t get it. Ana didn’t even like Max Verstappen. Or… well.
She never talked about Max Verstappen.
Which, knowing Ana, might’ve meant something entirely different.
Now, Lorelai wasn’t stupid. She’d worked at Brackley long enough to know that F1 was held together by caffeine, duct tape, and gossip. She’d been in procurement for four years before Ana had stolen her during a lunch break by asking, “Would you like to stop being bored and start being indispensable?” And frankly, that had been the sexiest job offer she'd ever received.
But she’d never— never —seen Ana like this.
Forty-eight hours in the lab. No sleep. No food except Haribo and the kind of protein bar that tasted like bark. No interactions with the outside world except for three short, sharp emails, all time-stamped between 3 and 4 a.m., and all featuring increasingly unhinged demands about airflow telemetry and torque mapping for 2026.
At first Lorelai thought it was just a normal hyperfixation spiral. Ana had those sometimes—one moment she’d be designing cooling systems in her head, the next she’d be elbow-deep in CAD software muttering about slipstream efficiency like it owed her money.
But this?
This was personal.
Which didn’t make any sense, because Ana didn’t do personal . She did spreadsheets. She did systems.
And yet here she was.
Working like her brain was on fire.
Refusing food.
Snapping at poor James from aero like he’d suggested they reintroduce porpoising for fun.
And most concerningly…
Whispering to the exhaust flow diagram.
Lorelai watched her from the doorway, nursing her third espresso and wondering how many HR policies were currently being violated by pure sleep deprivation.
***
Slack Channel: #brackley-nerds
Private Channel. ~30 members.
james.aero:
okay
so
question
hypothetical
if someone’s been working for maybe 48 hours straight
and won’t make eye contact
and is whispering to the exhaust flow diagram
should we… like… do something?
liam.engine:
oh no
is it Ana
please tell me it’s not Ana
james.aero:
uh
how long has Ana been in that lab?
zahra.aero:
Since… Monday?
james.aero:
It’s Wednesday evening.
ellie.electronics:
Guys.
She just asked the exhaust rendering if it wanted a break.
daniel.it:
ok but like in a normal voice or a soft voice
ellie.electronics:
a
soft
voice
like it was a hamster
mira.simulations:
Jesus.
felix.eng:
Should we… call someone?
daniel.it:
like who? HR? Her dad? Her exorcist?
ellie.electronics:
I vote Toto. This feels above our pay grade
felix.eng:
No offense but I’d rather arm-wrestle a live inverter
daniel.it:
Wait what if it’s the Verstappen thing
You know… the rumor.
Max to Mercedes? 2026?
mira.simulations
OH MY GOD
james.aero:
Wait wait wait
are we suggesting that
Ana Wolff
—Dr. “emotions are for the weak” Wolff—
is spiraling because of… a
driver transfer rumour?
ellie.electronics:
what if they used to date
daniel.it
what if they still
do
mira.simulations
she
did
flinch when someone said “Red Bull” in the hallway earlier
james.aero:
i thought that was about the drink
mira.simulations:
she called it “synthetic capitalist battery acid” and kept walking
felix.eng:
idk guys
she’s brilliant
but she’s acting like someone just told her her pet died
and
the pet was responsible for aero performance
sara.branding:
ok but why does she care so much about Verstappen joining?
she’s literally never mentioned him
jess.hr:
maybe she’s secretly in love with him
like that weird Wattpad slow burn where the ice queen and the golden retriever fall in love after ten years of mutual pining
matt.merchandise:
first of all: I’d read that
second: why is that so specific
nicola.sim:
does anyone know if they’ve ever even spoken????
james.aero:
i once saw them pass in the paddock
she nodded
he blinked
it was the most emotionally loaded 0.7 seconds of my life.
amelie.procurement:
guys.
if Max Verstappen signs with Mercedes
Ana is going to have to see him
every single week
james.aero:
…should we start updating the fire protocols now
liam.eng-lead:
does this mean we’re in an enemies-to-lovers arc
or a “do not engage unless you want the hydraulics to burst” arc
kayleigh.powerunit:
yes
***
Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Anastasia “Ana” Wolff
Max:
so
hypothetically
if someone were to show up in Brackley wearing silver and looking criminally good in it
would you throw a wrench or just ignore them
Max:
also
asking for a friend: is rigging an MGU-K to explode technically a war crime
Max:
…ana?
Max:
ok you’re mad. that’s fine.
you’re cute when you’re mad.
well. terrifying. but also cute.
Max:
is this you icing me out for flirting too much?
because i can do
more
flirting
like a lot more
no one’s stopping me
Max:
okay
you’ve never taken this long to respond
even when you pretended to “accidentally” leave your phone in a Faraday pouch
because you were “busy” mapping thermal decay
Max:
(yes i remember the exact phrase. no i don’t forgive you)
Max:
ana
please just text me that you’re alive
i’m starting to imagine really dramatic things and you
know
my imagination is unhinged
i saw you break a torque wrench once with your
bare hands
i believe you could disappear into a server rack and never come out
Max:
i know you’re not answering because you’re working.
but 36 hours without sleep isn’t working.
that’s
crashing.
Max:
okay. seriously.
this isn’t funny anymore.
are you okay?
did something happen?
Max:
Nastya. please just let me know you’re okay.
i don’t care if you’re mad. i don’t care if you’re busy.
i care if you’re breathing.
***
Mercedes F1 HQ, Brackley, England - 11 June 2025
Toto Wolff was not a man easily rattled.
He had survived backmarkers, boardroom politics, and the 2016 championship. He had learned to speak calmly while millions watched his drivers threaten to kill each other in front of national cameras.
But nothing— nothing —quite sent ice through his bloodstream like hearing Lorelai say, in her deceptively calm tone:
"I think there’s… a concern. About your daughter. From a safety protocol perspective.”
He looked up from his laptop.
Lorelai stood in the doorway to his office. Immaculate as always. Her glasses perched at the edge of her nose. Her iPad hugged tightly to her chest like it was the only thing keeping her from losing her grip on reality.
“She hasn’t left the building since Monday. And she’s… uh… talking to herself. In at least three languages. Possibly four.”
Toto sighed. Pinched the bridge of his nose.
“I’ll handle it.”
He didn’t ask why no one had handled it sooner.
Because he knew the answer.
People didn’t tell Dr. Anastasia Wolff what to do. They let her work, in awe and slight terror, until she disappeared again like some kind of ghost of the dyno bay—brilliant, brutal, and untouchable.
He strode through the corridors with long, purposeful steps.
Anastasia was exactly where he expected her to be: hunched over the control interface, surrounded by code, still wearing that black fleece with the fraying cuff. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her hair braided but unraveling, and she didn’t even glance up when the door opened.
Toto felt that ache in his chest again—the one he always got when she was like this. Too quiet. Too still. Too close to the edge of something brittle.
He still remembered the first time he saw her.
Vienna. 2005.
Anastasia Yelena Volkova had arrived on his doorstep like a misdelivered package—tight-lipped, red-eyed, nearly eight years old, wearing a coat two sizes too small and clutching a Soviet-era suitcase with her initials stitched inside in Cyrillic.
Her mother hadn’t come in. She hadn’t even looked back.
Just a stiff nod, a clipped explanation in Russian that amounted to your turn , and then she was gone.
Anastasia had only spoken Russian back then. Refused to answer in anything else. It had taken months for her to say “yes” instead of da. A year before she started using “Papa.” Two before she stopped flinching when someone raised their voice.
And even now, nearly two decades later, Toto still wasn’t sure she believed she belonged.
She’d grown into someone sharp and strange and brilliant. She didn’t cry. She didn’t ask for things. She lived in the folds of logic and simulation code and thermal maps, and most of the time he let her stay there. Let her be who she was without trying to shape her into something softer.
Because Toto was a smart man.
He knew his daughter was clever—anyone with two Cambridge degrees and a doctorate was clever.
But Ana wasn’t just smart. She saw things. Solved problems that hadn’t been named yet. She treated the 2026 PU like a living thing, coaxing performance from it the way some people coaxed birds into their hands.
He didn’t always understand her—but he never underestimated her.
Now, nearly twenty years later, that same girl was barricaded in a dyno bay surrounded by code and caffeine and emotional landmines he still didn’t know how to read.
He walked in and saw her hunched over a workstation, hair fraying from her braid, muttering in a furious whisper about battery drain cycles like the fate of the earth depended on it.
She didn’t even flinch when the door opened.
He used the only thing that still worked.
“ Anastasia Yelena Wolff. ”
She froze.
Like a gunshot. Like the echo of a childhood too sharp around the edges.
Slowly, she turned. Her face was pale, eyes glassy and over-bright, like someone walking the tightrope between clarity and collapse.
“Papa?” she asked. Quiet. Distant. Like maybe her brain hadn’t caught up yet.
“Anastasia,” he said more gently now. “You need to stop.”
“I’m fine,” she murmured. “I’m just—working through the module delay. If I can get the compression sync to balance before the next sim—”
“You’ve been awake for two days. ”
“I’ve done worse.”
“That’s not comforting.”
She didn’t answer.
Toto stepped around the desk and crouched down beside her chair, like he had when she was small. He’d always been a tall man, but he’d never once tried to loom over her. It never would’ve worked. Even at fifteen, Ana had stared him down like she was the one writing his performance reviews.
“You need to sleep,” he said softly.
Anastasia looked away. “I can’t. Not yet.”
“Why?”
Her jaw flexed. Silence.
He didn’t push.
Instead, he stood and held out a hand.
To his surprise— she took it.
She didn’t argue.
Didn’t speak much on the drive, either. Just curled into the passenger seat, like her bones had finally remembered they were tired.
When they arrived at his house, she walked in automatic. Like the muscle memory never left. Same bedroom. Same old lamp.
Toto handed her a bottle of water and told her to brush her teeth.
She didn’t even roll her eyes.
When she curled up under the duvet, he pulled it gently over her shoulder and sat on the edge of the bed for a moment, unsure if she was asleep yet.
Then she whispered, “Thanks.”
He paused.
“Always.”
He sat there a few minutes longer, watching her breathe.
Still brilliant. Still so sharp it scared him sometimes.. Yet he still wondered if her mind was something even bigger than what she let people see. Something that frightened her, too.
She was lethal .
Not just degrees. Not just intellect.
A mind like a scalpel.
And a heart she kept padlocked, duct-taped, buried somewhere beneath layers of grit and code and engine schematics.
He stood.
Turned off the light.
Closed the door behind him.
And told himself—once again—that he was doing his best.
***
Text Messages: Toto Wolff & Susie Wolff
Toto
Just brought Ana home.
She was in the systems lab. Forty-eight hours. Maybe more.
Lorelai says she didn’t leave since Monday.
Susie:
Oh no.
That’s a full bender.
Did something trigger it?
Toto:
I don’t know.
No one seems to know what triggered it.
She wouldn’t say. Just kept muttering about engine logic and simulation lag and something about thermal sync ratios.
She looked… hollow. Not angry. Not manic. Just
gone
.
Like she disappeared behind the code and forgot how to come back.
Susie
Was it the 2026 revisions?
The PU development?
Toto
I asked. She just said she was working.
You know how she gets.
That thing where she locks in and forgets she’s a person.
Susie
And you think it’s just work?
Toto
No.
I think it’s
something
.
But she won't let me see what it is.
She never has.
Susie:
Poor girl.
Toto:
Her brain doesn’t
stop
.
Not like other people.
She doesn’t feel things in real time — she just stores it somewhere deep and then short-circuits under the weight of it.
Susie:
You’ve always said she runs like an engine.
Toto:
Yes.
High power. No governor.
And when it overheats, she doesn’t shut down — she
redlines
. Quietly. Efficiently. Until she crashes.
Susie:
You did the right thing bringing her home.
Toto:
I hope so.
I don’t always know how to help her.
She’s
brilliant
. But it’s like she’s made of glass sometimes. The high-grade kind. Sharp edges. Carries voltage.
Susie:
You help by
being
there.
That’s always been the way.
She came home with you, didn’t she?
Toto:
Yes.
Susie:
Then you’re doing fine.
Toto:
She thanked me.
Before she fell asleep.
Susie:
Then she knows.
Toto:
Knows what?
Susie:
That you love her.
Even if you don’t always know how to say it.
Toto:
…
I hope so.
Susie:
She’s not broken, you know.
Toto:
I know.
She’s just wired differently.
And sometimes… I think the whole damn world should rewire itself to match her, instead.
***
Toto Wolff’s House, Brackley, England - 12 June 2025
Ana woke to the uncomfortable sensation of… stillness.
Not quiet, exactly — her brain didn’t really do quiet — but a kind of post-storm silence. Her skin felt too tight. Her throat dry. Her tongue like the underside of a radiator cap. Muscles ached in places she didn’t even remember using.
It was bright. Too bright. Morning light spilling past gauzy curtains that weren’t hers, across a room she hadn’t slept in for years.
Her old room.
Her father’s house.
She groaned, curling onto her side, eyes scrunching against the sun like it was personally trying to shame her. Memories came back in flashes — the hum of the dyno bay, the way the monitor had started pulsing , the battery flowchart she’d argued with at hour 45. The moment she’d looked up and seen Toto there, like a conjured hallucination.
Except it hadn’t been.
He’d come. Scooped her up like she was still eight years old with a head full of Russian grammar and trauma. Sat her in the passenger seat. Put her to bed.
Now she was here.
And she felt awful .
Everything in her body was slow. Her brain was fogged with something like grief and guilt and tech fatigue. And under all of it — beneath the espresso crash and cognitive flatline — there was shame. Deep and bone-quiet.
He’d used her full name.
And she had gone with him.
God.
Ana sat up slowly, wincing as her body protested the motion. Her hoodie was twisted around her like a straitjacket. Her braid had mostly unraveled and clung to one side of her face. Her glasses were missing. Probably lost in the chaos. Her socks didn’t match.
Everything hurt.
She dragged herself to the kitchen by muscle memory, following the smell of espresso and something warm and toasty.
Toto was already there. Reading something on a tablet. A second coffee sat waiting beside a plate of toast — buttered, crusts cut off, just like she used to eat it when she was too tired to argue with food.
He didn’t look up when she entered.
“Good Morning,” Toto said, still reading.
“Is it?”
“You’re upright, so that’s progress.”
She sipped the espresso, wincing slightly. “My brain’s still buffering.”
“You were arguing with a bar graph last night.”
Ana gave him a tired glare. “It was slow.”
Toto set his tablet down and looked at her properly. His expression was unreadable in the way that always made her bristle.
“You look terrible,” Toto added.
“That’s not comforting,” she rasped.
“I don’t do comforting. I do espresso and early exits.”
Ana smiled. Brief. Real.
They lapsed into silence.
Eventually, she spoke. “I’m sorry.”
Toto didn’t say anything.
Then, softer: “You came to get me.”
Toto met her eyes. “You’re my daughter.”
After a moment, she said, very quietly, “Do I… scare you?”
He looked up.
Ana didn’t.
“I scare myself sometimes,” she murmured. “When I get like that. When I forget to stop. It’s like—if I pause for even a second, everything will catch up.”
Toto exhaled. “You don’t scare me.”
She raised her eyebrows.
“Confuse me. Force me to Google terms I’m pretty sure you made up. Yes. But you don’t scare me.”
Ana looked away. “You didn’t even know I existed until my mother dumped me at your door.”
Toto’s voice softened. “I didn’t know you existed, no. But the moment I did, you were mine. There’s a difference.”
Ana looked away. “Sometimes I feel like you don’t know what to do with me.”
“Most of the time,” Toto said bluntly. “But that’s not the same as not wanting to try.”
She didn’t say anything.
“I don’t always know what to do with any of you,” Toto said. “You just require… a different operating manual.”
She glanced up. “German or Russian?”
He smirked. “It’s in Hieroglyphs. I’ve given up trying to read it.”
Ana huffed a laugh, tears stinging the corners of her eyes.
He slid a plate across the table. Toast. Buttered. Cut into quarters.
Ana stared at it.
“I’m not eight,” she muttered.
“You’re acting like it,” he replied, sipping his espresso.
She snorted. Picked up a piece. Ate it.
Then after a pause: “Thank you. For coming.”
Toto nodded.
“You’re not alone in this,” he added quietly. “Whatever this is.”
She didn’t answer.
But she finished the toast. Drank the rest of the coffee. Sat there just long enough for him to believe — maybe — that the worst had passed.
And maybe, just maybe, it had.
***
Text Messages: Susie Wolff & Dr. Anastasia “Ana” Wolff
Susie:
Hey love.
Just checking in — how are you feeling?
Ana:
Hungover.
Except without the alcohol that usually causes it.
Susie:
So the 48-hour no-sleep, Haribo-and-coffee-fueled science bender finally caught up with you?
Ana:
Might’ve run out of caffeine before I ran out of coping mechanisms.
Or the other way around.
Susie:
Ana.
Darling.
You
do
know you’re allowed to feel things, right?
Even difficult things.
Especially difficult things.
Ana:
I didn’t want to think about my feelings.
I wanted to out-engineer them.
Put them in a box and simulate them into submission.
It worked for 47 hours and 17 minutes.
Susie:
And then the crash?
Ana:
Then the crash.
And the hallucinating of a CPU diagram that was smiling at me.
Susie:
Oh Ana.
That’s when you
close the laptop
, sweetheart.
Ana:
I was hoping I could outpace it all.
The noise.
The feelings.
Susie:
You're not a robot.
No one’s asking you to be.
Ana:
I have
too many
feelings, actually.
They just… don’t like being perceived.
Especially not by me.
Susie:
You are
so
your father’s daughter it’s terrifying sometimes.
You know I love you, right?
Even when you’re a sleep-deprived raccoon in fleece.
Ana:
Thanks, Susie.
Susie:
Next time, text me
before
the Haribo hallucinations kick in, okay?
I’ll bring tea and non-emotional distractions.
Like British Bake Off reruns.
Ana:
Deal.
***
Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Dr.Anastasia “Ana” Wolff
Ana:
I’m alive.
Max:
you’re texting
which means you didn’t die
which is fantastic news for my blood pressure
Ana:
Calm down.
Max:
Calm down??
Ana, are you fucking kidding me right now?
Ana:
I just woke up.
Max:
You disappeared for
three days,
ghosted every message, probably rewrote half the powertrain manual, and now you want me to act normal?
Ana:
Yes.
Max:
absolutely not. I thought something happened.
I thought you collapsed at your desk or got electrocuted or walked straight into a jet fan because you were thinking about combustion ratios and forgot how walls work.
Ana:
…only one of those is remotely plausible.
Max:
Which one.
Ana:
None of your business.
Max:
You scared the shit out of me.
Ana:
I didn’t mean to.
Max:
Then what
were
you doing?
Ana:
Not thinking about you.
That was the plan.
Didn’t work.
Max:
You pulled a 48-hour lab lockdown to
avoid your feelings for me?
Ana:
I didn’t say that.
Max:
You
really
need to work on your emotional repression outlets.
Ana:
You’re the one making everything complicated.
Max:
I texted you that I might change teams.
You started hallucinating torque values and drinking Red Bull like it was IV fluid.
Ana:
Max.
Max:
Ana.
Ana:
…my father had to
tuck me in,
you asshole.
Max:
😭😭😭😭
Max:
god i wish i had a photo
framed.
on my wall.
above my sim rig.
Ana:
I’m blocking you.
Papa took me home.
Tucked me in.
It was deeply humiliating. Do not make it worse.
Max:
i’m going to make it so much worse
you got
papa’d.
your dad tucked you in like a little burrito.
this is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.
Ana:
I hate you.
Max:
it’s horrifying for you
i understand
Ana:
Do
not
send me memes. I’m still rebooting my brain.
Max:
too late
[attachment: “YOU WORKED 48 HOURS STRAIGHT? BABE YOU’RE A BIOHAZARD 💅” meme.jpeg]
Ana:
I should’ve stayed asleep.
Max:
i missed you.
next time, disappear for less than 12 hours or i’m coming to Brackley and starting a dramatic scene in the simulator bay
Ana:
That’s not a threat. That’s workplace misconduct.
Max:
Try and stop me.
You scared me.
You don’t get to do that again.
Ana:
I didn’t think you’d care that much.
Max:
I do.
***
Chapter 7: Chapter 5: Montreal
Chapter Text
Twitter Thread: So not a rumour after all?
@/F1TeaHub:
🚨 GEORGE RUSSELL just
casually
confirmed that MERCEDES is in talks with MAX VERSTAPPEN during Canadian GP media day.
Quote:
“If you want to be on top, you need the best drivers. So it’s only normal that conversations with the likes of Verstappen are ongoing.”
👀👀👀
@/gridgirlz:
GEORGE???
GEORGE YOU WEREN’T SUPPOSED TO SAY THE QUIET PART OUT LOUD.
@/mclandogf1:
the way max has said NOTHING and now george is just out here name-dropping him like it’s casual???
sir. sir.
@/1RedBullFan: CHRISTIAN HORNER READING THAT QUOTE RN: 😐😐😐😐
@/f1subtletea: If George Russell gets mysteriously "ill" and misses FP1, you’ll know why 💀
@/gossipformulagirl:
I KNEW Max to Mercedes wasn’t just noise.
George confirming it is so iconic.
(Also, I fear for his life.)
@/defensivemax:
People in 2023:
scoffs
“Max would NEVER leave Red Bull.”
2025: George Russell says Max is in talks with Mercedes.
The simulation is BROKEN.
@/apexchaos: George “Professional Media Trained Robot” Russell breaking the whole paddock open by casually outing Toto’s emails. What a day.
@/susiesays: Someone please check Toto’s blood pressure because I know his phone just started ringing 19 times per second.
@/underthehelmet:
George Russell waking up and choosing
contractual warfare
before FP1.
#MaxToMercedes
@/jvteamfanaccount: “conversations with the likes of Verstappen are ongoing” is such a calm way to drop a nuclear bomb in the press pen
@/tiredengineer: Max Verstappen watching George blow up six months of secret negotiations in one sentence: 😐🔫
@/f1powercouples:
So Ana Wolff is building the 2026 engine. Toto's daughter. At Mercedes.
And now George says they’re talking to Max.
This is starting to look less like silly season and more like a Shakespearean paddock power play.
@/burnerforlando2: George Russell may have just done more for F1 journalism in one quote than the entire DTS season.
@/retirethatcar:
This is giving “And then suddenly, it wasn’t a rumour anymore” energy.
#MaxToMercedes
@/brakebalancebitch: GEORGE RUSSELL JUST SOFT LAUNCHED THE MOST CHAOTIC TRANSFER OF ALL TIME???
@/wheelseason:
Not George casually confirming the rumour Toto and Max have been trying
not
to address for weeks 💀
Sir. That was a statement. Not speculation.
@/cursedpitwall: Helmut Marko is going to throw a laptop. Christian Horner just bit through his jawline.
@/softlaunchsainz: george russell has officially entered his no fucks left to give era and i for one support it.
@/gridsidegossip:
Remember when everyone said Max would never leave Red Bull?
Well.
So did we.
And now we’re sweating.
@/cornercarver13:
“conversations with the likes of Verstappen are ongoing”
GEORGE RUSSELL YOU CANNOT JUST SAY THAT ON CAMERA????
@/sillyseasoncentral:
George basically confirming Max-to-Mercedes talks on media day is CRAZY.
This is no longer rumor territory.
This is war. 🚨
@/itsjackief1:
George really said “if you wanna be on top, you need the best drivers” and name-dropped Max.
I’d be sweating if I were Ferrari.
@/RedBullRevenge:
Oh Christian is going to explode on camera isn’t he
#MaxToMercedes #GeorgeRussell #CanadianGP
@/formulawhat: Sooo just to recap:
- Max is in a shaky place at RBR
- Mercedes wants a big name for the new regs
- George just CONFIRMED the talks
Yeah. Buckle up.
#F1 #SillySeasonIsHere
***
Text Messages: Kimi Antonelli & Oliver Bearman
Kimi:
GEORGE SAID IT.
ON CAMERA.
HE
SAID
MAX.
HE
SAID
IT OUT LOUD.
Oliver:
I saw 😬
George really woke up and chose breaking news.
Kimi:
I AM GOING TO DIE.
THIS IS HOW I GO.
NOT IN A CRASH. NOT IN A SIMULATOR.
FIRED BECAUSE GEORGE CAN’T SHUT UP.
Oliver:
Okay but technically he didn’t say
you
were out??
Kimi:
Technically my seat is
evaporating in real time.
He said, and I quote:
“IF YOU WANT TO BE ON TOP YOU NEED THE BEST DRIVERS.”
I am not a
best driver
yet, Oliver.
I am a
rookie
!!
Oliver:
Toto literally said he was proud of your progress last week. You outqualified George in Miami.
Relax. Deep breaths.
It doesn’t
have
to mean anything
George just talks sometimes
Kimi:
No. No.
George is a media-trained spreadsheet in human form.
If
he
said it, it’s because Toto let him.
OR because George is trying to psychologically destroy me.
Oliver:
You think George Russell woke up and chose
you
as the target?
Kimi:
He’s British. He’s cunning.
He’s said nice things to me. That’s how it
starts
.
Oliver:
Mate.
Kimi:
He’s soft-launching Max as my REPLACEMENT.
Oliver:
I don’t think that’s how soft-launching works.
Toto likes you. He believes in you.
Kimi:
He also likes world champions with cats and rage issues.
HE LET ANA BUILD A WHOLE ENGINE.
HE COULD LET MAX BUILD THE WHOLE TEAM.
Oliver:
That’s dramatic even for you.
Kimi:
I’m seventeen. I’m allowed to be dramatic.
Oliver:
You’re technically eighteen now.
Kimi:
SHUT UP OLIVER.
Oliver:
😘
***
Group Chat: “WHO IS MAX VERSTAPPEN DATING”
(Members: Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, Carlos Sainz, Daniel Ricciardo)
Lando:
HELLO
DID YOU HEAR WHAT GEORGE JUST SAID IN THE MEDIA PEN
HELLO HELLO WAKE UP
Oscar:
Oh god. What now.
Carlos:
This better not be about the girlfriend again
Lando:
NO
THIS TIME IT’S WORSE
george. said. this.
"If you want to be on top, you need the best drivers. So it’s only normal that conversations with the likes of Verstappen are ongoing."
ON CAMERA
WITH HIS WHOLE CHEST
IN FRONT OF SKY SPORTS
Oscar:
…
well.
shit.
Carlos:
Oh no.
Daniel:
🥂🥂🥂
Lando:
HE’S GONE
HE’S
GONE
he’s definitely signed. he’s probably already got the Mercedes hoodie. he’s GONE
Carlos:
God. Poor George.
That quote has “I am being replaced but pretending I’m chill” energy written all over it
I’ve been there.
I feel ill.
Daniel:
Assuming they’re getting Max, George might not be the one getting replaced
Lando:
WHAT
they’d cut George before Kimi, right?? right???
Oscar:
Kimi’s a literal prodigy.
If you can get Max + Baby Schumi in the same garage…
Mercedes wouldn’t blink
Carlos:
What if they cut Kimi?
Oscar:
Toto’s been grooming Kimi like a prized racehorse
plus George’s the one saying “ongoing conversations” like he’s
not
about to be ghosted
Daniel:
guys
max isn’t going to race without his little rookie flock
he’s like mother duck
he’s emotionally obligated to feed Gabriel protein bars and text Kimi advice in all caps
Carlos:
You think he’d give up the Red Bull empire just like that?
Lando:
YES
for love and skincare
and probably a Mercedes simulator room that doesn’t smell like Diet Coke and despair
Oscar:
Wait, wait, wait
what if this
isn’t
about Max going to Mercedes
what if George is just trying to bluff his way into keeping the seat
like: “I’m fine, I’m secure, we’re besties, we’re totally talking to Max casually, haha please don’t fire me”
Carlos:
I feel bad for him.
Being replaced hurts.
Lando:
carlos no 😭
***
Mercedes F1 HQ, Brackley, England - 13 June 2025
The data stream in front of her blurred slightly—part fatigue, part static—but Ana barely noticed.
She was halfway through reviewing the thermal output comparison between PU2 and PU2.5, trying to figure out why the prototype build still ran ten degrees hotter in simulation, when she heard it:
“Did you hear what George said in the presser?” Tom, one of the junior powertrain engineers, his voice pitched too loud for the corner they were working in. “Proper PR nightmare. You can’t just say that.”
“Say what?” the other one asked, mouth half-full of protein bar.
“That it’s normal Mercedes is in talks with Verstappen,” Tom said, in a tone that suggested he’d been dying to tell someone. “Quote. ‘If you want to be back on top, you need the best drivers. So it’s only normal that conversations with the likes of Verstappen are ongoing.’”
Ana’s fingers stopped moving.
Just for a second. Just a blip.
But the silence in her body felt deafening.
“Bloody hell,” the second engineer muttered. “George knows he’s on the chopping block, doesn’t he?”
“Oh come on,” another said. “It could be Antonelli.”
“Sure. And pigs can fly with DRS.”
Ana stared down at the screen, but none of the numbers made sense anymore.
Her stomach twisted. Not dramatically. Not like a soap opera. Just—tightly. Efficiently. Like a knot being pulled taut in the back of her ribcage.
It wasn’t that she hadn’t known .
She wasn’t naïve. Max had told her. Toto had grown evasive the last time she asked about 2026.
But there was a difference between theory and execution.
Between flirtation and fact.
Between Max sprawled across hotel sheets and George Russell saying it into a microphone during a live press conference.
Her heart thumped once, twice—sharp enough to startle her.
She didn’t say anything. Didn’t interrupt. Didn’t breathe.
Because if George knew…
If everyone knew…
Then this wasn’t a joke anymore. It wasn’t just Max being impulsive or dramatic or furious at Red Bull’s latest implosion.
This was happening.
This was real .
And Ana—Ana, who planned everything, who mapped fuel delivery curves in her sleep, who triple-checked gear ratios on her birthday—had no idea what she was supposed to do next.
She pressed her fingers against her temple and exhaled once, hard.
Then she stood up and walked toward the hallway, past the chattering engineers who didn’t even realize what they’d detonated.
She needed five minutes.
She needed a firewall.
She needed to not feel like her chest had just been set on fire from the inside out.
And God help her, she needed Max to stop being the one thing she couldn’t calculate.
***
Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Dr. Anastasia “Ana” Wolff
Max:
I miss you.
I wish you were here.
Ana:
I’m sure there’s someone in Montreal who’ll fuck you if you ask nicely.
Max:
I haven’t had sex with anyone but you in
years
, Ana.
Ana:
…what?
Max:
You heard me.
Ana:
That’s not—
That’s not how this works, Max.
Max:
Maybe not for you.
But for me it does.
Ana:
We agreed this wasn’t serious.
Max:
You made that rule.
I just didn’t feel like following it.
Ana:
That’s not fair.
Max:
Neither is pretending it’s just sex when it’s you.
It’s never
just
been sex.
Ana:
I’m hanging up now.
Max:
We’re texting.
Ana:
Then I’m muting you.
Max:
Go ahead.
I’ll still be here.
Wishing you were too.
***
Mercedes F1 HQ, Brackley, England - 15 June 2025
Ana didn’t mean to drop her phone.
It just… slipped. Bounced once on the edge of her desk and landed screen-up on the floor, Max’s last message still glowing at her like a flare.
Go ahead. I’ll still be here.
Wishing you were too.
Her heart was hammering.
No— sprinting .
Like it was trying to break out of her chest and escape before it had to deal with the implications of anything Max Verstappen had just texted her.
I haven’t had sex with anyone but you in years.
You made that rule. I just didn’t feel like following it.
It’s never just been sex.
Ana stared at the fallen phone like it might detonate.
Her office, normally her haven of order and cold logic, suddenly felt too small. The lights were too bright. The air too thick. The walls too loud , somehow—buzzing with fluorescent static and the scream of her own pulse in her ears.
She pressed both hands to the desk, grounding herself, trying to stop the shaking.
“This is fine,” she said aloud, to no one. “This is… probably fine.”
It wasn’t.
It was so far from fine it had circled back to catastrophic.
Because Max Verstappen— Max , with his absurd talent and his reckless kindness and the way he looked at her like she was a secret worth keeping—had just detonated every unspoken boundary she’d spent a decade pretending didn’t hurt.
And the worst part?
She’d believed him.
She always believed him. Even when she didn’t want to. Even when he smiled that slow, infuriating smile and said things like “I miss you” and “I wish you were here” like it wasn’t dangerous, like it wasn’t ruinous.
She wasn’t supposed to care.
She wasn’t supposed to
feel
anything.
They had rules.
Rules she made.
Rules he
ignored
.
“Idiot,” she muttered. She wasn’t sure if she meant him or herself.
She paced. Stopped. Picked up a mug that had been empty for hours, stared into it like the answer might be at the bottom.
“I need to work,” she said, louder this time. “I need to— focus .”
But her monitor screen blurred, and Max’s words burned behind her eyelids like an afterimage.
It’s never just been sex.
Ana gritted her teeth.
Snatched her phone off the floor.
Locked it.
Turned it face-down.
Then flipped it over again just to make sure the message was
still
there.
It was.
She swore softly in Russian. Then again in German. Then once in a whisper that might have been his name .
And then she did what she always did when her world threatened to collapse.
She opened the engine model.
And tried to bury the feeling beneath 9,000 lines of code.
***
Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Daniel Ricciardo
DANIEL:
Sooo
Mercedes huh? 👀
You gonna drop the grenade or nah?
MAX:
It’s not a grenade.
It’s a strategic exit.
DANIEL:
Mate you
are
the grenade
And I say this with love
But also a little popcorn
MAX:
Nothing’s signed.
Yet.
DANIEL:
Yet 😏
Honestly? Burn it all down
Roast it. Salt the earth.
Put the RB19 in a museum and walk away like a Bond villain
DANIEL:
(Also tell GP I’ll help pack the mugs)
MAX:
I’m not doing it to spite them
DANIEL:
No, you’re doing it because it’s smart
Because the car’s a piece of shit
DANIEL:
I’m not saying I’ll bring marshmallows to roast over the ashes of Red Bull, but like…
I’ve got skewers ready. Just say the word.
MAX:
You’re so dramatic.
DANIEL:
Me? Please.
You’re the one considering defecting to your not-girlfriend’s dad’s team while said not-girlfriend builds the engine you might drive.
I’m just here for the front row seats. And because you miss
her
MAX:
Don’t start
DANIEL:
Ohhh I
will
start
I was
there
, remember?
You gave me the whole starry-eyed confession back in 2017.
You said, and I quote:
“She’s the smartest person I’ve ever met and she makes me feel like I’m not just the guy who drives fast.”
MAX:
I hate that you remember that.
DANIEL:
I tattooed it on my
soul
DANIEL:
But for real—
You spoken to
her
about it yet?
MAX:
She knows.
Found out early. Lost her mind a little.
Then ignored me for 72 hours and didn’t eat or sleep for 48.
DANIEL:
Ah yes. Classic Ana Wolff™ brand emotional spiral.
Has she tried to rewire your MGU-K in revenge yet?
MAX:
Not yet.
She did threaten to.
Dead serious, too.
DANIEL:
Hot.
MAX:
Shut up.
DANIEL:
No but really—
Are you
sure
she’s handling it okay?
MAX:
She’s fine.
Mostly.
She came to see me in Monaco.
DANIEL:
And?
MAX:
Same old story.
No strings. No feelings. No complications.
DANIEL:
Except she’s had feelings for you since you were eighteen and has no idea what to do with them.
And you’re still in love with her like an idiot.
MAX:
Thank you, Dr. Phil.
DANIEL:
I’m just saying…
If you’re actually thinking about Mercedes—
you might wanna consider the part where you’ll be working in her literal garage.
With her dad.
MAX:
You think Toto knows?
DANIEL:
Mate. I don’t think Toto Wolff has any clue that you’ve been playing “is it love or just mutually exceptional sex” with his daughter for NINE FUCKING years.
But if he
does
find out, maybe don’t lead with the Monaco story.
MAX:
What
should
I lead with?
DANIEL:
“Mr. Wolff, sir, I’d die for your daughter. Also, I’d really like to drive your car.”
Works every time.
MAX:
You’re insane.
DANIEL:
And I don’t think Toto is the cuddly papa bear you’re hoping for.
But I could be wrong. Maybe he bakes. Maybe he hugs.
DANIEL:
So you better be real damn sure about what you’re walking into—
Team. Career.
Her.
MAX:
I am.
DANIEL:
Then go get ‘em, cowboy.
***
Mercedes F1 HQ, Brackley, England - 16 June 2025
Valtteri Bottas was back in the building.
Not for long—just a few sim sessions to help correlate data on the 2026 development PU. He didn’t mind. It was quiet, familiar. He liked the engineers. He liked the coffee machine in the basement.
And he liked Ana Wolff.
Not in the way George Russell apparently did—no, Valtteri wasn’t a fool. But in the way that two equally blunt, precise people could occupy the same space in near-silence and consider it a successful conversation. She didn’t make him talk for the sake of it.
They got along. She liked that he didn’t waste words. He liked that she didn’t either.
Valtteri respected that. Liked it, even. She reminded him a bit of himself before he’d grown the mullet and stopped caring so much about PR.
He liked Ana.
Which was why the moment he stepped around the corner and heard George’s voice, his steps slowed.
“…I’m just saying,” George was saying, “people find you a little hard to approach. If you just smiled more, or I don’t know, tried asking how someone’s day was before launching into compression ratios—”
Valtteri stopped walking.
Ana, to her credit, didn’t blink. Her arms were crossed. Her stance neutral. But Valtteri could see the tension in her jaw. The kind of stillness that came right before she verbally gutted someone with surgical precision.
George kept talking.
“You’re obviously talented,” he went on, “but if you were just a little less... clinical, I think people would—”
Valtteri cleared his throat, loudly.
Both of them turned.
“Russell,” he said, voice cool. “You do know she’s not a coffee machine, right?”
George blinked. “What?”
“You don’t get to push buttons and expect a smile,” Valtteri said calmly. “Ana doesn’t need to be softer. You need to be less of a dick.”
Ana blinked. Then snorted.
George’s ears turned red. “I didn’t mean it like that—”
“You meant it exactly like that,” Valtteri cut in. “And if the only way you know how to compliment a woman is by suggesting she’d be better if she were different, maybe don’t.”
There was a silence.
George opened his mouth, then closed it.
Ana finally spoke, voice flat. “You done?”
George nodded stiffly and walked away.
Valtteri looked at her. “You alright?”
She gave a small shrug. “Used to it.”
“Well,” Valtteri muttered, “that’s worse.”
Ana tilted her head. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“I know,” he replied. “But watching someone try to reprogram a human being like she’s a malfunctioning toaster sets my Finnish soul on fire.”
Ana gave a short, dry laugh. “Thank you.”
Valtteri smiled faintly. “Anytime.”
Then, without another word, they both turned and walked back toward the sim room—blunt, quiet, and completely understood.
***
Text Messages: Valterri Bottas & Lewis Hamilton
Valtteri:
Mate.
Quick question.
Was George always like that when you were teammates?
Lewis:
…like what 😭
you gotta be more specific, there’s a lot of
that
in George Russell
Valtteri:
The whole weird thing he does with Ana
Where he acts like he’s flirting but actually just keeps suggesting she should smile more
Or be less… herself
I just overheard a conversation and I think I need a walk and a beer
George acts like this
weirdly persistent polite misogynist
who thinks Ana is a 1950s fridge he just needs to defrost slowly.
Lewis:
OHHHH THAT
yeah
I told him multiple times to knock it off
She’s not interested. Never has been.
She barely tolerates his presence on a
good
day.
Valtteri:
I know.
That’s what made it so painful to witness.
I think I pulled a muscle in my soul.
I don’t even think he realizes how much she dislikes him
He talks to her like he’s giving customer service feedback
"Would rate you higher if you had emotions"
It’s insane
Lewis:
Honestly I thought he gave up after she ignored him for the entire Austrian GP last year
and then roasted his driving in front of the board.
That would've killed lesser men.
Valtteri:
Apparently not George.
The man is clinging to delusion like it’s a seat at Mercedes next year.
What the hell does he think is going to happen?
She’s going to blink twice and suddenly thank him for mansplaining her personality?
Lewis
He thinks it’s a slow burn rom-com
I told him it’s a horror movie and
he’s
the first one to die
***
Mercedes F1 HQ, Brackley, England - 17 June 2025
It started like most of their conversations did: precise, mildly tense, and framed by some technical excuse.
Toto was at his desk reviewing debrief notes when Ana walked in. No knock, just the sharp rattle of her boots against the tile and the ever-present sense that she’d already had the conversation ten times in her head before bringing it to him.
He looked up. “Is this about the combustion data or—”
“Are you talking to Max Verstappen?”
Toto blinked.
Ana didn’t even sit. Just stood across from him, arms folded in that stiff, defensive way she had when she was pretending not to care.
Toto frowned, setting his tablet aside. “What?”
She tilted her head. “It’s a simple question.”
“You’ve never cared about driver contracts before.”
Not once. Not even when Lewis signed with Ferrari.
“Well,” Ana said coolly, “if I’m building the engine he’s going to be driving, I’d like to know.”
Toto studied her. Her voice was calm. Her face unreadable. But something in her jaw was tight, and she wasn’t making eye contact—which, for Ana, was rare. She looked like she’d gone over every permutation of this moment, every line of inquiry, and still hadn’t decided which version to believe.
“I’m… surprised that’s your concern,” he said carefully.
Ana shrugged, too quickly. “Is it true?”
Toto leaned back in his chair.
It was true. Or close enough to true that it didn’t matter.
Talks had started quietly. First, a casual message from Max’s camp. Then a private meeting. And now, board-level discussions. Because if Max Verstappen was serious—and he seemed more serious by the day—Mercedes would be fools not to consider it. A clean regulation slate in 2026, and the most dominant driver of the modern era potentially up for grabs? It was unthinkable six months ago. Now it was plausible.
Toto wasn’t blind. He saw the trendline. Red Bull was faltering. The internal chaos was no longer just speculation. It was structural. Deep. And Max—Max was starting to look at the future like a man who had the luxury of choosing something better.
And Mercedes?
They were building for 2026. Everything was about the next era now.
And Max Verstappen behind the wheel of their next-gen car?
It wasn’t just fantasy. It was a possibility .
Toto had spent the last few weeks thinking about what that would mean. For the team. For the drivers. For George. For Kimi.
He hadn’t, until this exact moment, considered what it might mean for Ana.
He hadn’t even realized she was paying attention.
“There have been… preliminary conversations,” he said finally. “But nothing is signed. Nothing is guaranteed.”
Ana nodded once. “So he’s thinking about it.”
“I think he’s more than just thinking.”
She pressed her lips together. “Right.”
Toto tilted his head. “Is there a reason you’re asking me about Max Verstappen?”
Her eyes finally met his then—sharp and unflinching, but also tired.
“I already said. If I’m building the engine, I want to know who I’m building it for.”
Toto held her gaze for a long moment.
And for once, he didn’t press.
He just said, “If it happens… I’ll make sure you’re the first to know.”
Ana gave a tight nod, turned, and left the room without another word.
Toto leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin.
Max Verstappen at Mercedes.
It had felt hypothetical. Ambitious. Strategic.
Now, for the first time, it felt personal.
And Toto wasn’t entirely sure why .
***
Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Gianpiero Lambiase
GP:
Heads up
I won’t be at the Austrian GP.
Max:
WHAT
WHY?!?!
ARE YOU OKAY??
IS THIS A JOKE??
ARE YOU IN PRISON
ARE YOU DEFECTING TO FERRARI
GP:
My uncle died, Max.
Max:
oh
shit
sorry
GP:
Funeral’s in Italy that weekend.
My mother has
explicitly
threatened to disown me if I don’t show up.
Max:
That’s a very Italian reason.
Sorry for your loss
Condolences. Genuinely.
…Can I send flowers or is that weird?
GP:
Appreciate it
Max:
But also… your mother threatened you??
GP:
“I didn’t raise a heartless man who skips family funerals for car races” Direct quote.
She also said: “If you miss this for some car thing, I will remove you from the family tree and possibly from this earth. Don’t let that Dutch boy be the reason you miss your own blood.”
Max:
😂 wow
tell her the Dutch boy is deeply offended
GP:
I’d like to keep my kneecaps, thanks
So I’m flying out Thursday morning
Enjoy Spielberg with whoever they assign you
Try not to roast them on lap one
Max:
No promises
But I’ll send you the data and my complaints in real time
Like an audio postcard
GP:
Can’t wait to listen to that between Ave Marias
***
Mercedes F1 HQ, Brackley, England - 17 June 2025
Ana didn’t miss Tuesday Lunch. Ever.
Except last week. Which meant the energy in the room today was… unstable.
Valtteri Bottas was already seated, spreading butter on a slice of sourdough like it had personally wronged him.
Bono had brought tabbouleh again.
Kimi Antonelli arrived at 12:00 on the dot, vibrating with barely contained tension like a shaken soda can in fireproofs.
And at 12:04, Ana Wolff walked in, hair still slightly damp, tablet under her arm, and a Tupperware container.
“Welcome back,” Valtteri said, mostly dry.
“We thought you’d died in a lab.” Bono added.
“I did,” Ana replied, setting the Tupperware down. “I got better. Podium tax,” Ana said simply, sliding a cookie over to Kimi.
Kimi beamed. “Third place gets cookies?”
“First podium does,” Bono clarified.
“Next one, you’re paying for lunch,” Valtteri added.
Now, barely five minutes into the meal, Kimi’s excitement was already vibrating through the room.
“Okay but— IS IT TRUE ?” he asked, mid-bite of pasta. “Is Max actually coming to Mercedes? George said it in the press conference! Like. Out loud!”
Bono sighed. “George says a lot of things out loud.”
But Kimi was undeterred. “George said it! In Canada. I saw the clip. Everyone saw it. ‘Ongoing conversations with Verstappen.’ That’s what he said. That’s what he said! ”
Valtteri looked intrigued. “Did he really?”
“Yeah! And now my grandma texted me at 3 a.m. asking if I’m being replaced!”
“It’s true,” she said. “Conversations are ongoing.”
The table went still.
Bono raised an eyebrow. “You’re sure?”
“I asked my father,” Ana said flatly, slicing into her salad.
Valtteri leaned forward. “He told you?”
“He doesn’t lie to me. He’s tried. He’s very bad at it.”
“Wait,” Kimi said, eyes wide, “waitwaitwait—are you like, involved ?”
Ana gave him a look. “I was on a science bender last week. I forgot to eat lunch for three days. Do I look like someone who’s had the social bandwidth to arrange a driver deal?”
“Fair,” Valtteri muttered.
Kimi looked between them. “Wait. So it’s real? Like actually real ? Verstappen might join Mercedes ?”
Ana gave a one-shoulder shrug. “Theoretically.”
“Theoretically?! He’s Max Verstappen!”
“Yes,” Ana said, “and theoretically he’s also very tired of dragging a car to P4 every Sunday.”
“B-but,” Kimi sputtered, “wouldn’t he replace—” He stopped. Looked nervous. “—me?”
“Probably George,” Bono said, with zero hesitation.
Ana, however, just tilted her head. “I doubt it’s you.”
“You don’t know that!”
“I do,” she said evenly. Kimi blinked. “I don’t guess,” she said. “I calculate. You’re a long-term investment. Max is experienced. If he comes, they’ll keep you for development continuity. Alpine is a literal mess. But it will have a Mercedes Engine next year. George gets send to Alpine.”
Bono looked mildly scandalized. “That’s dark.”
Ana sipped her drink. “It’s not dark. It’s structural logic.”
Valtteri tilted his head. “And you don’t think George is staying?”
“I think George just signed his own exit strategy by talking about internal negotiations on live television like it was a TikTok Q&A. Besides, if Max comes here, the logistics of managing him and George in one team would require a NATO peacekeeping force.”
Bono nodded. “I have war flashbacks from the Nico years just hearing that sentence.”
Kimi sat forward again, eyes wide. “But what if it’s true?”
“Then you’ll still have a seat,” Ana said calmly. “And also, we’ll win Constructors.”
“Max and me in the same team,” Kimi muttered. “That’s so insane it might actually work.”
Ana looked at him over her glasses. “It’s a negotiation tactic. Red Bull is watching the empire crack around Horner. Verstappen is smart. He’s exploring leverage. That doesn’t mean it’ll actually happen.”
Bono wiped his mouth with a sigh. “I still don’t think it’s happening. It’s Verstappen . He’s been with Red Bull since puberty.”
Ana shrugged. “Things change. Power shifts. People get tired.”
***
Chapter 8: Chapter 6: Maaseik
Chapter Text
Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Dr. Anastasia “Ana” Wolff
Max:
what do you buy your goddaughter for her first birthday
and
her christening
asking for a friend
Ana:
Why are you asking me?
Do I look like the “baby milestone gift” department?
Max:
yes
you’re terrifyingly good at thoughtful things
help
Ana:
Fine.
You want something she won’t outgrow in six months. Something her parents can keep.
Heirloom jewellery is traditional for a christening. A locket. A bracelet with space to add charms as she gets older.
Max:
okay but what if she eats it
Ana:
She’s not going to eat white gold, Max.
That’s what supervision is for.
Max:
…
fine
what else
Ana:
Money.
Set up a trust fund. Small or large, doesn’t matter.
You’ll forget the toys and clothes in five years. She won’t forget the security of knowing she has a foundation for the future.
Max:
a trust?
Ana:
Yes.
A savings or investment account that matures when she’s older.
By the time she’s eighteen, she’ll have something that actually
matters
.
Kids don’t need more stuffed animals.
They need security.
Max:
...you think like that a lot don’t you
Ana:
I think in infrastructure.
Stability.
That’s what you give someone if you love them.
Max:
...already done btw
Ana:
What?
Max:
i have one set up for all my sisters’ kids
started it when victoria was pregnant with Luka
it’s automatic now
Ana:
...of course you do.
Max:
is that approval i hear??
Ana:
It’s… respect.
Don’t get used to it.
Max:
too late. screenshotted. framing it.
Ana:
You’re insufferable.
Max:
and yet you still answered my question
Ana:
Someone has to make sure that child survives you.
buy the bracelet.
and the silver rattle.
and write her a card she won’t understand for another fifteen years.
Max:
you’re bossy
Ana:
and you asked for my advice.
Max:
thanks, ana. really.
Ana:
…you’re welcome.
***
Sint-Catharinakerk, Maaseik, Belgium - 21 June 2025
The church smelled like old wood and lilies.
It was a warm Saturday in Belgium, sunlight pouring through the stained-glass windows in golden slices, the kind of light that made everything feel gentler. Softer. Hailey squealed somewhere near the front, decked out in white lace and a ridiculous bonnet, fat baby cheeks flushed with life. Victoria was radiant. Tom looked like he was trying not to cry through the entire ceremony.
Max sat a pew back with his hands folded, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he watched his sister whisper something to the priest. She had always been good at this—the life-building thing. The little milestones. The gentle weaving of days into something worth staying for.
The baby gurgled when the holy water touched her head.
Max felt something shift in his chest.
It wasn’t envy. Not exactly.
It was something older. Something quieter.
Something that sat at the base of his ribs and asked: When does this start to feel like yours, too?
He’d held Hailey earlier, before the ceremony. She’d immediately latched onto his shirt with one tiny fist and refused to let go. His mother had teased him—“She knows a softie when she sees one”—and Victoria had snapped a photo of him with the baby tucked into his chest like he was made to hold her.
He hadn’t known what to do with that.
Max Verstappen was many things. Champion. Competitor. Cat dad. Godfather, now, apparently.
But lately, he kept looking around and feeling like he was the only one who hadn’t built something outside of the paddock. Everyone had something. A marriage. A baby. A plan. A goddamn sourdough starter.
He had adrenaline and silence.
And a woman who hadn’t replied to his last message.
Not really.
She hadn’t blocked him. Hadn’t told him to stop. She just… didn’t respond.
He stared at his phone screen more than he cared to admit.
Ana, who always had something clever to say. Ana, who had code in her bloodstream and battle plans in her eyes. Ana, who he hadn’t touched in weeks, but who still lived in the quiet parts of his mind like muscle memory.
He thought of her now—what she would have said during the ceremony, probably something dry and scathing about organized religion and lace bonnets and how babies had no concept of spiritual allegiance. But she would’ve held Hailey. And Hailey would’ve loved her.
Max’s thumb hovered over his phone.
He didn’t type anything.
He couldn’t—not when he was this close to texting something soft. Something stupid. Something like I want this. With you. Someday.
He glanced up as the priest finished the blessing, and everyone stood for a final hymn. Max stayed seated a second longer, letting the music wash over him.
When he did rise, his hands stayed in his pockets, his face unreadable. But something had settled behind his eyes.
Not frustration.
Resolve.
He wasn’t sure what Ana would say. He wasn’t sure she’d say anything at all. But he knew one thing for certain:
He wasn’t going to pretend anymore.
Not about what he wanted.
Not about her.
***
Sophie Kumpen’s Garden, Maaseik, Belgium - 21 June 2025
Their mother’s garden in Maaseik smelled like earth and soft smoke—someone a few houses down had started a fire for grilling, and the coals carried on the breeze. Max sat on the low stone wall near the back of the property, nursing a beer he wasn’t really drinking, watching the light fade over the hedges.
Victoria joined him quietly. She didn’t say anything at first, just handed him a jacket and sat beside him like she had a hundred times before—like when they were kids, hiding from Jos’s bad moods, or when he came back from races too wired to sleep.
After a while, she nudged his knee with hers. “You okay?”
Max nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “I am.”
Victoria pulled her knees up, resting her chin on them.“I know you’re in love with her,” she said eventually.
Max didn’t look at her. Just stared at the bottle label in his hands. “Yeah.”
“But,” Victoria added gently, “do you think she’ll ever feel safe enough to love you back?”
That was the part that stuck like glass.
Max didn’t answer right away.
Not because he didn’t know—but because he did . And the knowing was heavier than anything the car had ever asked him to carry.
“She already does,” he said finally. His voice was quiet. Not defensive. Not hopeful. Just honest.
Victoria tilted her head. “Max—”
“She won’t say it,” he went on. “She can’t. Not yet. But she wrote it.”
Now she looked at him. “She what ?”
Max reached into his pocket. Pulled out his wallet. Pulled out a folded sheet of paper, worn at the edges. He’d carried it for years now, tucked into a folder, then a drawer, then eventually just his wallet. He handed it to her without a word.
Victoria read the words on Ana’s thesis acknowledgment slowly. Twice.
To the person who once said engines don’t lie, and neither do I—not even when I pretend to. You are the variable I could never model, but somehow the system always runs better when you are there. You won’t see your name here. But if you ever read this, you’ll know it’s you.
Victoria’s breath caught. “Is this…”
“Her thesis,” Max said quietly. “Doctoral acknowledgments. I wasn’t supposed to see it. But she knew I would.”
Victoria stared at the page, then at him. “Max…”
He shrugged one shoulder. “That’s enough for me.”
“Is it?”
He let out a slow breath. “It has to be. Until she’s ready for more.”
Victoria folded the page back up, carefully, reverently. She handed it back, her fingers brushing his for a second longer than necessary. “You know,” she said softly, “that’s not just love. That’s trust.”
Max looked back out at the rain. “Yeah,” he murmured. “And I’ll wait as long as it takes for her to believe she can trust herself with me.”
“She wrote that five years ago,” he said softly. “She still pretends it doesn’t mean anything. Still keeps everything locked down behind sarcasm and simulation code. But it’s there. She feels it.”
“And you’re just... waiting?” Victoria asked.
Max looked down at the bottle again. “I’m not waiting. I’m staying.”
Victoria didn’t reply immediately.
Then she bumped his shoulder with hers. “You’re a lot of things, Maxie. But I think this is the first time I’ve ever seen you choose the long game.”
“She’s worth it.”
“I know,” Victoria said. “But I just hope she knows it, too.”
***
Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Dr. Anastasia “Ana” Wolff
Max:
Do you want kids?
Ana:
That’s a bit of a loaded question for a Saturday evening.
Also, hello to you too?
Max:
Hi.
Sorry.
Just thinking. Hailey’s baptism was today.
Ana:
Ah.
The existential baby spiral. Classic.
Max:
Yeah.
She looked at me like I was the whole world for about five seconds.
And I haven't stopped thinking about it since.
Ana:
Do
you
want kids?
Max:
I think I do.
Someday.
Not for the Instagram version of it. Just…
I don’t know.
Someone to love like that. Without condition.
Do you?
Ana:
Max.
I would make a horrible mother.
Max:
Why do you always say things like that about yourself?
Ana:
Because I know me.
Because I forget to eat unless my watch buzzes.
Because I once got distracted mid-sentence by an equation and walked into traffic.
Because I have to
practice
how to sound like a human being in meetings.
Because Jack asked me if I was a robot once and I couldn’t even tell him no without thinking about it.
Max:
you wouldn’t be a horrible mother
Ana:
I’m not soft
I don’t know how to do… whatever it is people do with babies
I forget to eat, sometimes. I’ve gone 48 hours without sleep because I forgot to
stop working
.
I break things when I panic.
I don’t… soothe. I fix. That’s not the same thing.
Max:
you’re incredible with Jack
Ana:
Jack is not a baby
Jack is eight and likes lego and dinosaurs and doesn’t mind that I don’t talk all the time
Max:
he
adores
you
you know that
he follows you around like a puppy
he said you're his favourite person after whoever invented minecraft
Ana:
that’s a low bar
Max:
it’s not
you’re steady with him
you don’t talk down to him
you show up
you remember things
you let him be who he is
Ana:
That’s not the same as being a mother
Max:
i think it’s exactly the same
Max:
i think you’re scared
and i get it
but i’ve seen the way you protect people
the way you love them
even when you don’t know you’re doing it
Ana:
My mother dropped me off with a man who didn’t even know I existed
Left me in a hallway in Vienna and never looked back
She hasn’t sent me a birthday card since I was 12
And I still keep waiting for one like I’m fucking 10 again
Ana:
I would make a
horrible
mother.
Max:
you are not her, ana
Ana:
Aren’t I?
Max:
no
you are the person who makes jack’s entire face light up just by showing up
you are the person who never forgets the kind of dinosaurs he’s into this week or how he likes his apples sliced
you are the person who remembers everyone’s allergies and birthdays even when you forget your own lunch
you are not her
Ana:
That’s not parenting. That’s logistics.
Max:
no
that’s care
that’s knowing someone well enough to love them in the way they understand
that’s
you
Ana:
You’re seeing what you want to see
Max:
maybe
or maybe i’m seeing the woman who’s been quietly building an engine to carry the next generation
and who would hold a baby like it was made of stars and formulas and teeth
Ana:
You’re ridiculous.
Max:
Probably
but if you ever changed your mind
about kids
or about what kind of person you think you are
i just want you to know
i’d be the first in line to build that life with you
***
The Townhouse, Brackley, England - 21 June 2025
Ana didn’t move for a full five minutes after the message came through.
Her phone screen had dimmed twice. Her thumb hovered over it like she might respond. Like maybe she had words. But she didn’t.
Not yet.
Not after that.
i’d be the first in line to build that life with you
It wasn’t the kind of thing Max usually said. Not like that. Not in lowercase confessions and soft edges. He was blunt. Bold. Ridiculous, sometimes. But this was different.
This was quiet and honest and terrifying.
Ana sat alone in her house. The lights were off. She didn’t remember turning them off, but they were, and the shadows stretched long across the parquet floors. Her computer was still open. A simulation hung paused on her second monitor. The cooling fans had stopped spinning.
But she couldn’t remember what she’d been working on.
Her mind wouldn’t focus.
It kept replaying his words.
Build a life. With you.
What the hell did Max think she was made of?
She wasn’t… that . She wasn’t softness and bedtime stories and lullabies. She wasn’t capable of creating something whole, let alone protecting it. Her childhood was a cautionary tale. Her emotional instincts were barbed wire and reinforced steel.
She once told Susie she didn’t cry because she was afraid she wouldn’t stop. And it wasn’t a joke.
Toto had done his best. He really had. But even he didn’t always know what to do with her.
There were still days when Ana felt like a guest in her own last name. A tolerated aberration in a family that ran on tea and sunlight and hand-written lunchbox notes. She tried not to resent it. Jack had brought warmth into their house. She was grateful for that. But sometimes… sometimes it just highlighted how cold she must still seem.
And Max.
God, Max.
He said things like that so casually. Like she hadn’t spent twenty years carefully constructing a version of herself that couldn’t be disappointed. Couldn’t be left behind. Couldn’t be hurt.
If you never expected love, you couldn’t mourn the lack of it.
But then he went and said things like build a life with you and you’re not your mother and I’d be first in line.
And something in her cracked.
Not shattered. Not loudly.
Just a hairline fracture.
The kind that doesn’t heal right, if you ignore it.
Ana exhaled shakily. Her lungs felt too big for her ribs.
She stood up, walked into the kitchen, and opened the fridge. Closed it again.
She opened the cabinet and stared at a box of tea bags like it might contain the answer to quantum entanglement.
Then she went back to the living room, picked up her phone, and typed one word.
Then deleted it.
Then tried again.
Then put the phone down, curled up on the couch with her knees pulled to her chest, and just… sat there. In the dark. In the quiet. With Max’s words replaying like a skipped record.
i’d be the first in line to build that life with you
And all she could think was:
Why would you ever want to?
***
Wolff Residence, Monaco - 23 June 2025
Toto Wolff didn’t often check the mail himself. But occasionally—when Susie was in a meeting, when the house was unusually quiet, when Jack had already left for school—he’d wander down the drive and collect the stack of boxes and envelopes that accumulated outside their Monaco villa.
It had become something of a ritual.
Because tucked between the grocery delivery and the press envelopes and the occasional bottle of thank-you wine from a grateful sponsor, there was sometimes one small package addressed in Ana’s handwriting.
Or, more accurately: in the unmistakably neat, all-caps print of a woman who preferred typeface to cursive and trusted Amazon Prime more than her own emotional vocabulary.
He didn’t open them. They were for Jack, and Jack alone.
They didn’t arrive frequently. Not predictably. But often enough that Toto stopped being surprised by the quiet thud of something landing on the doormat, always addressed to Jack Wolff in Ana’s precise, slanted handwriting. She never sent a message to say it was coming. Never followed up. Never asked if he liked it.
But she knew.
Of course she knew.
Toto would watch Jack tear into the brown paper, eyes wide with delight, and somehow it was always exactly right. A small engineering kit with magnetic connectors. A complicated Lego set featuring a Formula E car. A children’s book on rockets. A tiny hoodie with a wolf embroidered on the sleeve. A stuffed capybara because Jack had learned the word “capybara” and wouldn’t stop saying it for a week.
A shark-shaped pencil case. A solar-powered dinosaur robot kit. A Star Wars hoodie with lightsabers that glowed faintly in the dark. A graphic novel about quantum mechanics “for kids, but cool.”
It wasn’t about spoiling him. Ana didn’t do lavish . She did intentional .
She noticed things.
She’d always noticed things. Long before she ever spoke them out loud.
Once, Toto mentioned over a Zoom call that Jack had become obsessed with circuits. Two weeks later, a beginner’s soldering kit showed up—child-safe, well-reviewed, and packaged with proper gloves and eye protection. Jack had screamed with joy.
Susie called it “the Ana Express.”
Toto just called it love.
Because Ana didn’t say I miss you or I wish I was there. Not in words.
She just… sent a marble run set that looked like a rollercoaster. Or a model F1 car with functioning suspension.
“Papa!” Jack’s voice echoed from upstairs. “Is it from Ana?”
Toto didn’t even have to answer. Jack came barrelling down the stairs in socks that barely had any grip left, practically launching himself around the corner with the kind of chaotic energy only eight-year-olds and Red Bull strategists could summon.
“It is, isn’t it?” Jack said, skidding to a halt in front of the counter. His grin was already pulling at his cheeks.
Toto smiled. “Why don’t you open it and find out?”
Jack didn’t need to be told twice.
He tore into the tape with surgical focus, tongue caught between his teeth in concentration, until the flaps gave way and the contents spilled out: a new astronomy book, three kinds of space-themed stickers, a thermal mug with a rocket on it, and—
“Whoa,” Jack whispered. He held up the T-shirt reverently. It was navy blue with the moon phases arranged across the front in silver print.
Toto leaned against the doorframe, arms folded, watching.
Jack hugged the shirt to his chest like it was a rare artifact. “How did she even know I was learning about this?”
Because she listens, Toto thought. Because she remembers.
He didn’t say it aloud.
Didn’t say that Ana had asked, weeks ago, what Jack’s class was studying. Had paused just a second longer when Susie mentioned the school trip to the observatory. Had made some quiet note of it in her labyrinthine mind, and then—somewhere between engine simulations and power unit recalibration—had found time to go looking.
That was the thing about Ana. She didn’t say I love you . She didn’t always come home. She barely even FaceTimed unless it was about a technical drawing or a calendar adjustment.
But she sent Jack things. Not flashy, not random—just right .
It was her version of affection.
Precise. Practical. Always wrapped in cardboard and quietly placed on the kitchen counter.
Toto had once tried to tell her she didn’t have to.
Ana had just blinked at him and said, “It makes sense. He’s curious. Curiosity should be fed.”
And that was that.
Ana didn’t say I love you easily.
She didn’t ask for hugs. She didn’t linger on phone calls. She didn’t always answer her texts.
But she bought her little brother a handmade model of the Apollo 11 rocket because he told her, once, that space was cool.
And Toto—who had spent twenty years trying to figure out how to reach the heart of a girl who had arrived on his doorstep with a suitcase and a silence you could drown in—knew better than to call it anything but what it was.
She loved him.
She just didn’t know how to say it in words.
So she said it in toys, and books, and shirts with sarcastic slogans.
Jack pulled the stickers from the box next, already talking a mile a minute about which ones he wanted to put on his water bottle and whether Ana might visit for his next school play. He didn’t know, not really, how rare Ana’s affection was. How much it meant, even if it wasn’t always visible the way other people’s was.
Toto watched his son chatter and his daughter’s silence echo from inside the cardboard.
“She’s the best,” Jack said, unprompted, already climbing the stairs to show Susie the shirt.
Toto stayed in the kitchen.
Smiled to himself.
And whispered, “Yes, she is.”
***
Text Messages: George Russell & Dr. Anastasia “Ana” Wolff
George:
Hey, random question –
You haven’t heard anything about the Max to Mercedes rumours, right?
From your dad or Susie maybe?
George:
Just wondering what’s true and what’s just the media stirring stuff again.
Figure you’d know if it were serious?
Ana:
No.
George:
No you don’t know or no it’s not happening?
Ana:
No, I’m not answering that.
Also: don’t text me like this again.
George:
Sorry?
I just thought—
If there was anything going on behind the scenes you’d have a better sense than most. You’re his daughter, after all.
Ana:
Exactly. I’m his daughter.
Not your insider source.
Not your backchannel to the board.
Not your leverage.
Ana:
You want to know something about your future?
Talk to Toto directly. Like a grown man.
George:
Ana, I didn’t mean it like that.
Ana:
You
did
.
***
Mercedes F1 HQ, Brackley, England - 23 June 2025
Bono had been to hundreds of debriefs.
Most of them were dull. Tire degradation, lift-and-coast analysis, brake migration settings, driver feedback that sometimes boiled down to "it felt bad, make it good."
This one was supposed to be routine.
Until George opened his mouth.
They were barely five minutes out of the post-race review of Montreal when George leaned back in his chair, half-grinning in that too-casual, too-polished way of his, and said:
“You know, Ana, you might get farther if you softened your tone a bit. You come across a little… intimidating in meetings.”
The silence hit like a dropped wrench.
Across the room, Ana Wolff didn’t flinch. Not outwardly. Not visibly. Not in any way most people would notice.
But Bono did.
He noticed the slight tick in her jaw. The way her fingers tightened imperceptibly around the stylus she’d been using to annotate telemetry. The split-second pause before she answered.
“Is clarity intimidating?” she asked, voice cool.
George blinked, realizing—too late—that she wasn’t going to laugh it off.
“I just meant,” he continued, doubling down like every man who’d ever been mildly threatened by competence, “sometimes people respond better to warmth. A little softness goes a long way, you know?”
Bono almost choked on his water.
He looked around the room. No one else said anything. Not yet. Not the junior strategists who looked like they wanted to slide under the table. Not the race support staff who had gone suddenly very still.
Ana said nothing. Just clicked her tablet closed. “Noted,” she said. “If clarity’s a problem, I’ll bring crayons next time.”
And then she stood, nodded to the room, and left without another word.
The door shut softly behind her. George looked vaguely pleased with himself.
And that’s when Bono decided: this kid needed to be taught a lesson in professional awareness.
Not because Ana couldn’t defend herself.
Because she shouldn’t have to.
Ana was sharp. Unapologetically brilliant.
He knew how much work Ana put in just to exist in rooms like this.
How hard she fought to calibrate her voice, her posture, her volume — to sit just right , to not stim, to remember to smile at the correct interval. To seem neurotypical enough for people to listen to what she was actually saying.
She’d told Bono once, after a late-night data session: “I have to calibrate everything I say, every room I walk into, every facial expression. Or people assume I’m cold, rude, difficult. It’s exhausting.”
And now some mediocre man with nice cheekbones was telling her to soften her tone?
Christ.
Bono took a sip of water. Calm. Measured.
And then he turned to George and said, in the driest voice he could manage:
“You know, mate, you might get farther if you stopped projecting your insecurities onto women who could rebuild your gearbox with a spoon and a spreadsheet.”
George blinked. “Sorry?”
“You’re not,” Bono said. “But you will be.”
***
Slack Channel: #brackley-nerds
Private Channel. ~30 members.
kayleigh.powerunit:
so is anyone else 3 seconds away from launching george russell into low earth orbit or is it just me
jess.hr:
only 3?
lorelai.pa:
please tell me he didn’t try to flirt with ana again today
kayleigh.powerunit:
he didn’t just flirt
he told her she was
“a little intimidating in meetings”
and that she’d “go farther if she softened her tone”
sima.calibration:
oh HELL no.
ellie.electronics:
i’m sorry, is this 1952?
zahra.aero:
someone PLEASE tell me somebody said something
kayleigh.powerunit:
oh. Bono
did.
deadpan. surgical. like he'd been waiting for the perfect moment
quote:
“you might get farther if you stopped projecting your insecurities onto women who could rebuild your gearbox with a spoon and a spreadsheet.”
megan.sim:
I JUST SPIT OUT MY COFFEE
KING.
jules.elec:
bono really said “you’re not sorry now, but you
will
be” and
walked off
like it was a Bond film
ellie.electronics:
he didn’t even raise his voice
he just ended george’s whole character arc with a glass of water and a death glare
lucy.comms:
no bc Bono has
had it
like this wasn’t even about Ana anymore
this was about every single woman in every single meeting who’s ever had to smile through someone calling them “difficult”
lucy.comms:
george is gonna wake up in the middle of the night hearing bono’s voice in his head like it’s the raven from edgar allan poe
zahra.aero:
i aspire to that level of chill vengeance
jess.hr:
💡 reminder: “you’d be more likable if you changed who you are” is not a compliment
and also a TERRIBLE move when the woman in question can calculate heat rejection values faster than you can blink
lorelai.pa:
ana literally
reprogrammed
half the dyno protocols last year
she doesn't need to soften her tone
she needs the men in this building to toughen the hell up
sima.calibration:
i’d bet money he thinks he’s being
helpful
like he's on some rom-com mission to "fix the ice queen" and it's just so painful to watch
kayleigh.powerunit:
I’m telling you, the only reason Ana hasn’t buried him beneath the dyno is because she has bigger problems. Like the 2026 engine. And basic human decency.
zahra.aero:
She doesn’t even know he’s flirting half the time
She just thinks he’s annoying. And she’s correct.
lucy.comms:
He acts like she’s some robot who needs to be taught feelings.
megan.sim:
Yeah but George sees “stoic woman with big brain” and decides it’s his job to fix her 🙄
jules.elec:
Honestly? He doesn’t want Ana. He wants a watered-down version of her that makes
him
feel more important.
kayleigh.powerunit:
Exactly. He wants the halo effect of dating
Ana Wolff
without the inconvenience of Ana actually being Ana.
ellie.electronics:
Meanwhile, she’s literally
the best with Jack.
Ever seen them together? That’s her whole heart.
she’s not cold. she’s just allergic to bullshit.
megan.sim:
And she remembers every single intern’s name and who’s allergic to peanuts. She just doesn’t do fake small talk.
kayleigh.powerunit:
thank you. it’s not that she has no emotions. she just doesn’t have patience for mediocre ones.
jess.hr:
also. people keep saying he’s got a crush on her
but if your version of liking someone is trying to
sand down
their edges instead of respecting them???
boy, that’s not love. that’s control.
lorelai.pa:
preach.
sima.calibration:
it’s the
way
he does it too. Like it’s this weird combo of condescension and savior complex.
“Let me rescue you from your scary intellect with a smile and a blazer” vibes.
ellie.electronics:
someone needs to tell him she’s not a project
she’s a person
and also
way
out of his league
jules.elec
george wouldn’t survive five minutes in her brain
or her calendar
kayleigh.powerunit:
also funny how he never talks like that to me or sima or fatima
just Ana
wonder why 🙃
jess.hr:
because she’s the one closest to power and he thinks if he “wins” her, he gets leverage with Toto
it’s not just gross. it’s
transparent
lorelai.pa:
ugh i’m so tired
we’re doing groundbreaking hybrid integration work and meanwhile george is writing a live-action Wattpad fic in his head
kayleigh.powerunit:
we should start an Ana Defense League
patches. t-shirts. legal fund.
ellie.electronics:
can mine say “DO NOT SOFTEN THE WOLFF”?
sima.calibration:
can mine say “verbal weapons-grade: do not touch”?
jess.hr:
mine’s going to say “try that on her again and we’re unionising”
***
Mercedes F1 HQ, Brackley, England - 23 June 2025
The thing about anger, Ana decided, was that it could be useful if you sharpened it.
Blunt rage? Waste of time.
Focused rage? That could build empires.
Or, in this case, a very specific power unit update.
George’s words had been sitting in her chest all afternoon like a badly-installed bearing. Soften your tone. You’d get farther if you were warmer. Christ. As if she hadn’t spent her entire adult life calibrating her voice down to the decibel just to avoid this exact conversation.
She didn’t cry. She didn’t throw anything.
She opened her laptop.
By the time midnight hit, she was knee-deep in torque response curves and throttle mapping experiments that would make the current W16 feel like a different machine entirely — but only for one driver.
Kimi Antonelli’s sim data sat open on one monitor. Every input, every micro-adjustment, every line he favored. He was still green, but there was a precision to him. Something young and bright and full of potential. She’d been keeping half an eye on him for months.
Now she was tailoring a whole package around him.
Not George. Not the now five-time race winner with polished media soundbites and a smile he clearly thought could fix people.
Kimi. The kid who still said thank you after every debrief and ran laps in the sim until his hands cramped.
Her fingers flew over the keyboard, building out the control logic.
Sharper throttle response between 60–80%.
Revised hybrid deployment to match his braking style.
A new torque vectoring map that made the car rotate the way he liked it: just on the edge of playful.
By 03:00, she had a working prototype.
By 04:00, she’d run it through three iterations.
When she finally pushed back from the desk, her hands were trembling from too much caffeine and too little sleep. But her chest felt lighter. Not fixed, not calm, but aligned .
George wanted her to soften?
Fine.
She’d harden everything else.
She’d build a car that ignored him entirely. A car that bent itself to a kid with raw talent and none of the ego. A car that whispered: you can’t sand down edges that cut steel.
Ana saved the file.
Closed the program.
Leant back in her chair and muttered, under her breath, “Soft enough for you now, Russell?”
***
Text Messages: Toto Wolff & Dr. Anastasia “Ana” Wolff
Ana:
How much am I allowed to customise the car for Kimi?
Toto:
…What?
Aren’t you busy building an engine that will define the next decade of F1?
Ana:
I am.
I’m multitasking.
Toto:
Multitasking is answering emails while running simulations.
This sounds like a whole
project
.
Ana:
Answer the question.
It’s a systems integration experiment.
Toto:
Define “customise.”
Ana:
Torque maps. Hybrid deployment. Aero balance weighting.
Potentially rewriting a few baseline control logics.
Toto:
That’s not “customise.” That’s “build a car around him.”
Ana:
Semantics.
How much leeway do I have?
Toto:
Why are you suddenly obsessed with tailoring the car to Kimi?
George is the senior driver. He’s the one we normally prioritise for integration.
Ana:
Kimi actually listens to the car.
Toto:
As long as you don’t turn it into an undriveable diva that only one person on earth can handle, go for it.
We’re not Red Bull.
Ana:
Noted.
Toto:
Ana.
Why are you suddenly tailoring a car to Kimi?
Ana:
Research.
How long until the next sim calibration window?
Toto:
Anastasia.
Ana:
I’ll find out myself.
Thanks, Papa.
***
Mercedes F1 HQ, Brackley, England - 24 June 2025
Kimi walked in ten minutes late to their Tuesday Lunch, hair still damp from the gym, tray balanced precariously in one hand. Ana waved him over immediately.
“Sit,” she said, brisk as ever.
Kimi blinked. “Uh. Okay.”
He slid into the seat opposite her, casting a wary glance between Bono’s amused expression and Valtteri’s unbothered one. “Am I in trouble?”
Ana ignored that. “How’s your afternoon schedule?”
Kimi shifted. “Meetings. Simulator block at four.”
“Good. Move it up. I need you in the sim in thirty minutes.”
Valtteri raised an eyebrow over his coffee. “That sounded ominous.”
“It’s not ominous,” Ana said crisply. “It’s productive.”
Bono smirked. “Translation: she built something at 3 a.m. again.”
Ana didn’t rise to the bait. She just turned her tablet around so Kimi could see the throttle mapping and hybrid deployment curves. His eyes widened immediately.
“This is—” He stopped, glancing up at her. “This isn’t standard.”
“No,” Ana agreed. “It’s yours.”
Kimi swallowed. “Mine?”
Ana tapped the graph. “I tailored the torque response to your inputs. Hybrid’s been rebalanced for your braking style. If you can handle it, the car will rotate exactly how you like. If you can’t, we’ll know in the first three laps.”
Valtteri let out a low whistle. “Custom builds. For a Tuesday lunch. This is why I show up.”
Bono sipped his tea, looking far too entertained. “And why, dare I ask, is this for Kimi and not for, say… George?”
Ana’s eyes stayed on Kimi. “Because Kimi listens.”
Kimi blinked. “I—uh. Thank you?”
“Don’t thank me. Drive it. Push it until it screams. Then tell me everything you hate about it. If it works, we could have it on the car by Hungary.”
Kimi grinned despite himself. “Yes, ma’am.”
Ana handed him a flash drive. “Thirty minutes. Go.”
He stood so fast he nearly knocked his tray over, muttered something that might have been “holy shit,” and bolted.
Valtteri watched him leave, then looked back at Ana with a small smile. “You know, you’re terrifyingly good at picking your favourites.”
Ana rolled her eyes and stabbed at her salad. “It’s not favourites. It’s engineering.”
Bono chuckled into his mug. “Whatever you say, Wolff.”
Chapter 9: Chapter 7: Spielberg
Chapter Text
Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Gianpiero Lambiase
Max:
I am NOT okay.
GP:
…Hi Max
FP1 ended seven minutes ago.
Max:
It felt like SEVEN YEARS
Simon Rennie is my race engineer
I am in
hell
GP:
He’s literally one of the most experienced race engineers on the grid
Max:
He
asked
me if I wanted “a little update” on sector deltas.
A
little
update, GP. Like it was a bedtime story
GP:
You’ve been spoiled by my deadpan sarcasm and chronic exhaustion
He’s just being polite
Max:
I told him I had understeer in Turn 3 and he said, “interesting, let’s explore that”
EXPLORE IT, GP.
Like it’s a
feelings journal
GP:
Okay now I’m laughing
Did he ask if the car felt “supported in its journey”?
Max:
He asked if I “felt listened to” by the front suspension in the briefing
GP:
That’s therapy, Max
You’re in therapy now
Max:
I WANT MY GRUMPY ENGINEER BACK
Simon offered me
breathing room
in the push lap debrief
GP:
I offer you silence so I don’t say something legally actionable
Max:
Exactly
That’s love
GP:
You’ll survive
Simon is excellent
And I’m currently being emotionally held hostage by extended family in Sicily
Max:
I’ll trade you
You take the steering wheel.
I’ll go sit through your aunt’s PowerPoint about second cousins I’ve never met
GP:
You say that like she didn’t
actually
do a PowerPoint
Max:
I hate everything
GP:
I’ll be back in Silverstone
Don’t burn the garage down in the meantime
Max:
Only if Simon tells me to "explore my throttle response" again
Then no promises
***
Red Bull Ring, Spielberg, Styria, Austria - 28 June 2025
Kimi hadn’t meant to overhear.
He was just trying to find the second espresso machine in the Mercedes hospitality unit—the one that didn’t taste like burnt regret—when he turned a corner and walked straight into the uncomfortable silence that followed one of George Russell’s compliments .
Ana Wolff stood by the wall, arms folded, expression neutral. Neutral for her meant: seconds away from tearing someone's logic apart with nothing but sharp vowels and sharper facts. Her blonde braid was still damp from the rain earlier. She looked tired. Or maybe just… done.
George, meanwhile, was smiling the way he did in sponsor meetings. Bright. Polished. Off.
“I just think you’d get through to people more if you weren’t so—" he paused, searching for a word that wouldn't make him sound like a prick, but ultimately failing, “robotic.”
Kimi froze.
Ana raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”
“You’re brilliant, obviously,” George added quickly, “but you know, a little warmth wouldn’t hurt. People say you’re cold. Unfeeling. I’m just saying—it wouldn’t kill you to show something human every now and then.”
Kimi felt his jaw tense.
Ana wasn’t cold. Even if she hadn’t spent hours explaining maths to him, he’d seen her in enough briefings, caught the tail ends of conversations with her younger brother Jack, watched her in the garage, silently placing a steadying hand on a junior engineer’s back when they were panicking under pressure.
She wasn’t cold.
She just didn’t perform softness for people who hadn’t earned it.
“You think I don’t have feelings?” Ana asked, voice low.
George chuckled, like they were having a joke between friends. “I think you could show them a bit more. It’s not a bad thing, Ana. People would probably like you more.”
And that’s when Kimi had to physically turn away.
Because what the hell.
Had George missed every single interaction Ana had with Jack? The way she softened around him without even realizing it? The way her voice changed when she talked to Susie or Toto?
No feelings?
What a load of shit.
George, Kimi realized, wasn’t just clueless.
He was trying to reshape her. As if Ana Wolff wasn’t good enough on her own. As if brilliance wasn’t enough without some palatable packaging.
Kimi backed off before they could see him, disgust twisting in his stomach.
It was weird.
Wrong.
And the worst part?
Ana didn’t even seem to realize George was flirting. She just looked vaguely annoyed, like someone had tried to explain aerodynamics using crayons.
By the time Kimi found the better espresso machine, he’d made two decisions.
- George Russell was an idiot.
- Ana Wolff deserved someone who didn’t want to change a single thing about her.
And maybe—just maybe—someone who actually saw her.
***
Text Messages: Kimi Antonelli & Oliver Bearman
Kimi:
mate
i think george is flirting with ana
Ollie:
WAIT WHAT
like
Ana Wolff
Your boss's daughter
Toto "I bench drivers for less" Wolff??
Kimi:
yes that ana
he just told her she’d be more
likeable
if she stopped being “robotic”
it was the most uncomfortable 45 seconds of my life
and i once locked myself in the tyre blanket cabinet on accident
Ollie:
HE WHAT??
bro what even is that pickup line??
“hey girl, ever considered emotional labour for MY benefit?”
Kimi:
it was so creepy
like she wasn’t even reacting??
just blinking at him like he was a broken wind tunnel graph
Ollie:
maybe she didn’t realise
has george lost his entire mind
does he WANT to be demoted mid-season
does he want susie to hex him
Kimi:
genuinely wondering if i should warn him
like. tap his shoulder and say “hey mate she builds engines that could vaporise you from 6 metres”
Ollie:
or just leave a copy of
respecting women 101
in his driver room
with a note that says “not all cold starts are personality traits”
Kimi:
😭😭😭
i’m still creeped out
he sounded like he was trying to reprogram her
Ollie:
man
ana wolff deserves someone who sees her brilliance and
shuts up
not someone trying to install firmware updates on her personality
Kimi:
yeah
exactly that
also
remind me to never ever flirt with anyone in a paddock hallway
i’ve been scarred
***
Red Bull Ring, Spielberg, Styria, Austria - 28 June 2025
Kimi found Valtteri by the engineers’ whiteboard, squinting at tire degradation graphs like they’d personally offended him.
“Hey,” Kimi said, stepping in.
Valtteri didn’t look up. “You find the good espresso machine?”
Kimi blinked. “Yeah, but I also found George talking to Ana.”
That got Valtteri’s attention.
He glanced up. “What kind of talking?”
Kimi sat down with a groan. “The kind where he told her she’d be more likable if she wasn’t so… robotic.”
Valtteri sighed like a man who wasn’t surprised. Just tired. “Again?”
Kimi blinked. “ Again ?”
Valtteri nodded slowly. “Yeah. It’s not the first time. Different wording. Same message.”
“Why?” Kimi asked, honestly baffled. “She’s—she’s brilliant. She’s terrifying. She’s the only one who explains aero modelling without making me feel like a moron.”
“Has been a thing for years apparently,” Valtteri said, cool as ice. “I texted Lewis about it a few weeks ago. Apparently he used to pull the same crap when they worked together. You know. Helpful suggestions. Personality notes. Stuff he’d never say to a male engineer.”
Kimi looked like he’d been force-fed gravel. “That’s gross .”
“Very,” Valtteri agreed, taking another bite of his protein bar. “Lewis said he warned him off. Twice.”
“Then why—”
“Because George thinks he’s being helpful,” Valtteri interrupted. “He doesn’t see that he’s trying to reshape her into something he finds more acceptable.”
Then Kimi muttered, “She didn’t even realize he was flirting.”
Valtteri snorted. “Of course she didn’t. She’s got an IQ higher than the wind tunnel budget and a social radar that ignores mediocrity.”
Kimi shifted his weight, visibly uncomfortable. “Should we… tell Toto?”
Valtteri looked at him. Really looked. Then exhaled. “And say what? ‘Dear Team Principal, one of your drivers is trying to negg your daughter into dating him’?”
Kimi grimaced. “Okay, yeah, that sounds bad.”
“I mean,” Valtteri added, “Toto probably already suspects something. But if we bring it up directly, he’s either going to overreact or say it’s none of our business.”
“But it feels like our business,” Kimi said.
Valtteri was quiet for a moment. Then nodded. “Alright. I’ll talk to Susie.”
Kimi blinked. “You’ll go over Toto’s head?”
“I’ll go around him,” Valtteri corrected. “She sees more than he does, anyway.”
Kimi nodded. “Thanks.”
But in the back of his mind, he made a silent vow.
Next time George tried that nonsense?
He wouldn’t just overhear it.
He’d interrupt.
***
Text Messages: Valterri Bottas & Susie Wolff
Valtteri:
hey
quick question
Susie:
this is already ominous
Valtteri:
hypothetically
if someone in the team kept giving your daughter unsolicited advice on how to be more likeable
like. warmer. more “human”.
and also hypothetically had a history of this sort of behavior
what would you do
Susie:
…
is this a real hypothetical or a Finnish one
Valtteri:
the second kind
Susie:
ah. okay.
is she okay?
Valtteri:
she’s fine
doesn’t seem to notice it’s… not just bad advice
Susie:
and no names?
Valtteri:
i’d rather not
yet
Susie:
well. hypothetically
if it were my daughter
I’d probably observe first
then step in quietly
before her father finds out and sets something on fire
Valtteri:
thought so
Susie:
thanks for telling me
even the Finnish way
Valtteri:
you’re welcome
also
i owe kimi a cookie
he witnessed the incident
Susie:
that poor boy
double the cookie
minimum
***
Red Bull Ring, Spielberg, Styria, Austria - 29 June 2025
Ana wasn’t even supposed to be in Spielberg.
Her calendar said Brackley . Her agenda said dyno calibration and cooling systems briefings . Her soul said leave me alone, I’m busy , but the universe didn’t give a damn about logistics.
The systems engineer caught the flu, and the universe apparently decided that Brackley’s emotionally repressed control freak needed a vacation in Spielberg.
So now she was here. On-site. Last-minute pass hanging from her lanyard, headset already beginning to dig into her temple, and a very strong desire to pretend she felt nothing at all.
Which would’ve been fine—routine, even—if Kimi Antonelli hadn’t managed to crash into another car.
Ana was watching the monitors when it happened. The monitors lit up with the chaos. The cameras cut fast—first to the lock-up, then to the contact, then to the gravel trap where two cars were motionless, carbon scattered like confetti.
Her brain registered the colours first.
Black. And Blue.
Then the commentary landed.
“And that’s Kimi Antonelli right into Max Verstappen! Huge contact—looks like the Mercedes locked up going for a late move into Remus, and both drivers are out!”
Out. On lap one.
The breath left her lungs before she could stop it.
She stood frozen, the low whine of team chatter barely registering. Someone behind her cursed softly. Another engineer asked about brake balance settings.
But all Ana could hear was the pounding of her own pulse in her ears.
The footage looped again. Max’s onboard. Tyres locking. No grip. No chance. The sound of carbon splintering. The jerking impact.
Then Max’s voice—crackling through the global feed, calm but clipped.
“I’m out. I’m fine.”
Fine.
She wasn’t supposed to see this.
Her pulse was racing too fast. She told herself it was the adrenaline of the garage. The pressure of covering another engineer’s role. The stress of a DNF affecting race strategy. Something technical. Something safe.
But it wasn’t.
It was him .
Because when she’d seen that Red Bull fly off into the gravel, it felt like something inside her had snapped forward too.
For a second—one second—she’d forgotten the protocols and the distance and the rules she’d built to keep her feelings boxed up and quiet.
All she could think was:
Please let him be okay.
Not because he was the most talented driver of a generation.
Not because she was currently building the engine he might drive next year.
Not even because he was Max.
But because he was hers —in the complicated, hidden, denial-laced way she refused to name.
She exhaled. Swallowed. Reset the telemetry. Told herself to focus.
But her hands wouldn’t stop shaking.
***
Red Bull Ring, Spielberg, Styria, Austria - 29 June 2025
Toto wasn’t paying attention to Ana at first.
The crash had been frustrating—avoidable, rookie mistake on Kimi’s end, and just unlucky for Max. Racing incident, the stewards would call it. But still. Lap 1 carnage wasn’t what Mercedes needed right now, especially with both of their cars still stuck behind McLarens and Ferraris.
He scanned the garage instinctively, looking for tells. The usual rhythm of a race weekend. And that’s when he saw her.
Anastasia.
Still in her headset, still pretending to focus on the tablet in front of her. But something was… off.
Not the usual clinical calm she wore like armor. Not the sharp-eyed, steel-spined engineer who could spot a systems fault half a second before anyone else.
She looked rattled.
Not outwardly. Not in any way most people would notice. But Toto had known her too long—had seen too many versions of her, from the Russian girl dumped on his Vienna doorstep to the almost disturbingly brilliant twenty-something with two Cambridge degrees and a spine of tungsten.
He knew what her version of shaken looked like.
Her jaw was too tight. Her eyes hadn’t left the monitors since the crash. Her hands were too still.
Toto’s brow furrowed. He stepped closer, keeping his voice low. “You all right?”
Ana blinked. Too slowly. “Fine.”
It was a lie, obviously. But Anastasia was built on precise lies like that. Contained. Polished. The kind of lies that let her survive without needing anyone.
Still, something twisted in his chest.
She’d insisted she could cover the systems position this weekend. Rolled her eyes when he’d asked if it was too much on top of the 2026 engine work. But now, watching her shoulders curve in just slightly like the weight of the world had shifted onto them…
Maybe he’d pushed too hard. Maybe she was tired.
Or maybe—he hesitated—it wasn’t about the job at all.
He thought of the way she’d asked him—no, demanded of him—how far she could go customizing the car to suit the boy’s driving style. Multitasking, she’d said, like building a whole damn power unit and simultaneously tailoring the W16 around an 18-year-old rookie was just another Tuesday for her.
And now she was frozen, staring at the crash feed like it was a personal failure.
Toto exhaled slowly. Oh.
She’d adopted him.
Not in words. Anastasia didn’t do declarations. But in that quiet, brutal way of hers—choosing someone, building around them, sharpening her brilliance into protection.
Maybe she saw something of Jack in Kimi. The age. The stubborn streak. The raw wildness that came with being too young and too talented. Jack adored her—looked at her like she was some superhero who moonlighted as a scientist.
And maybe Ana, against all her carefully constructed walls, felt that same bone-deep, helpless kind of protectiveness in reverse.
Toto looked at her, hunched over the data like she could will the boy back onto the track, and something in his chest ached.
Anastasia didn’t hand out her care easily. But when she did, it came like this. Quiet. Relentless. Unconditional.
He reached out. Not to touch, just to be there. “Anastasia,” he said softly.
Her shoulders stiffened, then eased a fraction.
“I’ll talk to him,” Toto added. “After.”
She just nodded, still staring at the telemetry, like she could build a safer world for Kimi out of numbers and torque maps if she worked hard enough.
And maybe she could.
***
Red Bull Ring, Spielberg, Styria, Austria - 29 June 2025
He shouldn’t be here.
He knew that.
Kimi walked toward the Red Bull hospitality like he was approaching a firing squad, cap pulled low, jaw clenched so tight it aches. People glanced at him as he passes—some with curiosity, some with sympathy, some with barely contained glee at the drama of it all.
He crashed Max Verstappen out on lap one.
Max fucking Verstappen.
He didn’t need anyone to spell it out. That incident likely cost Max even the chance at the championship. With McLaren surging and Oscar and Lando trading podiums like playing cards, Max needed every point he could get. And now… now it was almost mathematically impossible.
Because of him .
A rookie mistake. Too aggressive. Cold tires. Misjudged braking. A millisecond too late. And now the entire paddock’s talking about how Kimi Antonelli ruined Max’s season.
The Red Bull garage was winding down, most people pretending not to watch as he walked in. He asked for Max quietly, politely, like someone asking for permission to enter holy ground. One of the mechanics nodded toward the motorhome upstairs.
Kimi climbed the steps like he’s carrying stones.
Max was sitting on a low couch, still in his fireproofs, water bottle in hand, expression unreadable. No cameras. No team entourage. Just Max.
Kimi cleared his throat. “Max.”
Max looked up.
Kimi’s heart slams against his ribs.
“I—I came to say I’m sorry,” he said, words coming out in a rush. “I misjudged the braking zone. I locked up. It was my fault. I didn’t mean to take you out. I know what it means. I know you were still in the fight for the title and—”
“Kimi.”
He froze.
Max stood. Not angrily. Not even stiffly. Just… steady.
“You’re young,” Max said, voice calm. Not cold. Not even annoyed. Just quietly firm. “You’ll make mistakes. You did today. You own it. That’s good.”
Kimi blinked.
“I was angry,” Max admitted. “Of course I was. I wanted to race. I wanted to win. But I’ve made stupid moves too. Everyone has.”
A beat.
“Just don’t make it a pattern.”
Kimi nodded so fast his cap nearly falls off. “I won’t. I swear.”
Max stepped forward, clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Good. Then learn from it. Come back better.”
Kimi stared at him, confused. “You’re not… furious?”
Max gave him a tired smile. “Kimi, if I got furious every time someone screwed up and hit me, I’d have died of stress five seasons ago.”
Kimi swallowed. “You’ve probably lost the title now.”
Max shrugged. “Then I’ll win another one later. Or not. That’s racing.”
He moved past Kimi, heading for the exit.
Just before disappearing down the stairs, Max tossed over his shoulder, “But if you’re going to crash into someone next time, try making it Oscar. He can afford it.”
And he was gone.
Kimi exhaled like he’s been holding it in for a month.
He still felt like shit.
***
Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Anastasia “Ana” Wolff
Ana:
Room number.
Max:
hello to you too, Poekie 😌
no foreplay? no “are you still alive?” or “were you hurt?”
Ana:
Max.
Don’t be cute. Just give me the number.
Max:
okay but if this is a murder attempt i’d like to die knowing why
Ana:
You crashed today.
You could’ve been—
You scared me.
Max:
703.
Top floor.
Door’s open.
Max:
and Nastya?
i’m okay.
but i want you here.
***
Max Verstappen’s Hotel Room, Spielberg, Styria, Austria - 29 June 2025
The door creaked softly when it opened. Max didn’t move.
He was still lying on top of the covers, shirtless, bruised, and quiet, the Austrian evening spilling shadows through the window.
The crash footage had played on a loop in his head most of the day—not because he blamed Kimi (he didn’t), and not because of the DNF (he’d already written off the championship weeks ago). But just… because of the way it ended.
Lap 1. A lock-up. A rookie mistake.
Still, Max wasn’t angry.
Kimi had come to apologise, face flushed and awkward, clearly gutted about it all. Max hadn’t been angry with him. Not really. He’d done the same thing at that age—braking too late, too hopeful, too much ambition and not enough patience. It was just unfortunate that he’d chosen Remus, lap one, with Max on the outside.
Max had just clapped a hand to the kid’s shoulder and told him he was fine.
Because he was.
Physically.
The rest… well.
He was used to losing things that mattered. He could add a fifth championship to that list and still sleep at night.
Red Bull’s weekend had already been a disaster. The crash just sealed it.
The title was McLaren’s now. Barring a miracle, it belonged to Lando or Oscar—whichever one didn’t get swallowed by the team’s increasingly chaotic strategy calls first.
But then she stepped into the room.
Ana.
No knock this time. Just her—shoulders tight, mouth drawn, standing there like she’d run the whole way up.
She didn’t speak right away.
And Max… Max let himself look.
The first thing he noticed was her hair, slightly messy, like she’d barely made time to tie it back. So out of character for her like nearly nothing else.
Ana’s hair was always…perfect. Tightly pinned to her head in some kind of ballerina bun, which held the lengths of icy blonde waves away from her face. Elegant. No Fuss. Like everything else about her.
The second thing were her eyes. Ana’s eyes…Huge, dark, round, set in a pale face. And now they were flickering over Max like she was taking inventory, like she didn’t trust that he was still whole.
Something pulled tight in his chest.
Because for all her sharpness and sarcasm and cold precision, she had come to his hotel room. Not because she had to. Not because he’d asked. Just because she was worried.
And Ana Wolff didn’t worry. Not openly.
He sat up slowly, wincing just a little. “Poekie,” he said softly.
“Don’t call me that,” she said. But her voice was too thin. Too frayed around the edges.
He tilted his head. “You okay?”
“You’re asking me?”
“I’m not the one who stormed in here like the building’s on fire.”
Ana’s mouth pressed into a flat line. She crossed the room like she needed movement to disguise emotion, until she was close enough to touch—but didn’t. “You crashed.”
“Yep.”
“You could’ve—”
“But I didn’t.”
He watched her breathe through it. Like she couldn’t quite let herself say what she was thinking. Like admitting fear would fracture something in her.
She stared at his chest instead, probably tracking the small bruise already blooming across his ribs. And Max didn’t say anything. He just let her look.
Because for once, she wasn’t pretending not to care.
That part—selfishly, stupidly—pleased him.
So many times, Max had wondered if he was the only one in this thing. If Ana came to him out of convenience, proximity, or worse, nostalgia.
He was the first boy she ever slept with. Sometimes he feared he was just a habit she hadn’t broken.
But now?
Now she was looking at him like he’d been gone.
Like some terrified part of her had thought she might not get to see him again.
He reached for her hand—quietly, gently—and this time, she let him.
She didn’t speak when he laced their fingers together. Just stared down at their joined hands like she couldn’t quite figure out how it had happened.
Max didn’t push.
He’d learned years ago that Ana Wolff ran from feelings like they were forest fires—contained when distant, destructive up close. The more emotion something carried, the more likely she was to intellectualize it into submission.
Quantify it. Reframe it. Bury it in logic until it didn’t burn anymore.
He still remembered Silverstone 2021. He had woken up with a splitting headache the morning after his crash with Lewis and to a email she had send him containing a 12 page pdf document about whose fault that incident was. He considered this a step up from that.
So he said nothing.
Just tugged her hand gently, thumb brushing over her knuckles. “Come here.”
“Max—”
“You don’t have to stay,” he said. “Just sit. For a minute.”
She exhaled, short and sharp—like every breath was an argument she hadn’t figured out how to win yet.
But then Ana climbed onto the bed beside him.
She didn’t curl into him, not at first. Just sat there, stiff-spined, like she didn’t know what to do with her own body. Max stayed where he was. Quiet. Warm. Solid. The one place she never had to be anything but herself.
Eventually, gravity won.
Or maybe it was exhaustion. Or maybe—finally—it was fear loosening its grip on her long enough to let comfort in.
She laid down beside him. Hesitated once. Then leaned in.
Not all the way. Not dramatically.
Just enough to press her forehead to the curve of his shoulder, as if she couldn’t bear looking at him but needed to know he was real.
Max let out a slow breath and tucked the blanket around her. Didn’t kiss her. Didn’t tease. Just wrapped an arm around her back and held her like he had all the time in the world.
Because maybe he didn’t. Not really. Not with the season crumbling and his future a stack of unanswered questions and whispers in the Mercedes boardroom.
But he had this.
Right now.
Her, pressed close enough that he could feel every shiver of breath against his skin. Her, pretending this was nothing—but choosing him anyway.
Minutes passed. Maybe an hour.
He felt her muscles loosen. Her breathing slow.
“I’m not staying the night,” she mumbled, voice already half-asleep.
Max smiled into the crown of her head. “Of course not.”
“You don’t have to get ideas.”
“Never.”
“This is just... comfort.”
“Obviously.”
She let out a breath. Then, so quietly he almost didn’t hear it:
“You scared me.”
Max closed his eyes. Let the words settle between them like a fragile truth too important to acknowledge aloud.
He didn’t say thank you.
Didn’t say me too.
Didn’t say I love you —even though it sat on his tongue like something aching to be set free.
He just held her closer.
And in the quiet dark of that Austrian hotel room, he let her pretend.
Because she was here.
Because she came.
Because for all her walls and logic and tightly repressed emotions—
She still came.
And Max Verstappen could live on that a little while longer.
***
Max Verstappen’s Hotel Room, Spielberg, Styria, Austria - 30 June 2025
Max was warm.
That was the first thing she noticed.
Not the muted hotel light bleeding through the blackout curtains.
Not the unfamiliar sheets or the soft whir of central air.
Just the impossible, infuriating warmth of the man beside her.
Ana blinked into the pillow.
She hadn’t meant to stay.
But her body had betrayed her—muscle memory and fear and something she refused to name pulling her under until there was no use fighting it.
And now—
Now she was here.
In Max’s bed.
Wearing one of his t-shirts and nothing else.
With his arm draped casually across her waist like it belonged there. Like she belonged there.
She should get up.
She should leave.
Brush her teeth. Re-engage the firewall. Reassert emotional dominance.
Instead, she turned her head and looked at him.
Max, still asleep, mouth slightly parted, lashes dark against his cheekbones. One hand splayed on the sheets like he’d been reaching for her even in sleep.
He looked—God, he looked young like this. Not the four-time World Champion. Not the Red Bull golden boy or the potential Mercedes coup.
Just Max.
The boy who gave her the best sex of her life at nineteen and then ruined her for every man after.
The man who still ruined her without even trying.
And for a second—for one breath, one heartbeat—Ana felt it again.
That crushing, terrifying sensation from yesterday.
The moment she’d seen his car buried in gravel.
The second she realized it was him.
He could’ve—
She closed her eyes.
No.
He was fine. He was fine.
And she—well.
She could make sure of it.
Ana moved before she could overthink it.
Slid a hand beneath the covers.
Skin to skin.
Max stirred when her thigh brushed his. Murmured something in Dutch that sounded suspiciously like her name.
She kept going.
Her fingers curled low over his stomach, slow, precise, undoing him like an equation.
His breath hitched.
“Nastya…” he rasped, voice gravel-rough. “What are you—”
She kissed the corner of his mouth. “You’re alive,” she whispered.
He blinked up at her, still half-asleep. “Pretty sure. Why?”
She kissed him again. “Just confirming.”
And then she kissed him for real. Mouth open, demanding, like she could taste the panic off his tongue and swallow it whole. Like she could replace it with something else.
He groaned into it, hands coming alive—gripping her hips, dragging her across his lap with practiced ease.
She shifted to straddle him, the blanket falling away, her hair spilling down around them like a shield.
He looked up at her like she was the only thing that made sense.
And Ana—
Ana let herself feel it.
Let herself ride the high of adrenaline and relief and lust, because if she couldn’t say the words—if she couldn’t be what he deserved—
Then she could give him this.
Her hands. Her mouth. Her body.
Her desperate, wordless confession of you scared me and don’t ever do that again.
And Max?
Max let her.
Let her take what she needed.
Let her pretend, again, that this was just another perfectly logical choice between two adults who didn’t care too much.
Even if she did.
Even if he did more.
So she kissed down the warm, perfect skin. She breathed in that scent that was somehow perfectly Max.
Traced the line of bruises from the seatbelt with her fingertips.
Hooked her fingers into his sweatpants, pulling them down.
Max shifted beneath her, a hitch in his breath like the startle of a race car spinning on cold tires.
But he didn’t flinch. He just watched her, steady, eyes unreadable and almost absurdly blue in the diffuse morning light.
No fanfare. No preamble as she reached for his rapidly hardening cock and swallowed him down.
He tasted of salt and sleep.
He was hard in her mouth almost instantly, hips twitching against the mattress as he groaned.
“Nastya.” Not Poekie, which she hated, mostly because it meant Kitten in Dutch.
Not Ana, which was what everybody called her.
Not Anastasia, the name she had been born with.
But Nastya.
Nobody but Max had ever called her that.
He was trembling, just a little, and there was something deeply, almost shamefully satisfying about having this kind of effect on Max fucking Verstappen.
He whispered her name again, lower this time, threaded his fingers in her hair.
Long and Blonde and something she usually never wore open…unless it was Max’s unravelling it.
His touch wasn’t hard, wasn’t controlling…just a point of contact, a grounding wire…like the pulsing heat and weight in her mouth, as she flattened her tongue under the crown of his cock.
She could feel it, too, the way he was holding himself back. The twitch of his thigh beneath her palm, the taut line of his jaw as if he was biting back something primal, something that would have blown through both their defenses if given a single inch.
She liked hearing the cracks in his composure, the broken syllables, the Dutch cursing whittled down to vowels and breath.
She didn’t stop, not even when he fisted the sheets, not when he groaned her name in that voice that belonged to no one else, not when he broke and came, sharp and sudden, salt flooding her mouth, like a car sliding off the track at terminal velocity. She swallowed, slow and deliberate, pressing her nails into his thighs.
She lingered a beat longer than necessary, savoring the aftershocks. When she finally looked up, he was watching her with something that looked an awful lot like reverence.
Ana wiped her lips with the back of her hand. Climbed up and sprawled on top of him, her hair a gold curtain around their flushed, sated faces. His hands found her hips. Just held them. Like he could keep her there through force of will or gravity or whatever held planets in their orbits.
She let herself collapse into him, all the way. The clean ache in her thighs, the animal thud of her heart, the weird lazy high that came from knowing she still had this power over him. This exact thing he could never fix or tune out or ghost.
He stroked her back in one long, unhurried line. “Next time,” he said, in that battered race-day voice, “let me wake up first.”
She laughed. “You don’t need to be conscious to finish. You’re a natural.”
He nipped at her collarbone, just enough to make her hiss.
“You’re going to kill me one morning.”
***
Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Gianpiero Lambiase
GP:
You alive?
Or did you die of fury after Lap 1?
Max:
Bit bruised
Emotionally and otherwise
But yeah, still breathing
GP:
Kimi said it was a racing incident
Thoughts?
Max:
My
thoughts
are that he is a rookie and made a rookie mistake.
GP:
So no podium and mild whiplash
Great Sunday
Max:
Yeah
Except
Ana came to check on me after
GP:
What do you mean
after
? Like, post-race?
Max:
Like… showed up at my hotel
Looked genuinely worried
Didn’t even insult me once
GP:
You sure it was Ana?
Not a very convincing lookalike?
Max:
She stayed the night
GP:
Ah.
Stayed the night
Max:
It means maybe she
does
like me
Right?
GP:
Mate.
Yes. She likes you. That was never in question.
Next race I’m bringing a whiteboard and drawing this out in stick figures
Max:
Use colour coding
I respond better to visual aids
GP:
You’re lucky you’re fast
That’s all I’ll say.
***
Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Victoria Verstappen
Max:
She
really
does like me
Victoria:
Who? Sassy?
Because that’s not news
Max:
Ana
Victoria:
…Maxie.
Max:
No, I’m serious
She came to check on me after the race
Like
really
check on me
Then she stayed the night
Victoria:
Stayed how?
Stayed like “sat silently in a chair and judged your wallpaper”
Or stayed like “woke up drooling on your chest at 3am”?
Max:
The second one
Her hand was on my chest. She
didn’t
move it
That means something, right?
Victoria:
Max. She’s been sleeping with you for ten years
The bar is not
that
low
Max:
Yeah but this was different
She chose to come
She chose to stay
And when she left in the morning, she kissed my forehead
Forehead, Vic
That’s, like, emotionally intimate
Victoria:
That’s also what I do to my toddlers
And you
When you’re concussed
Max:
Shut up
It meant something
She loves me
I’m sure of it
One day she’s going to admit it
And I’m going to marry her
Victoria:
Wow
From “I think she likes me” to “I’m putting a ring on it” in under 5 minutes
Impressive even for you
Max:
I already bought the ring
Four years ago
Just waiting for her to stop pretending she’s not in love with me
Victoria:
You romantic lunatic
I love you
And also, you are
deeply
insane
Max:
Maybe
But I’m
right
Victoria:
I hope so, Maxie
For both your sakes
Max:
She’ll come around
You’ll see
Dr. Anastasia Wolff-Verstappen has a nice ring to it, no?
Victoria:
Oh my god
Please don’t tell her you’ve practiced her name
***
Chapter 10: Chapter 8: Vienna
Chapter Text
Vienna, Austria - 30 June 2025
It wasn’t framed as a gesture.
Toto didn’t say you’ve been uncomfortable for years or I’m sorry I didn’t see it sooner.
He just said, on the drive back from the Red Bull Ring, “We’re stopping in Vienna. I’ve got a fitting at Krüger’s — come with me.”
Ana blinked once. “Why?”
“You’ll see.”
She didn’t argue. Didn’t ask twice. Didn’t expect much.
Vienna had never felt like home.
Not when she was a kid, dragged through grand, echoing streets that felt too polished, too careful. Not when she was older, caught between the city’s quiet pride and her own restless brain that never seemed to fit its rhythm.
The apartment she grew up in felt like a museum. The schools felt like cages. And now, walking through the muted streets of the 8th district, she still felt it—the way the city pressed in on her like a polite hand on the shoulder, steady and suffocating all at once.
She wasn’t sure why she followed him into the tailor’s shop anyway.
The tailor’s shop was tucked into a quiet street in the 8th district, just far enough from the tourist routes that it still felt like Vienna used to: quiet, restrained, deliberate.
The kind of place where fabrics were spoken to like old friends and time moved slower than elsewhere.
“Mr. Wolff,” the tailor said warmly as they entered. “Welcome. And this must be your daughter.”
Toto didn’t look at her. “This is Anastasia. We need help.”
Ana raised an eyebrow. “ We? ”
Toto ignored that. “She needs tailoring. Real tailoring. Nothing off-the-rack. Nothing with seams that bite, Ludwig.”
The tailor—Ludwig, apparently—turned to her like he’d just been handed a puzzle. “Of course.”
She blinked. “Wait. Are we serious about this?”
“Entirely,” Toto said, already flipping through a binder of swatches. “You’ve spent ten years suffering through clothing that hates you. We’re done with that.”
“I didn’t—” She paused. “I wasn’t complaining.”
“You didn’t have to.”
That cracked something in her chest.
Ludwig returned with a tray of fabric swatches — cotton blends, soft wool, bamboo weaves. Nothing synthetic. No stiff lining. No scratchy interfacing. Ana touched one and inhaled sharply. It felt like nothing . Like breath. Like she wouldn’t even have to think about wearing it.
“I can build anything from these,” Ludwig said. “Jackets. Trousers. Suits that feel like pyjamas, if we’re honest about it.”
Ana blinked. “Can you make them look normal?”
Ludwig smiled. “They’ll look better.”
She sat down, quiet now. Overwhelmed, but still.
And for once, she didn’t mask the way her hands hovered just above each fabric — assessing. Testing. Trusting.
Toto watched her. Let her breathe.
He didn’t say anything when she picked three swatches and placed them in a careful row, like building blocks.
He didn’t say anything when she touched the corner of one over and over, a soft, stimming loop she probably didn’t realize she was doing.
He just said, “Tell him what you need. Don’t minimize it. Don’t make it easier for anyone.”
“I can’t do heavy wool,” she said. “Most inner linings are scratchy. Trousers with tight seams feel like tourniquets. Polyester makes me itch. Tags drive me insane. I like structure, but only when it feels like mine .”
Ludwig nodded like she’d just told him something as basic as her height. “Good.”
He turned to the sample wall. “We’ll start with cotton-wool blends. Lightweight, softer drape. Italian milled. No chemical finishing. You’ll tell me what your hands like before anything touches your shoulders.”
Ana blinked.
Then glanced at her father.
Toto was pretending to scroll through something on his phone, but she knew damn well he was watching.
He had brought her here like it was a Monday errand.
But it wasn’t.
It was him saying: I see you now. Let me help in a way that doesn’t make you flinch.
She exhaled slowly. Some of the tightness in her chest uncoiled.
“Thank you,” she said. Not to Ludwig.
To Toto.
He nodded. Didn’t make a thing of it.
“Everyone deserves to move through the world without wanting to crawl out of their skin,” he said simply.
For the first time in years, Vienna didn’t feel like it was pressing down on her. Not quite home. But not a cage, either.
***
***
Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Gianpiero Lambiase
Max:
You know how like
You send a woman flowers when you mess up or scare her or something?
GP:
I’m afraid to ask but
What did you do?
Max:
Nothing!!
Well. Kimi crashed into me and I ended up in the gravel
Ana got freaked out
She came to my hotel room. Didn’t yell. Just looked at me like I’d almost died
Which I didn’t, obviously
GP:
Ah yes
The classic “you almost died but didn’t” romantic tension
So now you want to send her flowers?
Max:
she’d dissect them to check for pesticides
and then complain the scent triggers a migraine
GP:
Are you asking me how to court a Wolff?
Because I’m a race engineer, not a miracle worker.
Max:
you’re married.
You should have WISDOM.
GP:
Eloisa cries at Paddington and keeps 19 tabs open for scented candles. She likes flowers and jewellery and chocolate and books that don’t have titles like
Thermodynamic Architecture of the Hybrid Future.
GP:
Max I have no idea what Ana Wolff wants.
Blueprint paper?? A sim rig? An emotionally stable father figure??
I DON’T KNOW
Max:
…so helpful. thank you.
***
Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Victoria Verstappen
Max:
question
what do you get a woman when you want to say “I didn’t die” in a romantic way
Victoria:
…
Max
what the fuck?
Max:
I crashed
well,
Kimi
crashed into me
I’m fine
but Ana looked like I’d been shot in front of her
and I don’t know how to say “sorry for scaring you by being mortal”
Victoria:
Try words??
Max:
I did
and also shirtlessness
but now I feel like I should
give
her something
Victoria:
Why do you make love sound like a damage control strategy
Max:
because she’s Ana Wolff
she doesn’t like flowers
or jewellery
or ANYTHING NORMAL
Victoria:
What does she like?
Max:
Engines.
Torque curves.
And me, I think. On Thursdays.
Victoria:
Great. So buy her an engine.
Max:
Very helpful.
Victoria:
Fine.
Get her something practical. High-end.
Like… a custom-engineered tool. Something she’ll actually use.
You are
not
going to woo her with a scented candle.
Max:
GP said the same thing.
Do I engrave something?? Is that romantic? Like her name on a torque wrench?
Victoria:
If you write
Poekie
on it I’m disowning you.
You know what?
Maybe she
does
like you.
Because this is insane.
And you’re somehow still alive.
Max:
She’s perfect.
In a way that makes me question my own survival instincts.
Victoria:
That’s called love, idiot.
***
Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Jos Verstappen
Max:
Quick question
what do you do when you want to get something for a woman you… like
but she’s not the flowers-and-jewellery type?
Jos:
…
what kind of question is that?
Max:
A serious one
I like her
She got really upset after something happened and I want to do something nice
but she’s difficult to shop for
Jos:
Then stop talking and just do something
Women don’t want you to ask this many questions
Max:
She’s
not
like other women
She’s…
very smart
and logical
and scary
Jos:
Sounds awful
Max:
She’s not awful
She’s just… intense
Like me. If I came with a PhD and a simulation lab
Jos:
Okay
And you’re asking
me
for help?
Max:
Yes?
Jos:
Max.
Do you
remember
your mother?
Max:
Yes?
Jos:
Do you remember how
that
went?
Max:
Okay, but—
Jos:
Do you
really
think I’m the best person to ask about women?
Max:
I’m desperate
Jos:
Clearly.
Max:
I just want to do something nice without freaking her out
But everything normal makes her uncomfortable
Even
compliments
make her suspicious
Jos:
So don’t be normal.
You’re not normal anyway.
Max:
Wow. Incredible wisdom. So helpful. Truly.
Jos:
You're welcome.
***
Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Daniel Ricciardo
Max:
I need help picking a gift.
Daniel:
For who?
GP? Your cats? Christian Horner’s retirement fund?
Max:
A girl.
Daniel:
Oh.
Ohhh.
OH MY GOD.
Is this Ana?
Max:
Yes.
Daniel:
Are you buying her a ring?? Do I need to be ready to give a speech??
Max:
No. She got upset after Austria. I just want to do something nice.
Like a peace offering. Or a thank you. Or a “sorry my teammate took us both out.”
Daniel:
Kimi’s wild for that one.
But okay. Gift.
What about… scented candles?
Max:
She has sensory issues.
Daniel:
Okay okay. Fair. Jewelry?
Max:
No bracelets. No necklaces. She has also called diamonds “financial gaslighting.”
Daniel:
...A mug?
Max:
Daniel.
Daniel:
A MUG WITH HER NAME ON IT.
Max:
She has a PhD in hybrid systems design. She doesn’t want a mug.
Daniel:
A model V6 turbo hybrid engine made out of LEGOs.
Max:
She’d just point out where the airflow is wrong.
Daniel:
I don’t know man!! She’s like if a Swiss watch and a human firewall had a baby!
Buy her a firewall!
Max:
She built one. For fun.
Daniel:
Oh my god.
Max:
You’re not helping.
Daniel:
This is why you don’t date emotionally brilliant women with murder eyes. You can’t win. You just kneel.
Max:
You’re a menace.
Daniel:
To society.
To sanity.
To your love life, apparently.
Good luck, loverboy.
***
Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Sophie Kumpen
Max:
Hey.
Can I ask you something?
Sophie:
Of course, schatje. What’s going on?
Max:
There’s a girl.
She got really upset after the crash in Austria. I want to do something for her. Something nice. But not too much.
Sophie:
You like her?
Max:
Yeah.
Sophie:
Then it should be something thoughtful. Not expensive. Something that says “I know you.”
Tell me about her.
Max:
She’s smart. Like terrifying smart.
Engineer. Doesn’t like flowers. Or jewelry. Or perfume. Or anything fake.
Has sensory issues with fabric and smell.
Thinks sugar is a corporate lie but still eats chocolate bars because she forgets that real food exists. And she’s half Russian.
Sophie:
Russian?
Max:
Yeah. Her mum was. She doesn’t talk about it a lot. But she keeps some Russian books on her shelf and she told me once she misses the sweets sometimes.
The proper ones. From Moscow.
She said they don’t taste right anywhere else.
Sophie:
Okay. That’s your answer.
Max:
What do you mean?
Sophie:
You get her the sweets. The real ones.
There’s a place in Antwerp that still imports Soviet-style confections —
Ptichye Moloko
,
zefir
,
sushki
, those weird chocolate bars with the baby on the wrapper.
Order them. Send them to her with a note.
Max:
That’s it?
Sophie:
Yes.
You remind her that someone listened. That someone remembered.
That’s the gift.
Anyone can send flowers. But not everyone remembers the candy from your mother’s kitchen.
Max:
That’s… actually brilliant.
Sophie:
I am a woman. Of course it is.
And Max?
Max:
Yeah?
Sophie:
If she’s the kind of girl who makes you ask your mother for help…
Don’t let her go.
***
Mercedes F1 HQ, Brackley, England - 1 July 2025
The pasta was too soft. The coffee was cold. And Kimi looked like someone had told him puppies weren’t real.
Ana stabbed at her salad and watched the teenager stare morosely at his untouched tray.
Valtteri leaned back in his chair. “You’re sulking,” he said, not unkindly.
“I’m not sulking,” Kimi muttered, eyes fixed on the middle distance. “I’m... mourning.”
“Your dignity?” Bono asked dryly.
“No. My future.” Kimi slumped forward. “He’s going to hate me.”
“Who?” Ana asked, even though she already knew.
“Max. I crashed into Max ,” Kimi muttered, dragging his fork through the pasta without actually eating it. “Like a total idiot. In front of everyone. On Red Bull Ring. In Austria.”
“It was a racing incident.”
“I ruined everything,” he said to the table.
“You didn’t,” Ana said flatly.
“I crashed into Max,” Kimi groaned, muffled by sleeve fabric. “He’s not going to want to be my teammate now. He’s probably already sent a ‘never let this child near me’ clause to Toto.”
Valtteri snorted. “He’s not that dramatic.”
“You don’t know that,” Kimi moaned. “He gives me advice during the driver parade. He tells me where the grip is. He’s NICE to me.”
Ana blinked. “And you think he’s going to erase all of that because you locked up one corner?”
“Yes.”
Valtteri finally looked up. “If Max had a problem with you, he’d already have told you. Loudly.”
“You made a mistake. Max of all people knows what it’s like to be eighteen in a car that wants to kill you,” Ana said drily.
“Oh.” Kimi shifted. “I apologised to him. He told me that I was young. That I’ll make mistakes. I just… I don’t want him to think I’m one of those drivers who doesn’t care. ”
Ana tilted her head. “You care so much it’s making you ill. That’s not the problem.”
“What is?”
“You’re eighteen,” Bono chimed in, finally. “You’re going to crash sometimes.”
Kimi nodded, swallowed, then shook his head. “He’s... he’s Max. He’s like—” he made a helpless gesture. “He’s Max.”
Ana understood. It wasn’t just that Max was fast. It was that he saw something in Kimi. Gave him time. Treated him like a peer, not a kid.
“You made a mistake,” Bono said. “You owned it. He’s had worse run-ins.”
“Ask Esteban,” Valtteri added.
Kimi gave a weak laugh.
Ana leaned forward, voice even. “And if he really is your future teammate, don’t you think he’d respect someone who learns from mistakes, rather than spirals over them?”
Kimi looked up. “Do you think I’m spiraling?”
“Yes,” said all three at once.
Ana reached into her bag and pulled out a chocolate bar. Slid it across the table. “Here. Eat sugar. Reboot your brain.”
Kimi blinked. “This is why I love you guys.”
“Shh,” Valtteri said. “No emotions in the club.”
“Yeah,” Bono added. “You want to cry, do it outside. Preferably near marketing.”
Ana allowed herself the faintest smile as Kimi tore into the wrapper.
He’d be fine.
Because this was how Mercedes stayed sane: cookies, sarcasm, quiet kindness, and lunch served with a side of therapy.
***
Mercedes F1 HQ, Brackley, England - 2 July 2025
It was supposed to be a routine post-run check.
Toto had walked into the sim room half-distracted, half on his way to a sponsor call, expecting to skim telemetry before the next run. What he hadn’t expected was Kimi Antonelli practically glowing as he unstrapped himself from the simulator rig, muttering a breathless, “It’s alive ,” under his breath like the car had spoken to him.
The numbers on the monitor stopped Toto in his tracks.
Sector splits. Throttle modulation. Exit speed out of Turn 3.
Better.
Not dramatically. Not in a headline-grabbing way. But steadily. Consistently. Lap after lap, tenth by tenth.
Sharper exits. Cleaner throttle response. The car wasn’t fighting him anymore—it was following.
He leaned over the race support engineer’s shoulder, scanning the header of the test package.
Not the usual alphanumeric code. Not the dry string of W16-DEV-SIM5 he’d expected.
Project Altair.
He paused.
Altair.
Of course.
Ana.
She always named her projects after stars. Quiet little nods to the constellations she used to sketch in the margins of her physics notebooks.
Altair—the flying one. Bright, fast, sharp-edged.
And now…
He looked at the data again.
The car under Kimi wasn’t just performing—it was thriving. It had been tailored to him with scalpel precision. Every instinct in his driving style anticipated and met. Every edge sharpened, not blunted.
Toto exhaled slowly, realization washing over him in pieces.
She didn’t just make something for Kimi.
She saw him.
In the way only Ana did—through numbers, through patterns, through effort so ferocious it masqueraded as detachment.
He could see her in every calibration. Every torque map tweak. Every cooling adjustment that smoothed out the understeer he used to fight with.
She had written Kimi into the car like he was part of the blueprint.
He looked back at the sim feed, at Kimi sitting in the cockpit with the same dazed, exhilarated expression Toto had seen on Lewis once, years ago, when a car and a driver found the exact same wavelength.
Altair.
He knew the name. Ana had been naming her projects after stars for years—little constellations scattered through Brackley’s servers. A quiet fingerprint of hers, something no one else bothered with.
She’d picked this one deliberately.
Altair. The flying one. A star so bright it anchored half a constellation.
He exhaled through his nose.
She’d built this for him. Not a general rookie-friendly update. Not a soft baseline. For Kimi. For the way his hands moved on the wheel and the way his brain stitched a lap together like instinct.
And she’d named it after a star.
Of course she had.
Toto stayed longer than he meant to, watching lap after lap tick by, Kimi getting faster, more confident.
The team below didn’t say anything. They were too busy watching brilliance unfold.
He glanced once more at the file name glowing on the screen.
Project Altair.
Ana’s way of saying: I see you. You’re mine now.
***
Text Messages: Toto Wolff & Dr. Anastasia “Ana” Wolff.
Toto:
Project Altair?
Ana:
Problem?
Toto:
The opposite.
Kimi just came out of the sim and said “it’s alive.”
Ana:
Good. Then it works.
Toto:
You built that entire package around him.
Ana:
Yes.
Toto:
Not even pretending it’s a general update?
Ana:
If you want a general update, tell George to drive more like Kimi.
Toto:
…
You named it after a star.
Ana:
I always do.
Toto:
Altair. The flying one.
Ana:
Appropriate.
Toto:
You’ve adopted him.
Ana:
That’s dramatic.
Toto:
So is writing someone into a car blueprint.
Ana:
…
He’s good. Better than his numbers show.
He just needed the car to stop yelling at him.
Toto:
You made it sing to him.
Ana:
That’s the point.
Toto:
…Well done, Sternchen.
Ana:
Don’t get sentimental, Papa.
I still have to finish the new calibration model by Friday.
Toto:
Noted.
But you made something brilliant today.
***
Text Messages: Kimi Antonelli & Oliver Bearman
Kimi:
Mate.
I don’t even know how to explain this.
The car. It…
listens.
Ollie:
what does that even MEAN
cars don’t “listen,” antonelli.
Kimi:
No, I’m serious.
It’s like it knows what I want before I do.
Project Altair. That’s what they called it.
Ollie:
oh my god they’re giving you code names now
meanwhile I’m over here in HAAS:
“here’s your car, please don’t sneeze too hard or the floor will snap”
Kimi:
😂
No but seriously.
It feels… alive.
Turn 3? It just
goes
. It doesn’t fight me anymore.
It’s like someone mapped my brain into the chassis.
Ollie:
OKAY I AM OFFICIALLY LIVING VICARIOUSLY THROUGH YOU
you’re having a religious experience in a Mercedes sim
I just did 70 laps of Austria in something that drives like a shopping trolley with an existential crisis
Kimi:
💀
Ollie:
no but for real
does this mean you’re about to turn into a terrifying child prodigy monster??
Kimi:
I mean, I
am
a terrifying child prodigy monster.
Ollie:
fair.
Kimi:
It’s just…
I think Ana did this for me.
Like
me,
specifically.
Ollie:
Ana Wolff custom-built you a car and you’re texting ME??
mate. you’ve been
chosen.
Kimi:
What do I even say to her?
Ollie:
“thank you for the spaceship” is a good start
Kimi:
👍
Ollie:
also if you get bored of Altair, please mail it to Haas.
We could use it.
***
Mercedes F1 HQ, Brackley, England - 2 July 2025
Lorelai did not do mornings.
She survived them. With espresso, a colour-coded inbox, and the righteous fury of a woman singlehandedly responsible for coordinating Dr. Ana Wolff’s calendar and the fragile peace between engineering and PR.
She was halfway through re-prioritising Ana’s to-do list—because, as usual, someone had tried to sneak a “quick coffee” between two back-to-back dyno sessions—when the front desk pinged her.
Delivery for Dr. Wolff.
Name on the manifest:
E. Maksim.
Lorelai blinked at the screen. Not a courier name she recognized. Not a supplier. Not an alias she’d seen before.
But it was flagged
green
in the system—pre-cleared sender. Which meant Ana had personally added it to the whitelist at some point.
And that… was weird.
Ana didn’t exactly have a long list of personal senders. Most of her deliveries were lab samples, obscure engineering journals, or backup chargers ordered in bulk.
This?
This was… suspiciously well-wrapped. Kraft paper. Hand-tied ribbon. Neatly written label. Almost
gentle
.
And Ana didn’t do gentle.
Lorelai turned the package over slowly. Nothing buzzed. Nothing leaked. No faint ticking. No glitter, no scented wax, no amateur shrink-wrap job that screamed inappropriate office gift from George Russell again .
Just… a box. With a quiet kind of intention.
She narrowed her eyes.
Then, because it was technically approved and technically not her problem , she sighed, and deposited it dead-center on Ana’s workspace.
Ana didn’t arrive for another ten minutes.
By then, Lorelai was back at her desk, watching through the narrow glass window with the quiet anticipation of a stage manager waiting for the curtain to rise.
Ana walked in—running on fumes and espresso and some unholy determination not to feel anything—and stopped dead at the sight of the box.
That was the first flag.
The second was the way she just stared at it. Like it had materialized from a dream she didn’t want to remember.
Lorelai didn’t mean to eavesdrop. Truly.
But she could see Ana’s face from the window. Could see the moment she recognized the handwriting. The way she picked up the note like it might explode. The way she didn’t roll her eyes or sigh or swear.
The way she sat down , very slowly.
And didn’t move.
Lorelai blinked.
Huh.
***
Mercedes F1 HQ, Brackley, England - 2 July 2025
Ana didn’t like surprises.
She liked data. Certainty. Cold floors and humming servers and the distinct, orderly whir of the dyno running a baseline simulation at 07:03 because the world made sense when machines behaved as expected. Humans were messy. Emotions were messy. Surprises were almost always mess dressed up with a ribbon.
So when she walked into her workspace at Brackley that morning—running on four hours of sleep, two espressos, and the deep-seated dread of possibly having feelings—and saw a box sitting on her desk, she froze.
Not a standard-issue logistics crate.
Not a parcel from supply chain.
A proper, thoughtfully wrapped , ribbon-tied box.
With her name on it.
And a note.
Her first thought: oh no.
Her second: George?
Her third: If that man bought me a scented candle I am going to use it as a projectile weapon.
But the handwriting wasn’t George’s.
It was smaller. Neater. European cursive. Familiar.
Ana blinked.
Her heart did something ridiculous in her chest.
She reached for the note with cautious fingers, like it might detonate.
Nastya—
You said nothing tastes right outside Moscow.
This probably doesn’t either, but I tried.
Don’t freak out. It’s just cake.
– M
Ana stared at the note for a long time.
Then she lifted the lid of the box and—
God.
The scent hit her immediately. Honey. Cream. Toasted sweetness.
Medovik.
Layered honey cake, golden and dense and crumbling at the edges in that perfect, messy way it should.
Not the boxed version from overpriced London bakeries. This was the kind wrapped in thin parchment and twine, like it had arrived through someone’s grandmother’s hands. The smell hit her a second later—honey, sour cream, toasted sugar.
She hadn’t smelled that since—
Since before.
No one had ever bought her cake before.
No one had ever remembered that detail.
She’d mentioned it once. In passing.
She hadn’t even been sure he was listening.
She sat down. Slowly. Quietly. Her hands hovered over the keyboard, then dropped to her lap.
It wasn’t a bomb.
But it might as well have been.
And the worst part?
She already knew it was her favorite version of the cake before she even took a bite.
***
Slack Channel: #brackley-nerds
Private Channel. ~30 members.
lorelai.pa:
ok
I know we’re all busy building the future of motorsport or whatever
but can we please take one moment
to discuss this mysterious cake delivery Ana got this morning
signed from someone named “E. Maksim”
who is NOT on any corporate list
but is on her personal approved sender file
matt.merchandise:
WAIT
I SAW THE BOX
that was
hand-wrapped
with
ribbon
sara.branding:
You’re telling me Ana “I don’t have time for small talk” Wolff got a romantic parcel??
From a person with a name that sounds like a Bond villain???
kayleigh.powerunit:
E. Maksim is either a pseudonym or a billionaire
there is no in-between
lorelai.pa:
I'm just saying
she opened it
saw the card
READ the card
and then sat there
like the walls had melted
jess.hr:
DO WE THINK SHE HAS A SECRET BOYFRIEND???
lucy.comms:
No because imagine being Ana’s boyfriend
you’d have to book your emotional crises three weeks in advance
liam.eng-lead:
Tbh I think she’d prefer a man who communicates in spreadsheets and engine temperatures
lorelai.pa:
Also the cake was apparently
Medovik
like real, old-school layered honey cake
smelled amazing
the mailroom is still weeping
ellie.electronics:
That’s Russian, right?
So is the sender
Russian name
Russian cake
I’m sorry is Ana secretly Russian??
nicola.sim:
She’s half-Russian
Mother’s side
She came to live with Toto when she was like 10 or something
but she
never
talks about it
lorelai.pa:
I’m just saying
for someone who hates birthdays, flowers, and all forms of sentiment
she
kept the card
and I
swear
she was
smiling
when she thought no one was looking
matt.merchandise:
i’m not saying she has a secret boyfriend
but i
am
saying she has a secret boyfriend
sam.transmission:
ana wolff has a man who bakes
and
remembers details
like the exact cake she once mentioned liking
AND ships it across borders
meanwhile I can’t get a text back from my situationship in Didcot
nicola.sim:
I just googled “E. Maksim” and the top result is a Belarusian judo champion??
which, honestly, tracks
liam.eng-lead:
wait
wait wait
what if it’s
code
like
Maksim = Max???
sara.branding:
shut. UP.
MAX VERSTAPPEN???
sending cake under a slavic
alias
???
lorelai.pa:
okay that’s a reach
right??
RIGHT???
jess.hr:
Verstappen + Honey Cake + Secret Sender + Ana Wolff =
I can’t even finish that equation I’m
feral
lucy.comms:
new theory:
they’re secretly married
this is post-race apology cake
or foreplay
maybe both
***
Mercedes F1 HQ, Brackley, England - 2 July 2025
Toto hadn’t planned to stop by his daughter’s office.
But meetings had run long, and the engineering floor was settling into its late-afternoon hush. The hum of machines on standby, the soft clack of distant keys, and the occasional muffled laugh from a simulator tech still riding the high of a good session.
And something had pulled at him—residual curiosity, maybe. Or concern. Or the way her text had read: If you want a general update, tell George to drive more like Kimi.
He still wasn’t sure if it had been a joke.
He passed Ana’s workspace and paused.
The door was open.
That, in itself, was unusual. She usually worked with it shut, sometimes locked, and once—famously—threatened to weld it closed after someone interrupted her during a calibration cycle.
But today, the door was open.
Inside, Anastasia sat curled into her chair, socked feet tucked under herself like a cat, typing one-handed while the other held a fork. A half-eaten slice of something sat in a parchment-lined box on her desk.
Toto raised a brow.
There was a cake box on her desk. Cardboard, parchment-lined. Already half-eaten.
“Ana,” he said, stepping in. “Is that… breakfast, lunch, or dinner?”
She didn’t look up. “Yes.”
That made him smile. Dry. Familiar.
He moved closer, taking in the box, the dense layers, the scent—sharp and sweet. Honey. Toasted crumbs. Sour cream.
He recognized it almost immediately.
“Medovik?” he asked, surprised.
Ana nodded, still typing. “It’s good.”
“Since when do you order Russian cake?”
“I didn’t.”
That made him pause. “Then who—”
She finally looked up. Her expression was unreadable. Her fork tapped lightly against the edge of the box. “Someone sent it.”
He glanced at the sim data on her secondary screen, still open to Project Altair . Kimi’s lap deltas glowing in green.
Toto folded his arms. “You built him a car that sings to him and then told me to tell George to drive more like Kimi.”
Ana didn’t even blink. “You should. It would help.”
“Anastasia,” he said, tone warning and fond all at once.
She speared another bite of cake with clinical precision. “It’s not my fault if George can’t keep up.”
“You’ve adopted Kimi.”
She rolled her eyes. “You’re being dramatic.”
“You wrote him into the blueprint and named it after a star,” Toto countered. “You don’t do that unless you’ve decided he’s yours.”
Ana leaned back in her chair, fork still in hand. Her eyes flicked to the telemetry again, then to the box in front of her. “Do you want some cake or are you here to psychoanalyze me?”
“Both,” Toto said smoothly. “But mostly to ask why you’re suddenly nostalgic enough to accept Medovik from… whoever sent it.”
She didn’t flinch, but her mouth tightened just a fraction. The fork sank into the top layer like a measured exhale.
“You never talk about Moscow,” Toto said quietly. Not accusing. Just… curious.
She leaned back, staring at the half-finished cake like it held some private history she hadn’t decided whether to burn or preserve.
“I don’t,” she agreed.“There’s nothing to mention.”
“You were born there.”
Toto waited.
She stabbed the fork into the top layer. Carefully, like dissecting a problem. Then she leaned back in her chair, fingers curled around a mug that probably held more coffee than any doctor would recommend. “You can miss a country,” she said quietly, “even if you don’t agree with their politics. You can miss the language. The food. The way the air smells after snow. It doesn’t mean you want to belong there again.”
There was a beat of silence.
She picked up the fork again, took another small bite, and didn’t look at him when she said, “I still dream in Russian sometimes.”
Toto looked at the cake again. “It’s good someone remembered.”
She didn’t smile. But something in her shoulders softened.
“Yeah,” she said. “It is.”
***
Mercedes F1 HQ, Brackley, England - 2 July 2025
Kimi thought about it all the way from Brackley’s sim room to the engineering floor. How you were supposed to say thank you to someone who just rewrote what a car felt like under your hands. Not in a polite, “thanks for the setup adjustment” way. In a you reached into my brain and built a car-shaped version of me way.
By the time he found her office, his heart was still doing that weird low thump from the last lap in the sim. He’d never had a car meet him that cleanly before. It was unnerving. In the best way.
Ana’s door was open, as usual only when she was buried in code. She was hunched over her desk, hair scraped into a half-damp bun, eyes flicking between three monitors and a notebook covered in numbers and constellations drawn in the margins.
Kimi hesitated in the doorway. “Uh. Ana?”
Ana didn’t look up. “If it’s about the sim run, I already have the telemetry. It works.”
Kimi stepped in anyway, awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, I… I just wanted to say thanks.”
That made her pause. One hand stilled over the keyboard. “For…?”
“For Altair. For… making it listen to me.” He flushed because he sounded ridiculous saying it out loud. “I don’t even know how you did that.”
Ana finally glanced at him. Neutral expression. Calm. The kind of calm that made you think of ice over deep water. “I mapped the torque delivery and aero balance to your modulation patterns. Your input data’s clean, so the chassis can trust it.”
Kimi blinked. “You built it around me.”
“Of course I did.” She said it like it was obvious. Like of course you build a car around the person who’s going to drive it.
It hit him then, really hit him, that she wasn’t just smart. She was… sharp . Not the kind of smart you could see in a textbook. The kind that could take an entire machine apart in her head and put it back together around you .
“I’ve never had that before,” he admitted. “Something built around me. Everyone always talks about how I should adapt to the car, prove myself first. I’m used to making things work.”
Ana’s voice softened. “You shouldn’t have to claw your way uphill just to break even. You’re not here to prove you belong. You’re here to win.”
Kimi opened his mouth. Closed it again.
“Most people don’t get me like that,” he said before he could stop himself.
Ana’s mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “Most people aren’t supposed to. The car is.” She turned back to the screen, as if that explained everything.
Kimi shifted his weight, still feeling the phantom weight of the wheel under his hands, the way the car had flowed with him instead of against him. “It felt like…” he hesitated, trying to find words that didn’t sound insane, “…like you wrote me into it.”
Ana’s pen tapped the desk once. Then, softer: “I did.”
Kimi swallowed. “So… thanks. For the spaceship.”
That earned him a glance and—he swore—a tiny, almost invisible smile. “Don’t crash it.”
“I won’t,” he said, and for the first time, he actually believed it.
***
Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Dr. Anastasia “Ana” Wolff
Ana:
The cake arrived.
Wasn't necessary.
But... thanks. It was good.
Really good.
(You didn’t make it, right?)
Max:
I didn’t bake it, no.
But I did call three different Russian delis until I found one that delivered to Brackley.
They thought I was mad.
Ana:
You are mad.
But you have decent taste in honey cakes.
Max:
You ate it?
Ana:
Most of it.
It reminded me of Moscow.
Don’t read into that.
Max:
I’m reading into that so hard right now.
Ana:
Don’t.
Max:
Too late.
Also…
I’m glad you liked it, Poekie.
Ana:
Don’t call me that.
(But yes. I did.)
***
Group Chat: “TEAM 33”
(Members: Max Verstappen, Jos Verstappen, Raymond Vermeulen)
Jos:
Mercedes came back with a revised offer. Toto’s serious this time.
Better structure. More flexibility on the exit clauses.
They want you.
Raymond:
Also pushing for full technical feedback inclusion—
You’d have input into development from day one.
It’s not just a seat. It’s a stake.
Jos:
They’re treating you like a partner, not a driver.
Think about what that means.
Max:
👍
Raymond:
Red Bull’s asking questions.
Helmut’s been circling.
Christian’s suddenly very interested in scheduling a sit-down next week.
They’re starting to feel the heat.
Jos:
They
should
be nervous.
You’ve given them everything.
Four titles.
They didn’t take the car issues seriously until Mercedes got involved.
Max:
Mhm.
Raymond:
That’s all you’ve got?
This is the biggest move of your career.
Max:
I know.
Jos:
So? What are you thinking?
Max:
Just watching how everyone reacts.
Raymond:
Red Bull’s already sweating.
Let’s see how much more they’ll give.
Max:
Exactly.
***
Text Messages: Jos Verstappen & Raymond Vermeulen
Jos:
He’s still thinking about leaving.
Raymond:
I know.
He’s not saying much, but he’s not backing down either.
He’s watching the whole team scramble and just… waiting.
Jos:
It’s like watching a cat push a glass off the table in slow motion.
Raymond:
Only the glass is Red Bull Racing.
Jos:
Exactly.
Raymond:
He’s serious.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen him like this.
Jos:
I have.
Once.
When he was seventeen and dead set on that helmet design I hated.
Wouldn’t budge.
Wouldn’t blink.
Raymond:
You’re comparing a full team switch to… decals?
Jos:
Same look in his eyes.
Raymond.
I want you to meet the girl that is making him stupid.
Raymond:
Are you serious.
Jos:
Dead serious.
He’s quoting her degrees like he’s memorizing wedding vows. He’s buying her gifts, because she worried about him.
Raymond:
You think she’s
why
he’s considering Mercedes?
Jos:
I think she’s the match and Mercedes is the damn gasoline.
Raymond:
You really think she has that much influence?
Jos:
I think he listens to her in a way he doesn’t listen to anyone else.
And that
terrifies
me.
Raymond:
You’re making it sound like she’s a cult leader.
Jos:
She might be.
***
Chapter 11: Chapter 9: Silverstone
Chapter Text
Mercedes-AMG F1 — “TeamMate Trivia” Social Video
[Camera cuts to George and Kimi sitting side by side on the couch in Mercedes team gear. George is sitting relaxed, arms draped behind the seat. Kimi is clearly less comfortable—arms crossed, posture stiff, one foot bouncing slightly. The vibe is… not exactly seamless.]
PRODUCER (off-camera):
Alright, quick-fire round.
Question: Who’s your favorite Mercedes employee — and no, you can’t say yourself.
George: (grinning immediately)
Oh, easy. Toto. Has to be. He’s the boss, he sets the tone, and, you know, he’s been massively supportive of both of us coming up through the team.”
[George gives a practiced PR smile. Kimi blinks. Doesn’t smile. Stares forward for a second longer than necessary.]
Kimi:
Ana.
[There’s a beat of silence. George actually turns his head, surprised. Off-camera, someone stifles a laugh.]
George:
Wait—Ana? As in,
Ana Wolff
?
Kimi: (flat)
Yes.
PRODUCER (off-camera):
Can we ask why?
Kimi: (still not making eye contact with George)
She’s very smart. Maybe the smartest person in the entire building. But she never makes anyone feel stupid about it.
[George does an awkward little half-laugh. Kimi continues without acknowledging it.]
Kimi:
She explains things like she wants you to understand, not like she wants you to be impressed.
And she’s… nice to me. Always has been.
[There’s another pause. Kimi shrugs, defensive but not rude, just… honest.]
Kimi: That matters.
[Another beat. Kimi shifts slightly in his seat, clearly uncomfortable with the attention. George glances at the camera with a classic “well alright then” expression, but doesn’t push it.]
PRODUCER (off-camera):
Okay. Fair enough. That’s actually a really sweet answer.
George: (trying to be diplomatic)
She’s definitely, uh… very committed.
***
Twitter Thread: Why does Kimi hate George and is Ana Wolff Mercedes’ emotional support engineer?
@/f1insiderchick:
KIMI JUST SAID HIS FAVOURITE MERCEDES EMPLOYEE IS ANA WOLFF??? 😭😭😭 the baby rookie LOVES the terrifyingly smart Wolff daughter and I’m emotional about it
@/LandoSlander69:
the way he said “Ana.” deadpan. no hesitation. that kid imprinted on her like a duckling
@/mercsauce:
also Kimi looked SO UNCOMFORTABLE next to George lmaooo like he was praying for Toto to come rescue him
@/gridgeek:
ngl, “and she’s… nice to me. always has been. that matters.” is gonna haunt me for a bit. that’s a kid who’s been carrying pressure for years and finally felt seen.
@/F1GirliesUnite:
KIMI ANTONELLI JUST SAID HIS FAVOURITE MERCEDES EMPLOYEE IS ANA WOLFF AND LOOKED LIKE HE WAS GOING TO CRY SAYING “SHE’S NICE TO ME”??? 😭😭😭
@/WhatTheF1Pod:
The way the whole room went SILENT when he said “Ana.” Like. Everyone knows she doesn’t do the spotlight and suddenly the rookie is out here singing her praises?? Iconic.
@/f1psychoanalysis:
okay but can we TALK about how Kimi looks physically allergic to sitting next to George in that TeamMate video 😭 arms crossed, foot bouncing, not making eye contact ONCE
@/SoftTyreCompound:
“she’s… nice to me. always has been. that matters.”
KIMI YOU CAN’T JUST SAY THAT AND THEN SHRUG LIKE YOU DIDN’T JUST PUNCH US ALL IN THE HEART
@/HybridQueen420:
Ana Wolff hive rise. Our elusive queen continues to be a legend without even being on camera.
@/gridchaos:
george: “toto duh lol”
kimi: deadpan “ana.”
THE SILENCE THAT FOLLOWED 💀💀💀
@/motorsportmess:
george trying to banter and kimi just sitting there like he’s in a hostage video… HELP
@/silverarrowstan:
the way kimi said it so matter-of-factly and then immediately shut down like “don’t perceive me” 🥺
@/w14fever:
the funniest part is how
polite
Kimi is about it. he’s not rude, just… blank. like he decided ignoring george is safer than engaging.
@/mercengineers:
Ana Wolff is literally allergic to PR and yet the kid just soft-launched her as the heart of the team. Mercedes comms are going to have a FIELD DAY.
@/understeerqueen:
Ana Wolff’s reputation is so funny bc she’s never in front of cameras but everyone whispers about her like she’s some mythical creature in the factory. and then Kimi Antonelli shows up and is like “yeah she’s the smartest person here and she’s nice to me” and now i’m crying
@/f1neuralnet:
ana wolff being simultaneously the scariest brain in brackley and also the one person Kimi feels safe with… yeah that tracks.
@/fastlaneconspiracy:
mercedes really said “here’s our media-shy wunderkind engineer who avoids the spotlight” and then let Kimi out her as the emotional backbone of the entire team.
@/simriggoblin:
everyone: “ana is a scary genius”
kimi: “she’s nice to me”
🥹🥹🥹🥹
***
Text Messages: Toto Wolff & Dr. Anastasia “Ana” Wolff
Toto:
You’re coming to Sardinia with us. Pack light. Bring Sunscreen
Ana:
I’m not going on vacation. I need to work.
The 2026 MGU-K architecture isn’t going to optimize itself.
Toto:
You can optimize it after you get some sun and remember what leisure is.
That’s a direct order from your Team Principal and your father.
Ana:
You’re not allowed to combine those roles for emotional manipulation.
We talked about this.
Toto:
We did.
Jack says if you don’t come, he’ll be “so, so, so sad he might die.”
Direct quote.
Ana:
Emotional blackmail via the eight-year-old. Classy.
Toto:
And yet you’re coming to Sardinia.
Ana
What if I say no?
Toto:
Then I’ll send Jack to ask you in person.
With a handmade card.
And possibly tears.
Ana:
Low blow.
Toto:
Effective blow.
Ana:
Fine.
I’ll come.
But I’m bringing the new hybrid powertrain schematics and you can’t stop me.
Toto:
Deal.
As long as you also bring sunscreen and sit still for ten minutes at a time.
Ana:
You sound like Susie.
Toto:
That’s why I married her.
***
Email Subject: Meeting Request
From: Raymond Vermeulen <[email protected]>
To: Andreas Stein <[email protected]>
Dear Andreas,
Following up on our recent meeting in London — thank you again for the clarity and discretion.
As part of our continuing internal evaluation, I’d like to request a more in-depth conversation regarding Mercedes’ 2026 power unit development, particularly the architecture of the hybrid integration systems you mentioned. Specifically, I’m interested in speaking directly with Dr. Anastasia Wolff, as I understand she’s overseeing several core aspects of the energy deployment structure.
A conversation with her would help us better assess the seriousness of the long-term project direction, particularly in terms of the technical leadership Max would be relying on were Max to consider a transition.
Let me know when she might be available for a brief, informal discussion — I’m happy to meet in person or arrange a virtual call at her convenience.
Appreciate your discretion on this.
Best regards,
Raymond Vermeulen
Verstappen Management
***
Mercedes F1 HQ, Brackley, England - 3 July 2025
Toto hadn’t even had his first espresso when Andreas walked in.
That alone set off alarms.
Andreas didn’t rush. He never did. That was what made him so effective — he could deliver bad news like it was an elegant dinner invitation. But today, there was a flicker of urgency beneath the calm.
He handed Toto an iPad. “This came through half an hour ago. From Raymond.”
Toto took it, adjusted his reading glasses, and scrolled.
The subject line was dry.
Meeting request.
Classic Raymond. Never giving more than necessary.
But as Toto read the body of the email, his brow furrowed.
“I’d like to request a more in-depth conversation regarding Mercedes’ 2026 power unit development… specifically, I’m interested in speaking directly with Dr. Anastasia Wolff…”
He read it again. Then a third time.
“Interesting,” he murmured.
Andreas stood patiently. “You think it’s posturing?”
“Maybe,” Toto said. But his mind was already running simulations faster than a wind tunnel.
Raymond Vermeulen didn’t waste time. He didn’t ask for meetings unless there was a reason. And Max Verstappen certainly didn’t entertain leaving Red Bull just because he was bored.
But what puzzled Toto wasn’t that Raymond wanted to speak to Anastasia.
It was why .
“She’s good,” Toto said aloud. “Very good. But usually when they want to talk engine philosophy, they come to me. Or Thomas. Not her.”
Andreas nodded slowly. “That’s what I thought.”
Toto leaned back in his chair, temple pressed to his steepled fingers.
It didn’t make sense. Unless—
Unless Max had seen something in her work.
Or—
He frowned.
Surely not.
No.
“Are you saying Anastasia is the reason Max is even considering this?” he asked.
Andreas didn’t answer. Just raised one eyebrow. Carefully.
Toto scoffed. “That’d be ridiculous.”
Wouldn’t it?
He stared back at the email. The phrasing. The wording.
Raymond wasn’t vetting a technical spec.
He was vetting a
person
.
“Set up the meeting,” Toto said finally. “But I want it logged. I want someone in the room.”
Andreas hesitated. “You don’t trust your daughter?”
“I trust her,” Toto said.
He looked at the screen again. At his daughter’s name, staring back at him beneath Raymond’s clean signature block.
“I don’t trust them .”
***
Mercedes F1 HQ, Brackley, England - 3 July 2025
Toto found Anastasia in her office, leaning over two monitors, sleeves rolled up, her hair twisted into a low knot that meant do not disturb unless the factory is literally on fire .
He knocked on the door anyway.
Ana didn’t look up. “Unless there’s a gearbox detonation or a FIA rule change, come back later.”
“It’s neither,” Toto said. “But it is Verstappen-adjacent.”
That got her attention.
She turned, one brow arched. “Go on.”
He stepped inside, closing the door behind him, and handed her a tablet. “Raymond Vermeulen wants to meet. Specifically with you.”
Ana took it, skimmed the message once, and sighed like someone who had just been asked to share a cab with a journalist.
“Oh for— why me ?”
“He says he wants to discuss the 2026 PU direction. Your hybrid integration model, specifically.”
Ana leaned back in her chair. “Didn’t he already meet with Andreas?”
“He did. This is the follow-up.”
She gave him a look.
“More like the interview, ” she muttered.
Toto folded his arms. “You think he’s vetting you?”
“I think,” Ana said, “that he wants to know if Verstappen’s future team would be built by someone competent or someone who runs simulations like it’s 2009.”
“And you’re insulted by that?”
“No,” she said, dry. “I’m insulted that I now have to talk to people.”
Toto huffed out a laugh. “You talk to people all the time.”
“People who speak math, not paddock politics.”
He watched her for a beat, trying to read more than she was letting on. Anastasia had always been hard to pin down — cool, sharp, and guarded in ways even he couldn’t always decode. But one thing he did know: she hated being underestimated.
So if Raymond was trying to test her?
Good luck.
“Do you want me to decline on your behalf?” he asked.
Ana handed the tablet back with a sigh. “No. I’ll do it.”
“Want me to sit in?”
She paused. “You think they’ll behave better if Daddy’s watching?”
He raised a brow. “I think they’ll behave worse if I’m watching.”
Ana smirked. “Then let me handle it.”
“Are you sure?” he asked.
She was already turning back to her screens.
“Yes,” she said coolly. “If Verstappen’s camp wants to evaluate me, let them. I don’t rattle.”
***
Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Dr. Anastasia “Ana” Wolff
Ana:
Why does your manager want to meet with me?
Max:
…hi to you too?
Ana:
Don’t deflect.
Raymond just requested a “technical follow-up” and specifically asked for me.
Max:
He did?
Ana:
Don’t play innocent.
This has
your
fingerprints all over it.
Max:
I swear it doesn’t.
I didn’t even know he sent that email.
Ana:
So suddenly I’m on Verstappen Management’s wishlist
by coincidence?
What, is it “grill the engineer” week?
Max:
Or maybe he just wants to talk to the smartest person in the room.
Ana:
Flattery won’t save you.
Max:
Not flattery. Truth.
You’re good. Really good.
If Raymond wants to see where Mercedes is going, he’d want to hear it from you.
Ana:
You expect me to believe that?
Max:
Yes.
You build cars that
listen
.
I’d want to talk to you too.
Ana:
…
Max:
What?
Ana:
Nothing.
You’re infuriating.
Max:
And you’re brilliant.
Go impress him.
Ana:
If this meeting turns into some elaborate Verstappen test, I’m charging you consulting fees.
Max:
Worth every cent.
***
Twitter Thread: Sky News Italia
@/SkyItaliaF1:
🚨🚨 BREAKING: Sky Sport Italia reports
concrete
negotiations between Max Verstappen and Mercedes are underway for 2026.
Talks reportedly advanced significantly after the Austrian GP. More to follow.
#F1 #Mercedes #Verstappen
@/ThrottleQueens:
Christian Horner if Max actually leaves:
“...fine. I didn’t want him anyway.”
cries into a Red Bull fridge
@/OversteerAddict:
MAX WHAT ARE YOU DOING
YOU HAVE FOUR TITLES
YOU HAVE CATS
YOU HAVE A TEAM
WHY.
@/FormulaUnoDrama:
Christian Horner waking up to this headline and chewing the drywall
@brakebalancer:
Toto Wolff when asked if the rumors are true:
🧍🏻♂️"We are evaluating all available talents for the future."
Also Toto:
already redesigning the 2026 fireproofs to say VERSTAPPEN
@/f1softlaunch:
So you’re telling me Max:
– Might leave Red Bull
– Might join Mercedes
– Might steal George’s seat
This man is playing 4D chess in softboi mode
@/paddockcryptid:
if the sky italia rumor is true that means:
- max has been cooking in secret
- red bull is in trouble
- george might spontaneously combust
@/danisbounceball:
someone get Daniel Ricciardo on camera RIGHT NOW
he definitely knows everything
he’s probably laughing his ass off
@/leclurker:
if max verstappen ends up in silver next year i will walk into the ocean fully clothed
@/gridtea:
so you’re telling me
george might lose his seat to max
@/mercgirlie:
WHAT DO YOU MEAN "NEGOTIATIONS BEGAN POST-AUSTRIA"
THEY’VE BEEN COOKING THIS SINCE MONACO HAVEN’T THEY
@/redbullburner69:
i’m not saying i’d support arson
but if max signs for mercedes
i WILL understand horner if he sets brackley on fire
@/wheresoscar:
max verstappen in mercedes whites is so fanfic coded i don’t know how to process this
@/RedBullDivorceLawyer:
concrete negotiations means Toto already has a pdf labeled “MB x MV Contract FINAL FINAL v3”
and Susie has proofread it.
@/CursedF1Energy:
Max Verstappen in silver would be so illegal aesthetically.
Like no offense but I’m not ready.
@/FormulaUnoFan:
🚨 SKY ITALIA REPORTS: Max Verstappen in
“concrete negotiations”
with Mercedes for 2026.
Let the silly season insanity begin.
🧨🧨🧨
@/F1memequeen:
MAX TO MERCEDES??
AFTER YEARS OF RED BULL DNA IN HIS BLOOD???
they’re going to have to surgically remove the caffeine from his system
@/antonellination:
me explaining to my cat why kimi antonelli will now have to emotionally bond with the man he accidentally crashed into in austria
📉📈📉📈
@/drivertok:
someone check on Christian Horner.
no seriously.
is he breathing.
@/tifosibrainrot:
Helmut Marko is probably sharpening a very old sword in a castle somewhere.
@/f1frogs:
if Max actually joins Mercedes I want the full Netflix villain origin arc
fade in: Toto in a dark suit saying “We had talks. Serious talks.”
cut to: Max in Monaco stroking his cat
@/yukisburner:
ok but HOW did Toto pull this off???
man said “strategy” and max folded???
did he offer unlimited Stroopwafels??? what was the pitch
@/f1dramaqueen:
max… baby… are you okay?? blink twice if it’s about christian horner
@/f1honeybadger:
Red Bull fans if Max actually signs with Mercedes:
💀💀💀💀💀💀
@/sillyseasoncentral:
if this is true, then 2026 is MAX + MERC
CHARLES + FERRARI
LANDOSCAR + MCLAREN
GEORGE + CRYING
@/latteandlapdata:
the fact that everyone is acting like max is doing this for a better engine when really he just looks like he’s cooked and wants peace 💀
@/baku_bitch:
petition for sky italia to give us MORE details. WHO is negotiating. WHEN. are they using EMAILS or like, handwritten letters. is max in toto’s OFFICE rn. does he get espresso privileges???
@/softboimax:
“concrete negotiations” is just Italian for “Toto and Max now text each other directly”
@/anonpaddocktea:
My cousin's ex-boyfriend works in marketing at Mercedes and says "you guys have no idea how wild this is gonna get"
?????? 😳😳😳
@/LandoLover94:
wait like
actual
talks?? not just speculation????
@/ChiliSainz88:
if Horner wasn’t already throwing things, he is
now
@/tifosiforever:
so we’re just… living in the
darkest timeline
now
@/mercedesnation:
as a merc fan: YES
as a george fan: 🧍♂️
@/chaoticgridpod:
manifesting:
📦 max to merc
📦 oscar championship
📦 george becomes a tiktok chef or smth
@/FormulaUnoStan:
Toto Wolff if he actually lands Verstappen:
🧍♂️🪓
—Christian Horner is the tree—
@/cursedf1takes:
If Max Verstappen joins Mercedes, I demand Drive to Survive devotes three episodes to just the George–Max–Toto tension arc. Make it like Succession.
@/fanfictionf1:
no one:
literally no one:
me, already writing a secret Mercedes love triangle AU with Max, Ana Wolff and George
@/susiepaddockgirl:
Max and Toto in the same team garage?? that’s like… alpha and alpha sharing one cave.
Someone’s getting bitten.
@/pitwallpsychic:
if this happens. I’m telling you.
Christian Horner is going to faint.
On live television.
And I will enjoy every frame of it.
***
Group Chat: “TEAM 33”
(Members: Max Verstappen, Jos Verstappen, Raymond Vermeulen)
Raymond:
Heads up.
Red Bull’s PR team has been calling all morning.
Media’s spiraling after Sky Italia.
Someone
definitely
leaked the meeting.
Jos:
They’re nervous.
Christian’s pretending he’s not sweating but I saw him talking to Helmut with that
look
.
Max:
Good.
Raymond:
You enjoying this?
Max:
A little.
I’ve spent the last six months carrying a car that fights me every lap.
Let them feel what uncertainty tastes like.
Jos:
They asked me if you’re planning to release a statement.
I told them you’d rather release a live crocodile into the press room.
Raymond:
Nice.
Max:
Tell them if they want clarity, they should’ve given me a car that can go flat through Turn 3.
Jos:
You’ve got the whole factory on edge.
You realize that, right?
Max:
Maybe they should be.
Maybe it's time they start asking
themselves
the questions I’ve been asking for months.
Raymond:
You keep this up and they’ll throw a yacht party just to beg you to stay.
Max:
Not interested in yachts.
I want answers.
And performance.
And maybe a team that doesn’t implode on Thursdays.
Jos:
You’ve got Christian trying to schedule “a casual coffee chat” with me.
He sent me a smiling emoji, Max.
A smiling emoji.
Max:
Block him.
Raymond:
Honestly might be the first time they’ve taken you seriously since Bahrain.
Threatening to leave is getting you more attention than four championships did.
Max:
Exactly.
Now let’s see what they’re willing to do to keep me.
***
Group Chat: “WHO IS MAX VERSTAPPEN DATING”
(Members: Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, Carlos Sainz, Daniel Ricciardo)
Lando:
SKY ITALIA
I REPEAT
SKY. SPORT. ITALIA.
Carlos:
Not this again.
Oscar:
It’s happening, isn’t it.
Lando:
“Concrete negotiations”
They used the word
concrete
That’s not a rumor word
That’s a
he signed three weeks ago and Toto is building him a throne
word
Daniel:
Told you all
Max doesn’t flirt with options
He
commits
Carlos:
Oh my god
George is going to lose his mind
Lando:
Again, they might cut
Kimi
Daniel:
THEY’RE NOT CUTTING BABY MERCEDES
he’s
made in Brackley™
if they try, Toto will simply cease to exist out of grief
Carlos:
I’m just relieved it’s not
my
seat this time
Lando:
does anyone else feel like Max is assembling an
empire
like this is step two of some 5-year masterplan
Step 1: secret girlfriend
Step 2: Mercedes
Step 3: ???
Step 4: global domination
Daniel:
Step 3 is obviously
reveal secret girlfriend by taking her to the FIA Gala in a Mercedes dress
and watching the world combust
Lando:
i’m going to pass out
Oscar:
You’ll survive.
Lando:
how do you know
Oscar:
Because if Max really wanted to mess with you
he’d announce the Mercedes move
and
the girlfriend
in the same Instagram carousel
with a cat in the background
Carlos:
Caption: “New chapter. She said yes too.”
Double kill.
Daniel:
If that happens I’m flying to Monaco and live streaming Lando’s breakdown
Lando:
i hate all of you
***
Silverstone Circuit, Silverstone, England - 3 July 2025
Lando hadn’t planned to ask.
Really, he hadn’t.
It was media day, the sun was actually out for once, and he’d already survived two “Could this finally be your year at home?” interviews without flipping a table. All in all, things were going fine.
Until he saw Max.
Leaning against the Red Bull hospitality wall, sipping a drink, like the whole world hadn’t been on fire about him for the past week.
Lando hesitated for half a second—then made a beeline for him.
“You know,” he said, coming to stand beside him, “you could at least pretend to be stressed about the Mercedes stuff.”
Max didn’t even blink. Just sipped his water and replied, “Why would I be stressed?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Lando said, squinting at him. “Maybe because Sky Sport Italia just declared your defection imminent like it’s the second coming.”
Max gave him that maddening shrug. The one that said: I don’t confirm, I don’t deny, I simply exist in this liminal space where facts go to die.
“People say a lot of things,” he said.
“That’s not a no.”
“That’s not a yes either.”
Lando narrowed his eyes. “So you’re not talking to Mercedes?”
Max tilted his head slightly. “Are you?”
“Mate,” Lando deadpanned. “They didn’t even want me for the Netflix golf special. I think I’m safe.”
Max grinned at that, but said nothing else.
Silence stretched between them, broken only by the distant clatter of catering trays and the buzz of camera crews swarming nearby.
Lando crossed his arms. “You’re not gonna tell me, are you?”
Max raised an eyebrow. “What would be the fun in that?”
And that was it. No denial. No clarification. No classic Verstappen what the fuck are you talking about deflection.
Just enough ambiguity to make Lando spiral a little.
He walked back toward McLaren twenty minutes later, sunglasses on, hands in his pockets, brain racing.
Because if Max hadn’t shut it down…
If he hadn’t flat-out denied it like he normally would…
Then that meant—
“Oh my god,” Lando muttered to himself. “He’s actually going.”
Max Verstappen. In a Mercedes.
And possibly, maybe… not as George’s teammate.
Lando wasn’t sure whether to panic, celebrate, or start stress-eating Kinder eggs.
Maybe all three.
***
Group Chat: “WHO IS MAX VERSTAPPEN DATING”
(Members: Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, Carlos Sainz, Daniel Ricciardo)
Lando:
guys
he didn’t deny it
he didn’t deny it
Carlos:
who didn’t deny what
Oscar:
Please tell me this isn’t about Max again
Daniel:
😏
Lando:
HE. DIDN’T. DENY. IT.
I asked Max straight-up if the Mercedes rumours were true and he just gave me that vague Verstappen answer like “People say a lot of things”
WHICH ISN’T A NO
IT’S NEVER A NO WHEN IT’S TRUE
Oscar:
So just to confirm
He didn’t say yes
He didn’t say no
But you’re now convinced it’s yes?
Lando:
YES
That’s how Max works!!
If it was fake he would’ve said “that’s bullshit” and gone back to his stroopwafel
He just smirked at me, Oscar
SMIRKED
Lando:
He’s gonna win
everything.
George will spontaneously combust.
Kimi will lose his mind.
Daniel:
…George is definitely crying.
Oscar:
So we’re just accepting this as canon now?
Lando:
Unless someone gets me hard evidence otherwise
Yes
He’s gone
Gone Girl-style
Carlos:
Toto Wolff is Rosamund Pike confirmed?
Oscar:
This escalated quickly.
Daniel:
Honestly I’m just here for the chaos.
And the thought of Christian Horner trying to emotionally process this with jazz music playing softly in the background.
Lando:
I KNEW I SHOULD HAVE GOTTEN HIM TO PINKY SWEAR
I COULD HAVE STOPPED THIS
Oscar:
Again
Eat a Kinder egg
Lando:
DON’T TELL ME WHAT TO DO IN MY TIME OF GRIEF
***
Slack Channel: #brackley-nerds
Private Channel. ~30 members.
nicola.sim
so um
has anyone looked at sky italia’s feed today
👀
jess.hr
alright which one of you accidentally leaked to sky italia. confess now or i start deleting PTO requests.
fatima.pr
i’m literally begging you not to say what i think you’re about to say
liam.eng-lead
i think he’s going to say what we all think he’s going to say
nicola.sim
VERSTAPPEN.
MERCEDES.
CONCRETE NEGOTIATIONS.
they used the words “CONCRETE” and “NEGOTIATIONS.”
this is not a drill. this is not a rumour. this is an ACTUAL WALL OF NEWS.
kayleigh.powerunit
is this why Toto’s been wearing that one watch he only brings out when he’s emotionally prepared to steal your soul
tom.sim:
no but like
WHAT IF IT’S TRUE
what if max actually joins
i’m going to need sedatives
rachel.aero
we need to talk about the real victim here
george russell’s blood pressure
fatima.pr
don’t @ me i’m updating the media briefing template for the third time today
james.brakes:
y’all acting like Toto isn’t walking around suspiciously upbeat
the man HUGGED SOMEONE last week. suspicious behavior.
lorelai.pa
...he’s not coming for the engine.
he’s coming for the
engineer
liam.engine
ANA WOLFF????
maddie.sim:
WAIT
you don’t think it’s because of
Ana
, do you???
liv.strategy:
i mean. she DID absolutely short-circuit when someone mentioned Max in the breakroom last week. like. rage reboot.
liam.engine:
and the Russian cake!! the Medovik!! Maybe that was him, right? it was SO specific
yas.enginecontrol:
sugar + silence = love language
james.brakes:
max leaving red bull
taking george’s seat
stealing the wolff daughter
becoming Toto’s unofficial son-in-law
it’s a greek tragedy and i’m so here for it
flo.eng:
george right now watching his career, love life, and contract get Thanos-snapped into dust
liv.strategy:
Plot twist: Ana has known this entire time.
She’s probably building the PU around him. In silence. With vengeance.
lorelai.pa
okay so like
we’re all thinking it
but who’s Toto gonna drop?
liam.engine
you mean who he’s going to
yeet into the sun
kayleigh.powerunit
if it’s Kimi, I QUIT
you don’t nurture the golden child from karting and then boot him for a dramatic man in a sim rig
benjy.data
it has to be George right???
the whole
“tried to flirt with Ana while slowly eroding her personality”
thing
james.brakes
george. 100%
kimi is the prodigy. the golden boy. the future. the 200km/h cinnamon roll.
maddie.sim
counterpoint: kimi crashed into max last week
toto’s face on the pit wall looked like he’d swallowed a lemon whole
rachel.aero
george is a known quantity tho?? consistent? speaks like he’s narrating a nature docu-series??
liam.engine
you think toto would really drop his proven race winner over a rookie??
kayleigh.powerunit
counterpoint:
kimi’s young. very young.
like “still uses a snapchat streak” young
tom.sim
re-counterpoint:
kimi is FAST. and smart. and
actually makes Ana laugh
lorelai.pa
i’m convinced Toto already made the call
we’re just waiting for George to figure it out
kayleigh.powerunit
i vote we keep Kimi
he’s a baby
he’s fast
he brings snacks for everyone
he once told Ana her airflow simulations were “sick” and she
smiled
tom.sim
okay but imagine the press release
“Mercedes-AMG welcomes Verstappen and Antonelli: the past, present, and terrifyingly efficient future.”
Chills.
sam.transmission
we are either entering a championship dynasty
or emotional nuclear winter
possibly both
***
Interview Transcript: Silverstone Media Day
Max had survived worse.
Triple headers. Red Bull car launches. Daniel’s cooking.
But this ? This was hell. This was media pen purgatory. A never-ending loop of microphones, reporters, and the words: “Sky Italia reports concrete negotiations…”
His jaw had already locked into a perma-smile that wasn’t fooling anyone. His PR minder had passed him three mints and one “please don’t murder the Italian journalists” look:
Sky Italia:
“Max, Sky Sport Italia is reporting that concrete negotiations are underway between you and Mercedes for 2026. Can you confirm anything?”
Max: (blank stare)
“No.”
(beat)
“As I said before, I’m focused on this weekend.”
***
Independent:
"Max, Sky Italia reported yesterday that you're in concrete negotiations with Mercedes for 2026. Any comment?"
Max: (deadpan)
"I didn’t know concrete could negotiate."
***
Motorsport.com:
"Max, can you give us any insight into your long-term plans?"
Max:
"I plan to go home after this. Feed my cat. Maybe take a nap."
***
RTL Germany:
“Max, is the current Red Bull situation pushing you toward a change?”
Max:
“I’m not being
pushed
anywhere. I’m not a supermarket trolley.”
***
F1TV:
“Max, would you say Mercedes has been courting you aggressively?”
Max:
“No one’s brought me flowers yet.”
***
ESPN:
“Max, are you tired of answering the same question about Mercedes?”
Max:
“Yes. Next question.”
***
Motorsport.com:
“Max, how do you handle all this speculation mentally?”
Max:
“I picture everyone as cats. It makes interviews funnier.”
***
F1TV Reporter:
“Max, with all the rumors about Mercedes, do you think you can give the fans any clarity about your future?”
Max:
“Yes.”
(beat)
“My future is that I will drive a car on Sunday.”
***
The Race:
“Max, can you address the reports that you’ve already spoken directly to Toto Wolff?”
Max:
“I’ve spoken to Toto before. He’s tall. Hard to miss. We’ve been in the same paddock multiple times this season.”
***
Motorsport.com:
“Max, Sky Sport Italia is reporting that concrete negotiations are underway between you and Mercedes for 2026. Can you confirm anything?”
Max: (blank stare)
“No.”
(beat)
“As I said before, I’m focused on this weekend.”
***
Dutch TV:
“Max, would you describe your current feelings about the rumors in one word?”
Max: (long pause)
“Concrete.”
***
Corriere dello Sport:
“Max, Toto Wolff has said Mercedes is preparing for a ‘new era.’ Are you part of that?”
Max:
“I’m preparing for qualifying. Everything else is not my era right now.”
***
Bild:
“Max, is it true you’ve already visited the Mercedes factory?”
Max:
“Is it true you’ve already written this headline either way?”
***
The Race:
“Max, fans are speculating you’re keeping quiet because a deal is already done.”
Max:
“People are also speculating that aliens built the pyramids. People speculate.”
***
Sky Germany:
“Do you think the rumors are affecting team morale?”
Max:
“I think answering the same question fifty times in an hour is affecting
my
morale.”
***
Motorsport Netherlands:
“Have you spoken to Lewis about what it’s like to drive for Mercedes?”
Max:
(grins faintly) “I spoke to Lewis about his dog. That’s as far as we got.”
***
The Race:
“Would driving alongside Kimi Antonelli appeal to you in the future?”
Max:
“He’s fast. He’s smart. And he doesn’t ask me if I’m signing with Mercedes every five minutes, so yeah, appealing.”
***
ESPN F1:
“Max, can you at least rule out Mercedes for 2026?”
Max:
“I can rule out answering the same question again in the next ten minutes, but we’ll see how that goes.”
***
Sky Italia (pushing again):
“Max, is it true Mercedes approached your management directly?”
Max:
“Maybe they approached them indirectly. Through interpretive dance. I wasn’t there.”
***
By the time he escaped the pen, his PR minder looked equal parts horrified and impressed.
***
Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Dr. Anastasia “Ana” Wolff
Ana:
Really.
Interpretive dance?
Max:
You saw that one, huh?
Ana:
I saw
all
of them.
Sky Italia are still crying.
Max:
They asked me the same question seven times.
I thought I’d return the favor with chaos.
Ana:
You called my father “tall” like it was a medical condition.
Max:
He
is
tall.
Hard to miss. That was fact-based journalism.
Ana:
You told Motorsport.com your coping mechanism is imagining reporters as cats.
Max:
That one’s actually true.
Made the whole experience feel like a nature documentary.
Ana:
I can’t decide if you’re unhinged or a genius.
Max:
You like unhinged. Don’t lie.
Ana:
I
tolerate
unhinged.
Because otherwise I’d have to read 300 speculative articles written by people who think “concrete” means “confirmed.”
Max:
“Concrete can’t negotiate.”
Iconic line. Should put it on a t-shirt.
Ana:
You’re exhausting.
Max:
And yet you’re texting me instead of prepping for your next meeting.
Ana:
You owe me lunch soon for the stress-induced eye twitch you gave Toto.
Max:
Done.
As long as we don’t talk about Mercedes, Toto, or construction materials.
Ana:
Deal.
***
Twitter Thread: Max Verstappen is Unhinged
@/gridchaos:
max verstappen answering every mercedes question like it’s a stand-up set… “i didn’t know concrete could negotiate” HELLO??? 💀
@/paddocktea:
“i’m not a supermarket trolley” might be the greatest media pen answer of all time. give him the championship for that alone.
@/verstappensburner:
max: “i picture everyone as cats”
me: actually this explains
everything
@/f1gossipmill:
sky italia: “are you in concrete negotiations with mercedes”
max: “no”
sky italia: “can you comment on that”
max: “i didn’t know concrete could negotiate”
TOTO WHEREVER HE IS: 👀
@/gridwitch:
“i plan to go home, feed my cat, maybe take a nap” is such peak max energy. man’s literally like: 2026? idk bro i’m just trying to get to dinner.
@/pitwallpanic:
media pen highlight reel:
– “no one’s brought me flowers yet”
– “i’m not a supermarket trolley”
– “maybe they approached them through interpretive dance”
give him a netflix special at this poin
@/redbullruinedme:
someone please get sky italia a drink they looked
personally attacked
when he said “concrete can’t negotiate” 💀
@/softcompoundgossip:
his pr minder watching him spiral into chaos like: 😬😬😬
also his pr minder lowkey impressed: 😏
@/w16truthers:
“would driving alongside kimi antonelli appeal to you?”
max: “he doesn’t ask me about mercedes every five minutes so yeah appealing”
this kid is about to get knighted by max himself lmao
@/dutchieonboard:
the supermarket trolley line has fully entered my vocabulary. thank you max verstappen for your service.
@/altairsupremacy:
okay but the way he kept deadpanning through the entire thing??? stone cold. man is running media day like a hostage situation and somehow winning.
@/mercedesmybeloved:
“interpretive dance” is going to haunt toto for the rest of the season and i for one am THRIVING.
@/f1burneraccount:
max verstappen walking into the media pen like it's a hostage situation and walking out after mentally vaporizing 12 journalists with sarcasm. goat behavior.
@/redflagmax:
“i didn’t know concrete could negotiate”
“no one brought me flowers yet”
“i’m not a supermarket trolley”
max verstappen is writing an off-Broadway one-man play and calling it a press conference
@/gridteaofficial:
the way sky italia kept trying and max just got more unhinged every time???
interpretive dance was not on my media bingo card
@/paddockcryptid:
“i’ve spoken to toto. he’s tall.”
this man is TORMENTING the press and i’m living for it
@/neutraltyre:
his PR girl handed him a mint and the look of “please don’t commit war crimes” and max just chose ✨violence✨ anyway
@/lap1chaos:
sky italia asking the same question for the third time and max going “no” with a smile that screams “i will destroy you and your family line”
@/verstappenscat:
“I plan to go home. Feed my cat. Maybe nap.”
man is so over it he’s turned into a retired grandpa mid-interview
@/teambrackley:
max: “kimi doesn’t ask me about mercedes every five minutes, so yeah. appealing.”
is this a soft launch or a transfer announcement in slow motion???
@/ersfailure:
press: “can you give us one word to describe the rumors?”
max:
“concrete.”
you can’t write comedy like this
@/dtsoutofcontext:
motorsport.com: how do you mentally handle the speculation?
max: “i picture everyone as cats.”
that’s it. we’re done here. this is peak f1 content.
@/constructorsofchaos:
the best part is that he
didn’t deny anything
but also gave absolutely NOTHING
he’s so good at this it’s terrifying
@/orangearmy87:
no because “i spoke to lewis about his dog. that’s as far as we got.” is the most max verstappen answer ever.
@/lap1drama:
max: i plan to go home. feed my cat. maybe take a nap.
me: same, bestie, same.
@/gridsniffer:
his PR minder at the end looked like they aged 12 years in 20 minutes and also like they were about to frame "i didn’t know concrete could negotiate" on the wall.
@/mercedesmybeloved:
kimi antonelli reading "he doesn’t ask me if i’m signing with mercedes every five minutes, so yeah, appealing": 👁️👁️
@/w14fan:
“people also speculate that aliens built the pyramids. people speculate.” MAX IS ONE MORE QUESTION AWAY FROM GOING FULL ANCIENT ALIENS AND I’M HERE FOR IT.
***
Silverstone Circuit, Silverstone, England - 4 July 2025
Ana wasn’t expecting Susie.
Not really.
Sure, she’d seen the travel updates. Knew her stepmother had meetings in London and a short window between commitments. But when her phone buzzed with a one-line message — Lunch. Now. I’m outside. Don’t argue. — she assumed something had caught fire.
She didn’t expect to walk into a quiet corner booth and find Susie already seated, two salads ordered, one iced tea waiting for her with exactly one lemon slice and a napkin folded into a triangle. (A detail Ana clocked instantly. Of course Susie would remember that.)
Ana slid into the booth. “Is something wrong?”
“No,” Susie said, breezily. “Just wanted to see you.”
Ana narrowed her eyes. “You came all the way to Silverstone for salad?”
“I came for you. The salad is incidental.”
There was a moment of stillness — the ambient hum of voices, the clink of cutlery, the familiar overlay of mechanics talking about wing flexibility in the background. Ana didn’t move.
Susie took a sip of water and said, perfectly calmly, “I just want to remind you that you don’t need to change for anyone.”
Ana blinked.
“…What?”
“You don’t need to soften yourself, Ana,” Susie continued, voice gentle but firm. “Not for approval. Not to be easier for anyone else. You are who you are, and who you are is extraordinary.”
“I—” Ana frowned. “Why are you saying this?”
“I just—felt like you needed to hear it.”
“I—” She stopped, fork hovering midair. “Okay… Did someone say something to you? About me?”
“Ana.”
Ana set her fork down. Slowly.
“This feels like a very specific conversation to be having out of nowhere.”
Susie gave her that look — the one Ana had always admired and feared in equal measure. Half affection, half don’t test me
“I know what the world is like,” Susie said softly. “Especially for women like you. Especially in this sport. And I also know the signs. I can tell when someone I love starts retreating into themselves.”
Ana looked away.
Her voice, when it came, was quiet. “I’m not retreating. I’m… recalibrating.”
Susie said nothing.
Ana sighed. “Do you know how much work it is to seem normal?”
Susie stayed very, very still.
“Do you know how many hours I’ve spent—just trying to decode facial expressions? Tone of voice? Which version of ‘fine’ means someone is actually angry? How many times I’ve had to watch the way I move my hands or modulate my voice or pretend that eye contact doesn’t make me feel like my skin is splitting?”
Her voice didn’t shake. She wasn’t crying.
This wasn’t grief. It was truth. A cold, tired, bone-deep kind of truth.
“I know I intimidate people. I know I come across as sharp or too clinical. I know people think I’m cold when I don’t laugh at their jokes or when I don’t sugarcoat things. But the masking—” she looked up— “is exhausting. But it’s worse when people start… commenting.”
“Commenting how?”
“Just—” Ana’s jaw clenched. “That I should smile more. Or soften. Or make myself easier to like.”
There it was. Her shame. Her truth. Her fury, curled up behind her ribs like a fist.
Susie was silent for a long moment.
Then she said, very carefully, “Ana. You are not a toaster.”
Ana blinked. “…What?”
“You are not a product,” Susie repeated, calmly. “You do not need to be more user-friendly.”
Ana stared. A small laugh — startled, slightly unhinged — escaped her.
“Darling,” Susie continued, softer now, “you were born with a different blueprint. That doesn’t mean you’re broken. And if anyone makes you feel like you’re hard to love, the problem isn’t you. It’s their limited imagination.”
“But first—finish your salad. I’m here for another hour and I fully intend to lecture you through dessert.”
Ana rolled her eyes.
But her fork moved again.
***
Silverstone Circuit, Silverstone, England - 3 July 2025
Ana was mid-way through re-running a torque response analysis when the low-level background chatter of the garage changed pitch. She didn’t look up—engineers only looked up if something exploded —but she caught the shift anyway.
A ripple of camera shutters. A few fans outside the barricades shrieking like they’d just seen a god.
And then—
thump thump thump thump—
The unmistakable sound of an overexcited vegan bulldog galloping across the pit lane.
Ana barely had time to turn her head before Roscoe Hamilton—tongue out, tail wagging, utterly unbothered by the fact that he’d just abandoned his famous owner—barreled into her with the unshakable confidence of a creature who knew exactly where he belonged.
She stumbled back half a step.
“Roscoe,” she said flatly, as he shoved his entire weight of nearly 50 pounds against her legs and gave a huff of satisfaction. “You live with a seven-time world champion. Why are you like this.”
Roscoe responded by sitting directly on her foot and panting proudly.
A few feet behind him, Lewis jogged up, Ferrari red race suit half-zipped, sunglasses on, expression a mix of apologetic and fond. “I swear I tried to hold the leash.”
Ana just arched an eyebrow. “That implies you had the leash in the first place.”
Lewis grinned. “Alright, fair.” He reached down, but Roscoe ignored him entirely, pressing his face into Ana’s knee with a dramatic sigh.
“Do you feed him under the table or something?” Lewis asked.
Ana bent slightly to scratch behind Roscoe’s ear. “He just knows I don’t treat him like a celebrity.”
Lewis snorted. “He’s got a nose for calm. You’re like… emotionally Teflon.”
“Coming from you, that’s rich,” she said, finally looking up at him.
Lewis pulled off his sunglasses and gave her a once-over. “You look good. Like ‘still terrifying but better rested’ good.”
Ana smiled faintly. “That’s because I made Kimi do all the sim work this week. New kid’s eager and programmable.”
Lewis chuckled. “He still twitchy around George?”
Ana didn’t even blink. “George is George.”
“That bad?”
“He tried to explain load transfer to me yesterday.”
Lewis wheezed. “Oh no.”
Ana folded her arms, deadpan. “Used the phrase ‘let me simplify it for you.’”
Lewis put a hand over his heart, staggering back like he’d been shot. “You didn’t kill him?”
“I had just finished calibrating the ERS. Would’ve been wasteful.”
Lewis grinned. “Still the smartest person in motorsport.”
“And yet your dog is still here.”
They both looked down. Roscoe had flopped fully onto her feet and closed his eyes.
“He’s yours now,” Lewis said with a shrug. “I’m just the guy who pays his organic kibble bill.”
Ana glanced down at the blissed-out bulldog. “Tell me you didn’t bring him to the Ferrari garage first.”
“I did,” Lewis sighed. “He sulked. Then saw a Mercedes shirt and booked it. Straight across pit lane. You should’ve seen the PR rep’s face. Devastated.”
Ana smirked. “Good taste.”
***
Twitter Thread: Roscoe Hamilton & Ana Wolff
@/SilverstoneSundays:
🚨 NOT A DRILL 🚨
Roscoe Hamilton just
abandoned
the Ferrari garage and SPRINTED across pit lane to Mercedes.
📹 (video attached)
@/hamiltonangel:
HE DIDN’T EVEN HESITATE 💀 went full “my real parent is over there” energy
@/pitlaneprincess:
NOT ROSCOE YEETING HIMSELF ACROSS PITLANE STRAIGHT INTO THE MERCEDES GARAGE???
@/mercedesmybeloved:
ana wolff casually standing there like: 🙃 and roscoe going 🏃♂️💨 STRAIGHT TO HER FEET
@/roscoestan:
lewis running after him yelling “ROSCOE WAIT” and roscoe being like “NO THOUGHTS. ONLY ANA.”
@/brackleyblur:
you guys don’t understand he literally
dragged
the leash out of lewis’ hand and BOLTED.
didn’t even look back. pure betrayal.
@/techanalyticsF1:
ok but if roscoe adores her THAT much she’s either sneaking him snacks or she’s the calmest energy in the entire paddock.
@/leclercsleftbrow:
Ferrari PR watching their best-behaved asset sprint back to Mercedes: 💀💔
@/brackleyblur:
Ana didn’t even bend down. She just
accepted
him like a queen greeting her most loyal knight.
@/silverarrowsalt:
someone get the picture of roscoe lying on her feet pls i need it for science
@/ferraripain:
ferrari pr rn: explaining to sponsors why the dog prefers the competition.
@/GridGossip:
not me watching a 7-time world champion try to keep up while his own dog sprinted into the MERCEDES garage 💀
@/roscoestan44:
i don’t care what anyone says that dog KNOWS loyalty. brackley > maranello confirmed.
@/paddocktea:
lewis: “we love ferrari”
roscoe: “cool, anyway i’m going home”
@/hamiltonheart:
lewis in ferrari red chasing his bulldog into the mercedes garage is the best sitcom subplot this season.
****
Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Dr. Anastasia “Ana” Wolff
Max:
You free tonight?
Ana:
Define “free.”
Max:
Not with anyone.
Not working.
Available to come to my hotel room.
Ana:
That’s a suspiciously specific list.
Max:
You’re suspiciously difficult to schedule.
Ana:
I have a job.
Max:
So do I.
Still managed to qualify on pole and want to see you.
Is that enough?
Ana:
You’re sentimental when you’re tired.
Max:
I’m honest when I’m tired.
And I want you here.
Ana:
When?
Max:
Now.
Ana:
You do realize I’m still in the paddock?
Max:
Get in a car.
I’ll text you my room number.
Don’t pretend you don’t like it when I ask.
You always show up.
Ana:
Maybe I just appreciate efficiency.
Max:
And maybe I just want to kiss you before I fall asleep.
You coming?
Ana:
Five minutes.
Try not to smirk when you open the door.
***
Max Verstappen’s Hotel Room, Silverstone, England - 4 July 2025
Ana knocked once. Not because she needed to — he’d already texted door’s open five minutes ago — but because it gave her a second. A pause. A moment to breathe.
Then she stepped inside.
The room was dark, save for the soft glow of the bedside lamp. Warm. Quiet. The kind of quiet that felt almost intentional, like the air itself had been holding its breath.
Max was there. Not lounging on the bed like usual. Not scrolling his phone or pretending to be indifferent.
He was standing.
Waiting.
She didn’t get two full steps in before he crossed the room in three.
His hands were on her face like it had been days instead of hours. Like the ache of the day had condensed into this—this need, this urgency, this wordless press of his forehead against hers.
She blinked up at him, surprised.
Not by the kiss that followed—she expected that. She was here for that. But by how desperate it felt.
He kissed her like he needed oxygen. Like this was the only thing that made the noise go quiet.
She let him.
She always let him.
She may fight him verbally, she may annihilate him in an argument, but as soon as the clothes came off…Max had the upper hand and she knew it.
Max kissed her with a precision that felt engineered—the exact way he touched the car, the exact way he hunted apexes, the exact way he won and won and won. Pressure, release, recalibrate.
Ana let herself sink into the kiss, just for a second. Let herself be held, just for a heartbeat. Security blanket, malfunctioning parachute, whatever.
Then, his hands were on her shirt, pulling it over her head.
He never broke the kiss, just walked her backwards until her legs hit the edge of the mattress.
She barely caught her balance. The mattress dipped, but Max’s grip on her hips steadied her. He always did that—caught her at the last second, like he couldn’t stand the idea of her falling anywhere except into him.
The shirt landed somewhere behind them, pooled fabric in the blue gloom. Max tugged at her bra straps with his teeth, rough and a little mean, and she punched his shoulder, but he just laughed into the hollow of her throat.
She ran her hands up his back, the shape of him as familiar as any of her own habits.
Max didn’t pause.
Not this time. Ana had expected a sidelong joke, a dig about how she was always late or how she’d probably recalibrated his toothbrush settings. But he didn’t say anything. Just kissed lower, palms bracing her ribs, thumbs sweeping up the underside of her chest until her nipples were between his fingers, pinched and rolled in a slow, cruel rhythm.
She sucked in breath through clenched teeth, the spring-loaded heat from his touch making her vision fade at the edges.
Fuck, he always remembered exactly what she liked.
He murmured something into her skin—not a word, just a low, satisfied sound—and Ana felt herself shudder at the warmth of it. Max didn’t give her time to think. He laid her out on her back, and crawled over her with a knee bracketing her thigh. His hands covered her breasts, gentle now.
“Impatient tonight,” she managed, but her voice broke at the end; he’d already mapped her body’s tells, and he pressed them with engineer’s finesse.
She tried to glare up at him, but he only grinned, and it made her want to throttle him and fuck him in equal measure.
She reached for his waistband, half in challenge, and shoved his shorts down just enough to free him. He was already hard.
Truthfully, he never really needed time—Ana suspected Max could roll out of an Red Bull straight onto a bed and be ready before she’d even kicked her shoes off. He ground against her, and the friction was sharp and greedy, and her whole body lit up at the contact.
She hooked her legs around Max and tried to flip their positions, but he read her intent beforehand, dug his hands into her ribs and pinned her.
Ana glared at him. Max smiled, slow and wolfish, and she hated how attractive it was. He ducked his head and found her nipple, teeth scraping just gently enough to keep from leaving a mark, and then he sucked, and she nearly arched.
“You want to be on top, Nastya?”
She wasn’t sure if it was a taunt or a test, if he actually wanted her to take over or just wanted to see how far she’d go before ceding the wheel. Ana hesitated, groping for the old calculus that usually let her outmaneuver him. But Max was already letting go, rolling onto his back with an ease that suggested total confidence—like he knew she’d just climb on anyway.
Fine , she would.
Ana straddled him, knees digging into the mattress, skin still prickling from the afterburners of want. She braced herself with one palm to his sternum, the other finding his cock.
He was already hard as hell, and Max reached for the bedside table to grab a condom.
Still, her heart stuttered, as she realised in what situation he had just put her in.
It was one thing to be buried beneath him.
It was something else entirely, to be the one on top, on display for him, and Max just raised one eyebrow at her, as she hesitated.
It wasn’t like they hadn’t done this before.
They had.
Just not…regularly.
She rolled the condom on him with cold precision—almost workmanlike, not looking him in the eye, like she was making a point of how little she cared.
But she did care. She wouldn’t be here if she didn’t.
She lined him up, exhaled, and sank down, slow and determined, bracing herself on his chest. The burn and stretch hit her all at once, sharp and greedy, and she pressed her lips together, refusing to let him see how much she liked the way he filled her up.
She paused at the base, acclimating, chest compressed by the wild drumbeat of her own heart. His hands hovered at her hips, not guiding, just there.
Polite. Offering.
Prick .
She snorted, half laughter, and drew herself up before dropping back down again, harder. She let herself ride him at her own pace, ignoring his little huffs of pleasure.
But what she hadn’t thought about…or what Ana had forgotten…was the fact that like this…he had two hands free to do whatever he wanted.
And he took full advantage of that.
Max started slow, planting his hands wide on her thighs, fingers splaying with a possessive certainty. He didn’t guide her. He just waited, watched, let her build up a rhythm.
But every beat he did something: swept his hands up her legs, pressed his thumbs over the sharp cut of her hipbones, ran reverent fingertips up her stomach to cup her tits from below… his thumb found her clit, her rhythm stuttering.
“Go on, Poekie ,” he purred.
She heard her own breath stutter. Max felt it too; his hands moved up to cup her ass, as if to hold her together. He thrust up into her, once, sharp, and she nearly lost her balance.
“Did you really think I was gonna let you be in charge, Nastya?” he teased her .
He didn’t even wait for her to answer—just arched his hips, trapping her motion, pushing deeper, and she made a sound she’d have been ashamed of if she still had control over her brain.
Every time she tried to pace herself, he jerked her rhythm off-axis, either with a deft twist of his thumb or a sharp tilt of his pelvis, always a beat ahead of her.
Ana’s thighs burned.
She planted one palm on his collarbone, as if she could pin him to the bed; but he just grinned, all bared teeth, and goaded her on, murmuring curses in Dutch and English that she barely understood but absolutely understood.
Her mind flickered, stuttering, half-collapsing under the sensory load. She tried to focus on anything else: the air conditioner’s hum, her own hair clinging damp and limp to her chest, the satellite delay of her heartbeat echoing through her whole body.
But every time she grounded herself in sensation, he stole it back, made the edges of her vision go white.
He thrust up again, quick and controlled, hands holding her so she couldn't cheat the angle. She tried to slow him, to flatten her palms and push him down, but her arms went weak the second his cock hit the spot inside her that made her toes curl under. He wasn't satisfied until she stopped pretending. Until her rhythm devolved to a staccato, desperate roll of hips that left her hair in her eyes and her lungs short-circuiting.
“Do you want to come, poekie ?” he teased her.
Ana would have strangled him if her hands still worked.
She was supposed to bite back, to throw some sharp retort, but her head was empty except for white noise and the hot, molten coil winding tight low and deep in her belly. Her mouth opened and closed, wordless. Max’s hand was on her clit, relentless, and she rode his cock like she had a point to prove, even as her body trembled and threatened to give out beneath her.
The orgasm hit her sideways. Not clean, not smooth, but jagged and shattering, unspooling all her hard-won composure.
Itcrashed through her like a dropped engine block, heavy and smoking-hot and impossible to control.
She bucked hard, lost her grip, and saw stars—literal pinpricks as her vision whited out. Max didn’t stop moving; if anything, he thrust again, milking every last aftershock from her until she whined, wrung out and limp.
She nearly toppled forward, collapsing boneless to his chest. Max wrapped an arm around her hips, squeezing—just once, for emphasis. His other hand coasted up her spine, slow and lazy, like he was petting a favorite dog.
She wanted to swear at him, or maybe bite him, or maybe sleep for a hundred years.
Ana forced herself up, blinking through the sweat and blur. “Shut up,” she panted, before he could say anything smug. Though his smile was reward enough: soft, triumphant, boyish.
He nipped her nck, wet with sweat. “Not gonna,” he whispered, voice husky and proud. He rolled her to the side, pulling free with a slow, shivery reluctance. Ana let herself sink into the mattress, every inch of her tingling.
***
Silverstone Circuit, Silverstone, England - 5 July 2025
The air inside the Red Bull motorhome was thick—too hot, too tense, too full of tension disguised as espresso and press smiles. Jos Verstappen didn’t bother hiding his irritation. He never had.
He was halfway through a curt conversation with one of the junior logistics managers when Christian Horner appeared around the corner like a bad omen in overpriced sunglasses.
“Jos,” Horner said, voice all silk and smug. “I hear the paddock’s been busy with rumours this week.”
Jos turned, slow and deliberate. He didn’t like games. He liked results. And right now, Red Bull wasn’t delivering either.
Horner smiled the way snakes probably smiled, all teeth and calculation.
“Mercedes?” he asked, almost laughing. “Really?”
Jos didn’t answer.
Christian crossed his arms. “Come on, let’s not pretend. Max isn’t going anywhere. This is just noise—posturing. You’re smarter than that.”
Jos’s face didn’t move. “Am I?”
Christian stepped closer, lowering his voice. “If you think stirring up the media with fake Mercedes talks is going to get you leverage in next year’s development plan, you’re wasting everyone’s time.”
“You think this is a bluff?” Jos asked, voice low.
“I think it’s theatre,” Christian said with a smile. “Max loves this team. We’ve built everything around him. Why would he go somewhere else and start from scratch?”
Jos’s eyes narrowed. “You know, Christian, that’s exactly the kind of thinking that got Sebastian out the door. And Daniel. And everyone else who realized they were being promised the future but handed excuses.”
Christian bristled. “This is different.”
“No,” Jos snapped. “It’s not.”
He stepped in, dropping his voice. “You think Max doesn’t notice that every time he finishes P4, you talk about wind tunnels and patience? That you can’t control your own house, and now the whole paddock knows it? Don’t talk to me about leverage.”
Christian scoffed, but there was something fraying in his tone now. “You think Toto’s going to give him a better deal? With a teenager on the other side of the garage and a team still limping from Lewis leaving?”
Jos didn’t even blink. “I think Max wants a car that works. I think he’s tired of driving like his life depends on it just to stay ahead of a McLaren. And I think if you’d paid more attention, you’d realize he’s not bluffing.”
A muscle jumped in Christian’s jaw.
Jos took a step back. “We’ve had the talks. The door’s open. You don’t have to believe me. But when he walks through it, don’t act surprised.”
And with that, he turned and walked off—leaving Horner staring after him, for once with nothing smug to say.
Christian Horner didn’t know it yet, but that was the last conversation he’d ever have with Jos Verstappen as Red Bull’s Team Principal.
***
Silverstone Circuit, Silverstone, England - 6 July 2025
Kimi leaned against the side rail of the flatbed, wind ruffling the edges of his race suit as the truck rolled past a sea of Union Jacks. The roar from the fans lining the Hamilton straight was so loud it rattled his ribs, but all he could really hear was the snick of his sunglasses being slightly too loose and Oliver Bearman yelling over the noise.
“You’re still smiling about that sim session, aren’t you?” Ollie shouted, grinning.
Kimi shrugged, doing his best to look casual and failing miserably. “Maybe.”
Ollie laughed. “Unbelievable. You’re turning smug. Just say it—‘Project Altair changed my life.’”
“It didn’t change my life,” Kimi said, deadpan. “Just every braking zone.”
“Right, right,” Ollie nodded seriously. “Not dramatic at all. That car will end up so tailored to you it might as well have your initials stitched into the halo padding.”
Kimi hesitated, then glanced sideways before lowering his voice just slightly. “Ana made it.”
Ollie blinked. “Ana… Ana Wolff ?”
Kimi nodded. “The whole thing. Mapped it off my Imola data, reworked the diff, cooling systems, throttle response... it’s basically wired to my brain.”
Ollie looked like he was about to cry tears of joy. “Bro. That’s the closest anyone’s come to a love language in F1.”
Somewhere behind them, Max—half-listening, half-waving at the crowd—turned slightly at the sound of Ana’s name.
He didn’t say anything. Just kept his sunglasses on and his expression unreadable. But inside?
He knew Ana. Knew the way her brain worked—sharp, silent, surgical.
She didn’t throw tantrums. Didn’t snap in meetings or storm off like George had accused her of once.
No, Ana got quiet.
And then she rewrote your engine map with a scalpel and gave your teammate a spaceship.
Max bit back a smirk.
This was her revenge.
Not loud. Not public.
Just… letting Kimi fly.
In a car that listened .
She’d built a car that sang for Kimi Antonelli and left George in the dust.
Max hid his smile behind a casual sip of water, letting the corner of his mouth twitch upward for half a second.
Good girl.
Classic Ana. Precision disguised as detachment. Revenge coded in torque maps and differential curves.
Ana hadn’t raised her voice once.
But Max heard her loud and clear.
He turned back toward the crowd and gave a little wave, lips twitching.
God, he loved her brain.
***
Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Dr. Anastasia “Ana” Wolff
Max:
So if I come to Mercedes…
Do I get a custom setup too?
Or is that reserved for Kimi and divine vengeance?
Ana:
Are you asking for professional reasons or because your ego is wounded that someone else got my attention?
Max:
Can it be both?
Ana:
No.
Max:
Unbelievable.
I’ve known you for ten years.
And Kimi gets a whole blueprint symphony just because George pissed you off?
Ana:
First of all, you’re being dramatic.
Second, Kimi just benefitted.
Max:
Mmm. So the rumors are true.
You are capable of pettiness.
I’m proud of you.
Ana:
It wasn’t petty. It was
accurate engineering.
There’s a difference.
Max:
Sure.
Accurate engineering that just so happens to eventually leave George skating around like he’s driving a shopping cart with a grudge.
Ana:
I don’t control how other people drive.
I just optimize for those who understand the brief.
Max:
God, I love when you talk dirty like that.
Ana:
You’re insufferable.
Max:
And yet.
You didn’t answer the question.
Do
I
get a car that sings?
Ana:
…
I might optimize around you.
Max:
I’ll take that as a yes.
Ana:
It was not a yes.
Max:
It was absolutely a yes.
Max:
Can’t wait to see my
Project Star
or whatever you’ll call it.
Ana:
Keep talking and you’ll get
Project Black Hole.
No light. No joy. No throttle.
Max:
Still sounds like a yes.
***
Chapter 12: Chapter 10: Brackley
Chapter Text
The Townhouse, Brackley, England - 7 July 2025
Ana hadn’t expected anything.
When the delivery came that morning — a matte black box with a gold-stamped envelope, no branding, just her initials on the lid — she almost didn’t open it.
The return label just said Ludwig Krüger.
Which meant one thing: her father.
Ana stared at it for a long moment.
Toto hadn’t said anything. Not after that day in Vienna. No updates. No messages. No “your suit’s ready” or “you’re going to love this.” Just silence. Just space.
Typical Wolff diplomacy: Push hard when it matters, then get out of the way.
She sat on the floor of her living room and opened the box with clinical precision.
Inside:
- One blazer in deep graphite gray, lined, seams finished in invisible thread.
- A pair of matching trousers with no waistband tags, the inside label embroidered in soft thread with A. Wolff in small, discreet lettering.
- A simple black blouse — cotton-silk blend, sleeveless, clean lines, soft enough to forget it existed.
- A note.
She unfolded the card.
Told you he was the best.
That was it. No long message. No explanation. Just a signature that meant: I’m paying attention.
She took the trousers first, cautiously.
She’d worn enough “high fashion” in her life to know what betrayal felt like in fabric form — the micro-itch of synthetic lining, the pinch of a waistband stitched a centimeter too tight, the betrayal of something that looked good and felt like a slow chemical burn.
But when she slid them on—
Nothing.
No friction. No pulling. No seams brushing too hard in the wrong place. They sat against her like they’d grown from her own skin. Familiar. Forgiving.
The blouse followed. Cool. Weightless. No inner tags. No neckline shift. She could breathe.
Then the blazer.
Her fingers shook as she slid her arms into the sleeves. She waited for that catch — the one under her shoulders that always made her twist and pull and want to scream.
It didn’t come.
It fit.
Not just the way it looked — which was sharp, modern, devastatingly clean — but in the way it sat on her. Like it wasn’t asking anything from her in return.
For once, the clothing didn’t win.
It didn’t challenge her.
It didn’t hurt.
Ana looked at herself in the mirror, expression unreadable.
This was what people meant when they said something was made for you.
And for the first time in a long time, she didn’t feel like she was adapting to survive the day.
The world had, for once, adjusted to her.
Not because she begged.
Not because she made herself smaller.
But because someone had simply listened.
She reached for her phone.
Typed two words to her father.
Ana: Thank you.
No emoji. No follow-up. Just that.
But she knew he’d understand.
***
Mercedes F1 HQ, Brackley, England - 7 July 2025
Toto had planned to grab Anastasia before she left for the meeting. Nothing formal.
A quiet five minutes. A check-in. The kind of fatherly “you’ve got this” he rarely let himself indulge in.
A quiet are you ready? before she sat down in front of Raymond Vermeulen and whatever layers of strategic subtext he planned to deliver on Max Verstappen’s behalf.
But Ana’s office was empty when he arrived. The lights still hummed. Her screens were glowing—maps, models, code flowing like water across four synchronized monitors.
And then he saw the folder.
A familiar one. Not Mercedes. Not team stationery.
Portfolio Overview – Wolff Holdings (Private)
He frowned.
It wasn’t the name that caught him off guard—Ana was meticulous about keeping personal finances separate—but the neat set of statements inside. Graphs. Return percentages. Asset allocations.
He scanned the first page. And stopped.
Seven figures.
Not Toto’s-money seven figures.
Ana’s-money seven figures.
He flipped to the next page. Growth charts spanning five years. Clean, deliberate investments. Commodities, tech start-ups, a handful of early green energy ventures that had ballooned quietly in the last eighteen months.
This wasn’t dabbling. This wasn’t a trust fund kid letting a bank manage her accounts.
This was strategy.
Diversified portfolios. High-yield bonds. Tech stocks he knew were still in pre-IPO stages.
He flipped to the next page. Real estate holdings. Private equity in three start-ups. One of which he knew had just been valued at over half a billion dollars.
He sat down in her chair without meaning to.
“ Was zur Hölle… ”
The door clicked open.
Ana stepped inside. Coffee in hand. Dressed for the Vermeulen meeting in a charcoal-grey suit that made Toto momentarily forget how to blink.
It wasn’t flashy. It wasn’t even particularly formal. But it was hers —tailored like second skin, sharp lines cut in soft fabric that moved when she did. Structured but never restrictive.
It fit like it was made for her. Because it was.
Ana paused. “ Why are you sitting at my desk?”
“Why,” Toto said slowly, holding up the folder like evidence, “do you have an investment portfolio that looks like you’re about to buy half of Switzerland?”
Ana blinked. Then rolled her eyes. “Don’t go through my things.”
“ Don’t go through your things? Did you… turn your trust fund into a private equity machine while I wasn’t looking?” he asked, still holding up the file. Toto flipped back to the first page just to make sure he hadn’t hallucinated the zeros.
She blinked. “Oh. That.”
“That?”
Ana stepped inside, unbothered, and set her mug down. “I got bored.”
Toto stared. Toto opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “You turned your trust fund into a private equity engine because you were bored? ”
Ana tilted her head. “Would you rather I’d bought a yacht?”
“ Nein ! I— Anastasia! ”
She took the folder out of his hand with infuriating calm, and set it back on the desk. “Numbers are numbers. Engines or equities. Same patterns, different output. Besides, you weren’t letting me work on anything real until I finished my doctorate. So I started investing instead. It was either that or develop a new hybrid model for my dishwasher.”
Toto pressed his fingers to his temple. “You could’ve told me.”
“You would’ve told me to focus on my thesis.”
“Of course, I would have!”
“And yet, I did both,” she said. “And made enough to buy my own wind tunnel if you ever piss me off.”
Toto was silent for a beat. Then:
“…Please don’t do that.”
“No promises.” She shrugged, twisting a pen between her fingers. “My trust fund was just sitting there, depreciating in a low-yield account. It felt inefficient. I started reading market analytics for fun during uni. It snowballed.”
“ Snowballed? Anastasia, this is millions .”
“Mm,” she said, entirely too casual. “Compounding interest is fun when you know what you’re doing.”
Toto just stared. “How much is it?”
Ana tilted her head. “Before or after Q2?”
Toto pinched the bridge of his nose. “ Gott im Himmel. Does Susie know about this?”
“Susie knows I get bored easily.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Ana didn’t answer. Just gave him the faintest hint of a smirk.
“Relax, Papa,” she said, “You told me once to be responsible with money.”
“I didn’t mean build a small empire on the side because you were bored. ”
Ana arched a brow. “Well. Now you know what happens when you underestimate my boredom.”
“ Sehr gut. ” Toto pinched the bridge of his nose. “What did you invest in?”
“Mostly clean energy start-ups. Some advanced manufacturing tech. Oh, and a little bit of aerospace—small satellite companies are undervalued right now. Easy to get in early if you know which ones to pick.”
Toto stared. “ Aerospace. ”
She shrugged. “Space doesn’t depreciate, Papa.”
Toto ran a hand down his face. “You turned a trust fund into eight figures because you were bored .”
Ana tilted her head. “Technically seven. Markets dipped last quarter.”
He just stared at her.
Finally, he managed, “Do you have any idea what most people do when they’re bored?”
“Play video games?”
“Exactly.” He pointed at her, somewhere between exasperated and impressed. “ Normal people play video games. You apparently play the stock market and win.”
Ana smirked faintly. “You always told me to be efficient.”
Toto let out a low, incredulous laugh. “Anastasia, you might be the only person alive who can make turning millions sound like a side hobby.”
She turned back to her monitor, already half-dismissing him. “That’s because it is.”
“Anastasia,” he said, still staring at the report.
“Hmm?”
“Don’t ever tell Jack this,” Toto said. “He’ll expect the same return on his allowance.”
Ana didn’t even look up. “Don’t worry. I already moved some of his into index funds.”
Toto blinked. “You what? ”
She sipped her coffee. “Relax. He’s eight. He thinks the stock market is where you buy more Lego.”
Toto dragged a hand down his face. “You are unbelievable. ”
“True.” She smiled at him over the rim of her mug. “But very efficient.”
He looked at her for another long moment. At the calm in her face. The confidence in how she carried herself in that not-just-tailored suit.
He followed her out of the office ten minutes later, the folder still burned into his thoughts, the cut of the suit still etched into his mind.
Raymond Vermeulen wanted to “evaluate” her in this meeting.
God help him. He had no idea what he was walking into.
****
Text Messages: Toto Wolff & Susie Wolff
Toto:
Anastasia has been quietly running a private equity operation out of her trust fund.
Millions.
Millions, Susie.
Susie:
Yes.
Toto:
Yes?
That’s all you have to say?
Susie:
I’ve known for three years.
Toto:
YOU WHAT.
Susie:
She came to me for a second opinion on a clean energy fund.
It was a good pick.
Toto:
Susie.
She’s turned it into eight figures.
Susie:
Technically seven.
Markets dipped last quarter.
Toto:
Not you too.
Susie:
Darling, did you really think she was just reading market analytics “for fun”?
Toto:
YES.
BECAUSE SHE SAID IT WAS FOR FUN.
Susie:
And it was.
It just also happened to make her millions.
Toto:
She said she started because she was bored.
Susie:
Would you rather she spent it on handbags?
Toto:
Nein.
Honestly? At this point? Maybe!
She said she could buy her own wind tunnel now.
Susie:
Smart girl.
Toto:
SUSIE.
Susie:
Relax.
She gets it from you.
You just built your empire out of race cars instead of clean energy startups.
Toto:
…
Gott im Himmel.
Susie:
Be proud of her, Toto.
Boredom that productive?
That’s a Wolff trait.
***
Mercedes F1 HQ, Brackley, England - 7 July 2025
The sim team was quiet when he stepped in. Not unusual—people tended to go silent when the Team Principal appeared unannounced—but this was a particular kind of still.
George was mid-run, eyes narrowed behind the visor, jaw working like he was chewing on data. On the screens, the car flickered through virtual Spa, telemetry scrolling across the monitors in neat lines of green and blue.
Toto leaned over the lead sim engineer. “How’s it running?”
“Baseline’s fine,” came the careful reply.
Toto’s gaze slid to the monitor in the corner. Project Altair sat idle in the system, a neat little file name glowing like a secret.
He made the decision before he thought about it too hard. “Load Altair.”
The engineer blinked. “Sir?”
“Run Project Altair for George.”
There was a beat of hesitation. “…You’re sure? That package was tailored to Kimi’s inputs. Extremely tailored.”
Toto’s tone left no room for doubt. “Yes. Let’s see what happens. If it makes the car faster for one driver, it can’t hurt to see how it reacts for the other. Run it.”
It had seemed like a reasonable test.
They didn’t tell George. They didn’t have to. The second the package loaded, the car changed under him.
And it went badly.
Not dramatically at first—just a fraction of throttle hesitation out of Turn 3, a twitch in the rear through Turn 4. But the deeper he went, the worse it got.
By the second lap, it was clear this was not going well.
George’s voice crackled through the comms, tight and sharp:
“Rear’s completely unstable—feels like the car’s guessing what I’m doing before I do it!”
One of the engineers muttered under his breath, “That’s… the point.”
Toto folded his arms. “Keep running. Let the data speak.”
By lap three, the feedback loop was a disaster. The torque mapping that had sung for Kimi Antonelli now screamed under George Russell. The diff settings fought him. The car understeered into Turn 6 like it wanted to bite.
Throttle application was spiking all over the graph. George’s usual smooth trace looked like someone had thrown it down a flight of stairs.
“Mate, this is undriveable. Turn-in’s fighting me, mid-corner balance is all over the place!”
Kimi’s baseline overlay on the adjacent screen was a perfect curve. George’s looked like it was actively at war with itself.
George’s steering trace looked like a seismograph in an earthquake. Throttle modulation all over the place. Brake bias warnings flashed red in the corner. The simulated W16 was fishtailing like it was auditioning for Fast & Furious.
“What the hell am I driving?” George’s voice cracked over the comms, a mix of outrage and panic.
“Just… relax into it,” one of the engineers said weakly.
“Relax into what? It’s like the car knows what I’m going to do and then does the opposite! It’s fighting me in every corner!”
By lap five, the inevitable happened.
Virtual gravel.
Reset.
On the monitors, the data made it even worse still: throttle traces out of sync, steering corrections spiking, brake modulation flatlining. The car wasn’t just fighting him—it was rejecting him.
Toto exhaled slowly, arms folded, watching the wreckage unfold in real time.
George ripped off his headset, hair plastered to his forehead, expression somewhere between offended and traumatized.
“Whatever package that was? Scrap it. Feels like someone built the car to do the opposite of what I want.” he said, voice tight,
Toto cleared his throat. “It’s… a specialized package. Project Altair. We were testing compatibility.”
George blinked. “Specialized for who, exactly?”
There was a long, telling silence.
George’s eyes narrowed. “ …Antonelli .”
No one said anything.
George jabbed a finger toward the control room. “That car hated me. I’ve never felt a setup actively hate me before.”
In the back of the room, one of the junior engineers muttered under their breath, “It wasn’t built to like you.”
Toto shot them a warning look but didn’t correct it.
Project Altair: Perfect for Kimi Antonelli. Catastrophic for George Russell.
His daughter’s precision had never been louder.
Toto’s curiosity finally won in the end.
“Is Valtteri still in the building?” Toto asked one of the engineers 20 minutes later.
A confused nod. “He’s in the debrief room.”
Toto leaned in. “Get him. I want him to run a package.”
Ten minutes later, Valtteri Bottas stepped into the sim rig with his usual calm, unbothered expression. “You want me to shake something down?”
“Project Altair,” Toto said.
One of the techs blinked. “ Altair? For him?”
“Yes,” Toto said. “Humor me.”
The first lap was smooth. Not Kimi-smooth, but the car didn’t fight Valterri. By lap three, he’d found a rhythm. The exits were cleaner than George’s had been, the mid-corner balance less unsettled.
Valtteri had the mechanical sympathy and experience to feel what the car wanted.
“Feedback?” Toto asked into the comm.
Valtteri exhaled. “This isn’t a normal baseline.”
“Correct.”
“It’s… alive. It wants you to drive a certain way. You fight it, it fights back. You let it breathe, it sings.”
Toto’s mouth twitched. “You know who we built it around?”
There was a pause. Then Valtteri laughed softly. “Has to be Kimi.”
“Yes.”
“Interesting,” he said through the comms. “Diff’s a bit aggressive on turn-in, but the exits are clean. Torque response is… sharper than usual.”
By lap five, he was adapting. Not perfectly—Altair wasn’t written for him—but with enough finesse that the car wasn’t fighting him like it had George.
“Rear balance is alive,” Valtteri murmured, adjusting mid-corner. “Not nervous. Just… alive. Whoever this was built for, they drive with their instincts first and logic second.”
Toto’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Go on.”
“Feels like it’s anticipating inputs. Not reacting. Like someone built it around muscle memory instead of numbers.”
Toto’s brow ticked upward. “And how does that work for you?”
“Better than it should,” Valtteri admitted. “It’s not mine, though. I can feel that. It’s… close. You know who this would be perfect for?”
“Who?” Toto asked, even though something in his gut already knew.
“Max Verstappen,” Valtteri said without hesitation.
The room went dead quiet.
The sim engineer froze mid-keystroke.
“It’s aggressive without being unstable. It expects you to trust it immediately and commit. The way it rotates mid-corner… that’s a Verstappen car. No question.”
The bay went quiet.
Valtteri’s hands stayed steady on the wheel. “This isn’t just a fast car. It’s a car that wants someone who drives on instinct. Someone who trusts the edge without overthinking it. This thing is built for someone who drives on instinct at 110%. That’s not George. That’s not me. It’s Kimi. And Max.”
Toto folded his arms, staring at the data. Torque curves. Brake modulation. The same fingerprints he’d seen Kimi sync to perfectly… and now Valtteri, with his years of reading cars like language, saying exactly what he hadn’t wanted to hear.
“Interesting,” Toto said at last, voice carefully neutral.
Valtteri eased the car through Eau Rouge, smooth as ever. “Who built this?”
There was a pause.
“Anastasia,” Toto said.
Valtteri actually laughed. “Figures. Feels like her work. Clean, sharp, doesn’t care about your feelings.”
Toto didn’t respond. He was too busy thinking about a name he hadn’t said out loud.
Max Verstappen.
And the fact that Ana’s code had built something perfectly tuned for him without ever meaning to.
Valtteri rolled to a stop at the end of the run, unstrapped calmly, and glanced toward Toto. “If you ever give him this, the rest of the grid’s dead.”
Toto said nothing for a long beat.
Then, softly:
“Noted.”
***
Slack Channel: #brackley-nerds
Private Channel. ~30 members.
nicola.sim:
soooooo did anyone else just witness a category 5 george russell meltdown or was that just me
ellie.electronics:
Define meltdown.
nicola.sim:
you know how normally he does the “tight smile, stiff upper lip” thing? yeah no.
today was “throw headset, leave the bay without eye contact” tier.
lucy.comms:
oh god what did you guys load in there
nicola.sim:
Altair.
leo.mechanic:
…for GEORGE?
maddie.sim:
toto told us to. you gonna tell him no?
sima.calibration:
hahahahaha holy shit
that package hates calculation. it’s literally designed to reward instinct.
jess.hr:
How bad.
nicola.sim:
bad. like. “i think the car is possessed and out to get me” bad.
lap 5: virtual gravel.
telemetry looked like modern art.
liam.eng-lead:
how’s kimi’s overlay look next to it?
nicola.sim:
like a symphony next to a cat walking on a piano.
maddie.sim:
did you see his FACE when he ripped the headset off?? i thought we were about to have our first sim bay homicide.
benjy.data:
i’ve seen steering traces in crashes that looked cleaner than that run.
nicola.sim:
he told toto the car
hated him
. direct quote.
zahra.aero:
…he’s not entirely wrong.
benjy.data:
“the car hated me” — yes george. she has taste.
maddie.sim:
it’s almost like loading a package built for someone who isn’t you might have consequences?? who would’ve guessed?? 🙃
sam.transmission:
KIMI’S OVERLAY WAS RIGHT THERE. the car clearly picked a favorite and it wasn’t george.
maddie.sim:
kinda hilarious that ana built a package so tailored it actively rejects drivers who aren’t “her guy.”
zahra.aero:
do NOT let Ana hear you call Kimi “her guy” she will end you in binary.
kayleigh.powerunit:
george stormed out like a kid whose little brother just beat his high score.
tom.sim:
he stormed out of the sim bay like someone canceled his pilates class
nicola.sim:
speaking of
valtteri casually coming in, running 8 laps, and going “huh. this would be perfect for max verstappen” was…
maddie.sim:
…the moment i aged 10 years.
maddie.sim:
did you SEE toto’s face??
benjy.data
he did the thing. the “very calm austrian” thing.
kayleigh.powerunit:
aka the thing that means someone’s getting fired or we just discovered a new weapon.
nicola.sim:
so anyway, consensus is:
Altair = Kimi’s baby
Altair = Max Verstappen bait
Altair = george’s new sleep paralysis demon
tom.sim:
…does anyone else feel like we accidentally watched lightning get bottled today?
megan.sim:
yep. and then we handed it to the wrong guy and wondered why the lab caught fire.
***
Mercedes F1 HQ, Brackley, England - 7 July 2025
Raymond Vermeulen had met many brilliant people in his career.
Aerodynamicists with egos the size of wind tunnels.
Engineers who lived in spreadsheets.
Drivers who could recite throttle maps in their sleep.
He had not, until today, sat across from someone who made all of them feel like they were operating two frames behind.
Dr. Anastasia Wolff did not shake his hand when she entered.
She nodded once, precisely, then sat down across from him, flipping open a tablet with the same energy as someone preparing to dissect an opponent rather than speak to one.
She had none of her father’s intimidating height, none of his dark hair. But as she met Raymond’s eyes, he realised that these eyes…they were all Wolff.
She wore a charcoal grey pantsuit, a black blouse underneath it, white blonde hair pulled back into a severe bun at the nape of her neck. Her jewellery was minimal. No trace of expensive designer labels, no trace of anything other woman her age with a father rich enough to double as the GDP of a small country would wear.
Andreas Stein sat beside her, equal parts host and referee. There was something in his posture that felt like he knew Raymond wasn’t ready for this.
“Thank you for making time,” Raymond said, trying to keep the opening cordial.
Ana nodded once. “You asked to speak to someone familiar with our 2026 integration systems. That’s me.”
Not warm. Not hostile. Just neutral — like someone handling a clinical procedure.
Raymond cleared his throat. “I understand you’ve led the systems architecture team since late 2022?”
“Correct.” She flicked her finger across her tablet and mirrored a projection onto the wall. “We began base simulations with a conservative energy mapping strategy. By Q2 2023, we’d restructured the model entirely. What you’re looking at is the current fourth-generation deployment algorithm. 97.2% thermal efficiency under the new regs. Conservative estimates put us eight months ahead of most other manufacturers.”
Raymond blinked. “Including Red Bull Powertrains?”
Ana tilted her head. “Especially Red Bull Powertrains.”
Andreas didn’t even smile. He just folded his hands.
Raymond leaned forward slightly. “Can you walk me through what makes your deployment system unique?”
He was proud of how level he kept his tone — until Ana clicked to the next slide and said, “How familiar are you with torque vectoring at 1000+ RPM energy bleed rates?”
He wasn’t. Not enough to keep up.
She knew it. Didn’t gloat. Just kept going.
When she paused for breath, Andreas spoke. “Our aim is to make the power unit do more than perform. We want it to communicate — constantly. Ana’s designed a system that self-corrects in real time. It learns.”
Raymond looked at her.
“Was that your concept?”
Ana nodded. “The original model was part of my doctoral work. This version’s grown teeth.”
It was a quiet flex, but Raymond felt it like a gut punch.
Raymond cleared his throat. “Impressive.”
“I don’t believe in selling something unless it is,” Ana replied.
Right. Okay.
Professional. Sharp. Fine.
It wasn’t arrogance. It was simply fact.
Raymond studied her. Cool. Unshakable. Like an iceberg with WiFi and a doctorate.
She didn’t flirt. She didn’t defend. She didn’t defer.
She dominated.
And every time he tried to shift the topic toward Max — just to see if she’d flinch — she pivoted so cleanly it felt like he was being politely outmaneuvered at 300kph.
He tried once more, deliberately vague. “So… if Max came to Mercedes, you’d be comfortable leading his energy systems?”
Ana finally met his eyes. Calm. Direct.
“If Max Verstappen wants to win another championship, he’ll need the best hardware available. I don’t care who drives the car. My job is to make sure it’s fast enough to beat anyone.”
“Would he influence your design decisions?”
A flicker — not of emotion, but of amusement .
“No,” she said. “ I don’t design for drivers. But I’ll always adapt around the ones worth adapting for.”
Raymond tried not to flinch.
“That said,” Ana continued, “my work is team-directed. Not driver-dependent. If he comes, great. If he doesn’t, the system will still win races.”
It wasn’t arrogance. It was truth.
Raymond leaned back in his chair, suddenly aware that he’d brought a knife to a laser fight.
He’d come here expecting to read her. Probe for weakness. See if she was part of the reason Max was wobbling.
But Ana Wolff had no tells.
No nerves.
And absolutely no interest in discussing anything outside the confines of engineering
Raymond sat back.
“Any other questions?” she asked.
Raymond opened his mouth. Closed it. Then shook his head.
“No,” he said. “You’ve… clarified a lot.”
And she smiled . Slightly. Just a flicker at the corners.
“Good,” she said. “I’m not in the business of ambiguity.”
“No,” he said. “That was… very informative.”
Ana stood. “Good. I have a battery mapping session in five minutes.”
She nodded to both men, turned on her heel, and left the room — not like someone exiting a meeting, but like someone who had won it.
Raymond sat in stunned silence.
Andreas leaned back, looking pleased.
“Well,” he said, “you wanted to meet Ana.”
Raymond rubbed a hand over his face. “I think I need a drink.”
***
Text Messages: Jos Verstappen & Raymond Vermeulen
Raymond:
Just finished the meeting.
Jos:
And?
Raymond:
He’s in love with a goddamn technical
nuke
.
Jos:
Oh Jesus.
Raymond:
She didn’t even blink, Jos.
I tried to steer the conversation six different ways. She
controlled
every single one.
Jos:
That bad?
Raymond:
She explained torque vectoring like she was giving a TED talk to a bunch of tired engineers and
still
made me feel like I forgot how electricity works.
Jos:
So it’s
worse
than I thought.
Raymond:
Much worse.
She’s not emotional. She’s
efficient
.
And calm. And terrifying.
She runs that room like it’s a neural net in human form.
Jos:
Sounds like Toto built himself a war machine and didn’t tell anyone.
Raymond:
Exactly.
Max isn’t just thinking about Mercedes because the car might be good.
He’s thinking about it because
she’s building it.
Jos:
Well.
We lost him.
Raymond:
She’s going to hand him the next great car and then walk away like it’s a chess game she won ten moves ago.
I can’t even be mad. I’m scared.
Jos:
We’re going to have to deal with her, aren’t we?
Raymond:
We already are.
***
Text Messages: Jos Verstappen & Sophie Kumpen
Jos:
Could you maybe try and talk some sense into your son?
He’s thinking about changing teams.
Because of a girl.
Sophie:
…
To Mercedes?
Jos:
Yes.
Sophie:
There are worse career decisions.
Have you
seen
their power unit projections?
Every engineer in the paddock is whispering that they’ll be ahead next year.
Jos:
Sophie.
He is literally uprooting his entire career because of some woman.
Sophie:
He’s not stupid.
If he’s thinking about leaving Red Bull, it’s because the numbers make sense.
Max doesn’t risk a championship window for a fling.
Who even
is
she?
Jos:
Anastasia Wolff.
Sophie:
…
Toto’s daughter?
Jos:
Yes.
Sophie:
There are worse career decisions.
If he’s going to switch, at least it’s to the team with the best hardware.
Jos:
That’s not the point!
He’s thinking with his heart, not his head.
Sophie:
Relax.
If it’s Mercedes and if it’s Dr. Anastasia Wolff, he’s probably making the smartest emotional and professional decision of his life.
You should be happy.
Jos:
You are
impossible.
***
Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Sophie Kumpen
Sophie:
So.
How long have you and Dr. Anastasia Wolff been together?
Max:
…
It’s complicated.
Sophie:
That’s not a timeline, Max.
That’s a category on Facebook.
Max:
It’s not… official.
We’ve never really defined it.
Not publicly. Not privately either, really.
It’s just… always been there.
Sophie:
So “years,” then.
Max:
Yeah.
Since 2016, if you want to be technical about it.
Sophie:
MAX EMILIAN.
Max:
I SAID it’s complicated!!
Sophie:
You think?
Nine years and now you’re signing to Mercedes because of her?
Max:
No.
I’m signing to Mercedes because it’s the right car.
She’s just…
Part of the reason it feels like the right place to be.
Sophie:
…
Do you love her?
Max:
…
Yeah.
But it’s complicated.
Sophie:
You’ve been in love with the same woman for nine years and you call that complicated?
Max:
You haven’t met Ana.
Trust me. Complicated is the right word.
Sophie:
You’re impossible.
Max:
Runs in the family.
Sophie:
And you’re only telling me now?
Max:
We weren’t exactly
telling
anyone.
It’s been… private.
Quiet.
Ours.
Sophie:
Does she make you happy?
Max:
Yes.
Sophie:
About time you chose something for
you.
And not just for racing.
Go win her properly then.
And maybe a championship while you’re at it.
Max:
Working on both.
***
Mercedes F1 HQ, Brackley, England - 7 July 2025
Ana was mid-way through annotating an error log when she heard the knock.
Not urgent. Not tentative. Just deliberate—like most things her father did.
She didn’t look up right away. Just saved her file, closed two windows, and finished her thought in the margin before saying, “Come in.”
The door opened. Toto stepped inside with a kind of tight control that immediately pinged her internal radar.
“Altair or Vermeulen?” she asked, not bothering with small talk.
Toto gave a dry huff that could’ve been a laugh. “Both.”
She leaned back in her chair. “Which one first?”
“Altair.” He walked over to the side of her desk, arms crossed, like he was still deciding whether to praise her or pace. “You wrote it for Kimi,” Toto said. It wasn’t a question.
“Yes.”
“And you wrote it so well,” he continued, “that when we put George in it, the simulation nearly staged a mutiny.”
“Not surprising.” She didn’t sound smug. Just honest. “Altair was written around Kimi’s muscle memory. George drives like he’s explaining it to a camera mid-corner. Altair doesn’t like that.”
“It was a disaster,” Toto admitted at last. “He said the car felt like it hated him. Spun twice in seven laps. The telemetry looked like a heart monitor in cardiac arrest.”
Ana didn’t blink. “Good to know the mapping’s sensitive.”
He rolled his eyes but didn’t argue.
“Valtteri handled it better,” Toto said after a beat. “Not perfect, but clean. Adaptive.”
Ana nodded, unsurprised. “Valtteri listens to the car. Most drivers try to argue with it.”
Toto leaned on the edge of her desk. “Valtteri said something interesting. He said Altair isn’t just a fast setup. He said it’s a setup that needs instinct more than logic. That it’s alive in a way that demands trust. And then he told me exactly who else it would be perfect for.”
Ana arched a brow. “Who?”
“Max Verstappen.”
Ana’s fingers stilled on the edge of her keyboard for half a second before she spoke.
“He’s not wrong,” she said finally, voice even.
Toto studied her for a long moment. She didn’t flinch under it.
“Was that on purpose?” he asked.
Ana shook her head. “I don’t design for drivers,” Ana said evenly. “But instincts leave patterns. If Kimi and Verstappen happen to share some… that’s not my doing.”
Toto studied her for a beat longer. Then: “You really think Altair would suit Max?”
“If he let it.”
Toto hummed. “Interesting overlap.”
Ana turned back to her screen. “Patterns repeat, Papa. Whether you like them or not.”
There was a silence, but it wasn’t tense. It was the quiet that always settled between them when the thinking got serious.
Finally, Toto asked, “And Vermeulen?”
Ana leaned forward, tapping her pen against the edge of her tablet. “Predictable. Well-briefed. Looking for leverage.”
“Did he get any?”
“Only what I let him.”
Toto smirked. “And what did you let him get?”
“Enough to know the hardware’s championship-worthy. Not enough to understand how.”
“Ah.”
“He tried to pivot toward Verstappen. Regularly.”
Toto’s mouth twitched. “Did he regret it?”
“I didn’t give him room to enjoy it,” she said simply.
Toto’s mouth curved, not quite a smile. “You made an impression.”
“I explained the integration system.”
“You terrified him,” Toto corrected. “He told Andreas afterward he needed a drink.”
Ana allowed herself the faintest hint of a smirk. “Efficient.”
Toto studied her again, the weight of a father and a team principal behind the look. “He was vetting you. Not the car. Not the power unit. You.”
Ana didn’t look away from her screen. “I know.”
“You handled it.”
“I always do.”
He looked at her for a long moment, and for once, Toto Wolff didn’t look like a man in control of the room.
He looked like a father, very aware of the force he’d helped raise.
“I’m proud of you,” he said, almost quietly.
Ana blinked, caught off guard.
Then recovered. “Good. I built something worth being proud of.”
Toto nodded once, slow and certain.
“You built something dangerous.”
Ana didn’t smile. Not really. Just a glint of approval in her eyes, sharp and metallic.
“That’s the point.”
***
Mercedes F1 HQ, Brackley, England - 8 July 2025
He was halfway through peeling the wrapper off a protein bar when he heard it:
“Hey.”
Sharp. Too sharp to be casual.
Kimi didn’t look up right away. He knew that tone. The kind that pretended to be friendly but already had tension curled underneath.
When he finally raised his eyes, George Russell was standing across from him, arms folded, expression tight.
“Kimi,” he said again, a shade too forcefully.
Kimi raised a brow. “George.”
“You’ve been running that Altair setup for a while now.”
Kimi didn’t answer. He took a bite instead. Chewed slowly.
George stepped closer. “Toto had me run it yesterday.”
Kimi blinked. “Oh?”
“Yeah.” George smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Felt like wrestling a snake on ice. The thing practically threw itself into the gravel.”
Kimi nodded once. “Sounds like you had fun.”
“What the hell is that thing?” George demanded.
“It’s… a package,” Kimi said carefully.
“I know it’s a package,” George snapped. “What I don’t know is why it drove like the car was actively trying to kill me.”
Kimi shrugged, trying to look unbothered. “It’s… different.”
“Different?” George leaned forward, voice low. “Different doesn’t spin you out of Turn 6 because it decided it hates your entire driving style.”
Kimi hesitated, weighing his words. Don’t say Ana. Don’t say Ana.
“It’s designed around… instinct,” Kimi said finally. “It doesn’t want you to think about it too much. You have to let it come to you.”
George stared at him. “Let it come to me? Antonelli, I’ve been driving F1 cars for years. I know how to feel out a setup. That—” He jabbed a finger toward the sim bay. “—wasn’t a setup. That was a trap.”
Kimi kept his expression as neutral as possible. “Worked fine for me.”
That earned him a sharp look. “Yeah. I saw the data overlay. It loved you. It hated me. You want to explain why?”
Kimi shifted in his seat, suddenly very aware of how small the room felt. “It’s… tailored.”
“Tailored to what?”
“To… how I drive,” Kimi said, carefully non-committal. “That’s all I know.”
George stared at him for a long beat. “Tailored to you. Right.” He let out a sharp breath, straightening. “Well, whoever designed it, tell them congratulations. They built a car that loves a teenager and loathes a race winner.”
Kimi bit his tongue hard enough to taste copper. Don’t say Ana. Don’t say Ana.
George gave him one last look, something tight and unreadable in his expression. Then he turned on his heel and left.
Kimi exhaled only when the door clicked shut again.
He picked up his pen, hands steady even though his pulse wasn’t.
He wasn’t going to say it. He wasn’t going to be the one to tell George that Altair wasn’t just a package.
It was Ana.
***
Mercedes F1 HQ, Brackley, England - 8 July 2025
Bono found Kimi leaning against a desk, still nursing the same bottle of water he’d been holding for ten minutes.
“You look like someone just told you you’ve got a penalty before quali,” Bono said, stopping beside him.
Kimi huffed. “George cornered me.”
Bono raised a brow. “About?”
“Altair,” Kimi muttered. “He wanted to know why the car hated him.”
There was a beat of silence. Then a dry, unimpressed: “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”
Kimi glanced sideways. “You’re not surprised.”
“Lad,” Bono said, tone flat, “I’ve been in this sport long enough to know when someone’s ego takes a bruising. You ran a package better than he did. Now he wants someone to blame.”
Kimi paused. “You think he’s threatened?”
Bono snorted. “Of course he is. Altair didn’t fail him because it was flawed. It failed him because it wanted commitment, and he brought a checklist. That setup wants your instincts. Your gut. It wants honesty. That’s why it loves you.”
“I didn’t tell him anything,” Kimi said quickly. “Just that it’s tailored to me. That’s all.”
Bono crossed his arms, eyes narrowing behind his glasses. “Good. Because if he drags Ana into this, I’ll personally put him on factory testing for the rest of the season.”
Kimi blinked. “You’re that serious?”
Bono turned fully to face him now, voice calm but sharp. “Kimi, listen to me. What Ana did with Altair? That’s not just a setup tweak. That’s art. You don’t question art by throwing a tantrum because it didn’t flatter you.”
Kimi stared down at his shoes. “He was… angry. Like properly. Said the car felt like it hated him.”
Bono let out a humorless laugh. “The car didn’t hate him. The car just didn’t bend to him. There’s a difference. Some drivers can’t tell the two apart.”
Kimi hesitated, then risked: “He said whoever built it must’ve designed it to love a teenager and loathe a race winner.”
Bono’s jaw tightened. “Brilliant. So now he’s sulking because the sim didn’t kiss his hand and call him king.”
“He’s not… wrong about the teenager part,” Kimi muttered.
Bono sighed and patted his shoulder. “Ignore him. Keep doing what you’re doing. And if he corners you again, you tell him to take it up with me.
***
Text Messages: Kimi Antonelli & Oliver Bearman
Kimi:
I think George wants me dead.
Oliver:
good morning to you too???
Kimi:
I’m serious. He cornered me in the garage about Altair.
Oliver:
and?
Kimi:
And he asked why the car hated him.
Direct quote.
Oliver:
😂 okay that’s actually hilarious
did you tell him it loves you more?
Kimi:
I told him it was tailored to me.
He looked like he wanted to strangle me.
Oliver:
bro that’s not “wants me dead,” that’s “hurt pride”
there’s a difference
Kimi:
You didn’t see his face.
It was like I’d personally insulted his family.
Oliver:
he’s dramatic. you’re dramatic. it’s a perfect storm.
Kimi:
He said the car was built to love a teenager and loathe a race winner.
Oliver:
💀💀💀💀💀
oh he’s SALTY salty
Kimi:
You think I’m exaggerating.
I’m telling you, next sim run I’m checking under my seat for explosives.
Oliver:
kimi.
you are 18. he is not going to murder you over a set up change
Kimi:
…yet.
Oliver:
😭 stop
you’re fine
worst case scenario he passive-aggressively overexplains brake bias to you until your ears fall off
Kimi:
…that actually sounds worse.
Oliver:
then drive faster and stay alive. problem solved.
***
Text Messages: Peter “Bono” Bonnington & Valterri Bottas
Bono:
You’ll be pleased to know George is having a full ego collapse over Altair.
Valtteri:
Didn’t take long
Bono:
Cornered Kimi. Demanded to know “why the car hated him.”
Valtteri:
🤣
Did Kimi say Ana built it?
Bono:
No. Smart kid. Just said it was tailored to him.
Didn’t even flinch.
George, on the other hand, is convinced the sim personally insulted his résumé.
Said “whoever built this must’ve designed it to love a teenager and loathe a race winner.”
Valtteri:
Jesus.
Not everything in the world is about him.
Every car hates you until you figure out how to listen.
Bono:
That’s the problem. Altair
doesn’t
want you to figure it out. It wants you to
trust
it.
George brought a checklist. The car wanted instinct. It was carnage.
Valtteri:
Yeah, I felt that when I ran it. You can’t force it.
…Let me guess, he’s blaming the package instead of himself?
Bono:
Winner, winner, ego dinner.
Valtteri:
Ouch. He’s going to hate knowing I handled it better than him.
Bono:
I’m not telling him that. I like my blood pressure.
Valtteri:
😂 Fair.
How’s Kimi?
Bono:
Holding it together. Kid’s polite to a fault. Didn’t even drop Ana’s name.
Bono:
Anyway. Just a heads-up. If George tries to corner you next, feel free to pretend your headset’s broken.
Valtteri:
Already planning on speaking only in Finnish.
Bono:
God bless.
Bono:
He’s not wrong about one thing.
Altair
does
love the kid.
Valtteri:
It should. That thing is built on instinct and honesty. Kimi drives like that. George doesn’t.
Pray George cools off before he says something
really
stupid.
Bono:
You think he will?
Valtteri:
Yes.
Bono:
…Fantastic.
Valtteri:
Let him sulk. Some lessons you can’t teach with a debrief. The car already told him everything he needed to know.
Valtteri:
Every driver who’s ever thought the car should bend to them learns the same thing eventually:
Sometimes the car just doesn’t want
you.
Bono:
…God, that’s brutal.
Valtteri:
Welcome to Formula 1.
Chapter 13: Chapter 11: Brackley
Chapter Text
Slack Channel: #brackley-nerds
Private Channel. ~30 members.
nicola.sim:
…did anyone else just hear George corner Kimi about Altair?
liv.strategy:
👀👀👀 I heard voices. Spicy voices.
nicola.sim:
I was literally behind the partition. He
snapped
. Told the kid the car “loathed a race winner.”
fatima.pr
Oh
wow
. Coming in hot with the ego bruise.
liv.strategy:
“Loathes a race winner” = I am SO printing that on a mug for Ana.
amelie.procurement
Tell me the kid didn’t crack.
nicola.sim:
He didn’t. Straight face. Dead calm. Said it was tailored to how he drives. That’s
all
.
leo.mechanic:
Smart boy. Didn’t drop her name.
nicola.sim:
Still. Poor kid. He looked like he wanted to crawl into the wiring harness and never come out.
liam.eng-lead:
If George wants to throw tantrums because Ana built something beautiful, he can take it up with
me
.
lorelai.pa:
Nah. Let’s make it more fun.
fatima.pr
👀 define “fun.”
lorelai.pa:
Petty inconveniences. Tiny ones. The kind you can’t prove are malicious.
jess.hr:
I’ll just pretend I haven’t heard any of this…
nicola.sim:
I like where this is going.
liv.strategy:
What’s the plan?
sam.transmission:
Step one: every time George gets in the sim, the seat heaters mysteriously run
just
a degree too warm.
benjy.data:
Step two: remove the good pens from his debrief desk. Replace them with the cheap ones that leak.
jules.elec:
Step three: route all his radio checks through the channel that crackles.
sima.calibration:
Step four: make his coffee machine in the motorhome “malfunction” so it only dispenses lukewarm espresso.
rachel.aero:
Step five: every setup sheet he gets will be stapled crooked. Subtly. Just enough to drive him insane.
jess.hr:
You people are demons. I love it.
lorelai.pa:
Petty vengeance: activated.
leo.mechanic:
For Ana. For Kimi. For art.
liam.eng-lead:
Long live Project Altair.
fatima.pr:
Long live Ana.
nicola.sim:
Long live the kid who didn’t crack.
***
Brackley had a way of… balancing things.
When the story of George cornering Kimi hit the quiet back channels, it spread fast. Not to the press. Not to social media.
Just through the factory, the way whispers move through wiring.
And that was when Brackley decided: They would protect their own.
They didn’t yell. There was no memo. No dramatic confrontation in Toto’s office.
The Brackley crew didn’t threaten. They just… adjusted the environment.
The next time George arrived at the factory, he found his keycard mysteriously deactivated. Security smiled apologetically and told him IT was “looking into it.” It took him twenty minutes and three phone calls to get upstairs.
When he got to his office, the coffee machine on his floor “accidentally” rerouted to engineering for calibration testing.
Kimi’s coffee machine, of course, worked perfectly .
Then George’s simulator schedule was mysteriously shifted three hours later. Nobody could explain who approved the change.
By the time he got in, the air conditioning in the sim room was locked at 19°C. Cold enough to make his hands stiff.
Meanwhile, Kimi’s run room was perfectly temperate.
Then, George’s inbox flooded with calendar invites that didn’t exist. Every time he declined one, two more appeared.
When George tried to print out a setup sheet, the printer ran out of ink. The replacement cartridges were “on order.” Oddly enough, Kimi’s setup sheets printed in full colour with a glossy header.
…Then the catering team “forgot” George’s lunch order. Twice.
At the same time, someone delivered a perfectly timed bowl of pasta to Kimi’s desk with a little Post-It note:
Fuel for prodigies.
The next day, George’s water bottle went mysteriously missing.
Not stolen. Not misplaced. Just… gone. Every bottle he grabbed after that had a slightly leaky cap.
Kimi, meanwhile, had a brand-new insulated bottle waiting for him at his workstation with his name laser-engraved on the side.
It wasn’t overt sabotage. It wasn’t cruel.
It was just enough to make George’s week… uncomfortable.
***
Group Chat: “TEAM 33”
(Members: Max Verstappen, Jos Verstappen, Raymond Vermeulen)
Raymond:
It’s confirmed.
They did it.
Christian’s out.
Jos:
Holy. Shit.
Raymond:
Internal memo.
No press release yet. But the news will hit the paddock.
Jos:
I didn’t think they’d
actually
do it.
Helmut is freaking out.
Max:
Good.
Jos:
That’s it?
“Good”?
Raymond:
You just brought down the man who built the modern Red Bull empire and that’s all you have to say?
Max:
He stopped listening to the drivers a long time ago.
Started playing politics instead of building cars.
He made this mess.
Jos:
This wasn’t subtle, Max.
Everyone knows it’s because of you.
Max:
Good.
Raymond:
Okay, Batman.
Now what?
Max:
Now we wait.
Jos:
For what? A new team principal?
Red Bull crawling back with a peace offering?
Or for Mercedes to come back with the real deal?
Max:
All of it.
Let them move first.
I’ve made my point.
Raymond:
You made
a statement
.
Do you realize what kind of power play this was?
Max:
Four world championships.
One broken team.
They should’ve remembered what I’m capable of before I had to remind them.
Jos:
Jesus Christ.
Raymond:
If you walk
now
, after this…
Max:
Then it was never about
him
.
It was about me.
And what I want.
***
Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Dr. Anastasia “Ana” Wolff
Max:
He’s gone.
Ana:
…Horner?
Max:
Yes.
Announcement is coming tomorrow.
Internal decision made late last night.
Ana:
Did you
want
this?
Max:
I didn’t try to stop it.
Ana:
Why are you telling me?
Max:
Because I think you should know.
And you’re not just anyone.
Ana:
Max—
Max:
Whatever you do with this knowledge…
I trust your judgment.
Just know the ground’s shifting.
Ana:
Is this your way of saying Mercedes should move faster?
Max:
I’m saying the timeline’s changed.
And the game’s already started.
***
Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Gianpiero Lambiase
Max:
It’s happening.
They’re letting Horner go. Announcement tomorrow.
GP:
Wow.
Did you ask for it?
Max:
No.
But I didn’t fight it either.
GP:
And how do you feel?
Max:
Strange.
Tired.
Like someone just tried to throw me a lifeline when I’d already climbed out of the water.
GP:
So.
Are we still going to Mercedes?
Max:
That’s the question, isn’t it?
GP:
Max.
I need you to start thinking not like a driver.
But like a man who wants to win again.
Max:
I am.
And I think I know what I want.
But I also know what I’ll be giving up.
GP:
Then weigh it.
Whatever you decide, I’m with you.
Red. Silver. Hell, even green if you lost a bet.
***
Mercedes F1 HQ, Brackley, England - 8 July 2025
Toto was halfway through his second espresso when the door to his office opened without a knock.
It was Ana.
She moved like a storm on a mission—controlled, focused, lethal in black trousers and a cotton team polo no one else had received yet. Her tablet was tucked under one arm, and her eyes—sharp, unreadable, his eyes—were trained on him like she was here for blood.
Toto leaned back slightly. “Good morning?”
“I need you to talk to the board.”
Toto blinked. “What about?”
"Horner’s out."
Toto blinked. “Pardon?”
“Christian Horner. Red Bull. He’s gone. They’ll announce it tomorrow.”
Toto set the espresso cup down. Slowly. “…Are you sure?”
Ana’s expression didn’t flicker. “Yes.”
He leaned back in his chair, the implications unfurling faster than he could name them.
Horner out.
Red Bull destabilised and reeling.
And Mercedes? Still waiting on board signatures, technical proposals, revised projections.
Toto stared at her. “How do you know that?”
“I have my sources.”
Of course she did. The way she said it — calm, certain — made the hairs rise on the back of his neck. It wasn’t bravado. It wasn’t a hunch. She wasn’t speculating.
For all her stubborn neutrality, Ana Wolff was terrifyingly well-informed — about paddock politics, technical regulations, and clearly now… executive removals at rival teams.
She knew .
“And you want me to speak to the board… why?” he asked slowly.
Anastasia met his eyes. “Because Red Bull is about to go nuclear. If Max was considering us before, he’ll be considering us more now. And we need to be ready. No dithering. No committee decisions by Christmas. Make the call. Move the money. Get the seat in place.”
Toto exhaled slowly. “Are you certain , Anastasia?”
Ana folded her arms. “Do you think I’d be here if I wasn’t?”
Right. Of course. She didn’t come to his office unless something needed fixing or accelerating or—apparently—toppling.
Toto looked at her, really looked at her.
This wasn’t one of her chaotic engineering spirals. She wasn’t bouncing on the balls of her feet, talking faster than a double-stacked radio call. She was still. Steady. Unshakable.
And that terrified him more than anything else.
“Do they know we know?” he asked, quietly.
Anastasia gave the smallest of shrugs. "I highly doubt it. I’d advise making the board calls now,” she said crisply. “The moment this hits the news cycle, Verstappen’s price goes up.”
Toto stood, already reaching for his phone. “You think this changes his intentions?”
“I think it changes everyone else’s intentions,” Anastasia replied. “If we’re serious about bringing him in, we can’t wait for the market to rearrange itself. We strike now, while everything is still unstable. I think," Ana said calmly, "that Red Bull just showed their cards. And if the Mercedes board wants Max Verstappen, this is their window. Don’t let them wait until it closes."
Her tone didn’t rise. Her voice didn’t waver. She didn’t yell, didn’t pace, didn’t try to sell it with emotion.
She simply delivered the truth like it was a law of physics.
Toto stared at her for a long moment.
Then, without another word, he turned back to his monitor, unlocked his phone, and started making calls.
Not to the board. Not yet.
First—to Markus Schäfer. Then to Ola Källenius.
By the time he’d hung up, Anastasia was still there, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
“You knew before the rest of the paddock,” he said quietly.
“I tend to,” she said, and then added, more softly, “It’s your move now, Papa.”
And then she left, silent as a storm cloud.
Toto stared at the door for a long moment.
Then he muttered, to no one in particular, “God help us. She's two steps ahead of us all.”
And he picked up the phone again.
Because if Horner was out—
Then everything was officially in play.
And Anastasia?
She walked out the door as quietly as she’d come in, the storm already moving on.
***
Mercedes F1 HQ, Brackley, England - 8 July 2025
The door creaked open with its usual stubborn groan. Bono stepped in first, carrying lunch like a man on a mission. Ana was already at the table, tablet closed, sleeves rolled, hair still damp from late-morning rain, staring into her coffee like it had personally offended her. Valtteri followed next, hands full with a salad container and a chocolate milk. Kimi trailed last, clutching a sandwich like it was his only friend.
“Right,” Bono said, dropping his tray. “House rules. No press conference chat. No marketing team gossip. And absolutely no George.”
“I wasn’t going to talk about George,” Ana said flatly, without looking up. “I was going to talk about the impending collapse of Red Bull Racing.”
Kimi choked on his water. “Wait, what?”
Valtteri raised a brow. “Is this like your engine predictions? Because I’m still not over you being right about Ferrari’s floor in April.”
Ana sipped her coffee. “No. This is different.”
Bono froze halfway to opening his crisps. “Define different.”
Ana shrugged one shoulder. “Let’s just say... the leadership structure over there is about to get a lot lighter.”
There was a pause.
“You’re joking,” Valtteri said slowly.
Ana didn’t look up. “I’m never joking.”
Kimi’s eyes widened. “Is it true then? Is Max really going to Mercedes?”
Valtteri smirked. “You ask that every week.”
“Yeah, but this time it feels like something’s happening,” Kimi insisted. “He didn’t say no when the press asked. That basically means yes.”
Ana tilted her head, neutral as ever. “Conversations are ongoing.”
Bono gave her a sideways look. “You say that like you’re sitting in on them.”
“I’m not,” Ana replied smoothly, “but I know someone who is.”
Valtteri narrowed his eyes. “Let me guess. You asked your father.”
“I ask my father lots of things,” Ana said, which was not a denial.
Bono finally opened the crisps. “I still don’t think it’ll happen. Max and Mercedes? Doesn’t feel real.”
Ana’s mouth quirked—just barely. “You might want to start preparing for it.”
Kimi was still catching up. “If Max does come to Mercedes, are they going to cut me?”
Ana turned to him for the first time that lunch. “I doubt it.”
“Why not?” he asked, nervous. “He’s Max Verstappen.”
“You’re you,” she replied simply. “You have potential. And you don’t whine.”
“I whine,” Bono said mildly.
“Professionally,” Ana clarified. “It’s different.”
Valtteri popped the lid off his salad. “So, just to recap: you’re telling us something huge is about to happen in the paddock, and you’re casually eating lentil soup like the world isn’t about to melt down?”
Ana took another sip of coffee. “Yes.”
Silence fell.
Then Kimi whispered, “...Can I say it?”
“No,” Bono and Valtteri said at once.
“I’m gonna say it,” Kimi said anyway. “This is so cool.”
Ana slid her cookie across the table to him without looking up.
“You’re in deep now,” she murmured.
And no one said it out loud—but they all felt it:
Something was coming.
They just didn’t know how loud the explosion would be.
Not yet.
***
Mercedes F1 HQ, Brackley, England - 8 July 2025
Toto wasn’t nudging. He was walking into that virtual board meeting with a target.
Max Verstappen.
“Let me be very clear,” he said, voice calm, clipped, Austrian-steel sharp. “We are entering a new era. The 2026 regulations will change everything—chassis, aero, power unit. What we do now will determine the next five years. Maybe more.”
“We have a window,” he began, hands folded, tone calm but precise. “A small one, but it’s there. For 2026. New regs. New power unit. And potentially—new driver lineup.”
Ola Källenius nodded slowly. “And you believe Verstappen is the linchpin?”
Toto met his gaze without flinching. “He is the benchmark. He’s not just one of the best driver in the world—he’s one of the smartest, most mechanically intuitive, and most adaptable. He will make our 2026 project credible before the car even hits the track.”
“Red Bull won’t let him go easily,” one of the board members interjected, steepling his fingers. “We’ve heard nothing formal from their side. This Horner situation could be noise.”
Toto’s lips twitched. Not quite a smile.
“It’s not noise,” he said.
The room went still.
“Are you saying there’s movement on Red Bull’s side?” another asked. “That Horner’s actually—”
“Out?” Toto’s voice was dry. “Yes.”
There was a beat of stunned silence.
“May I ask how you came by that information?” the Legal Director asked cautiously.
Toto leaned back, crossing his arms.
“I have my sources,” he said.
There were a few exchanged looks, but no one pressed.
“And Verstappen?” Ola asked, bringing the room back into focus. “You think he’s open to talks?”
“He’s not just open. He’s listening. For the first time in nearly a decade, he’s not shutting the door. He’s disillusioned. Red Bull is in disarray. The internal structure is fractured. And Verstappen has made it clear, privately, that he wants a project that aligns with his values: performance, clarity, and trust.”
Ola Källenius steepled his fingers. “And we’re that project?”
Toto met his gaze directly. “We could be. The 2026 engine is ahead of schedule. Our simulations are promising. But we need a driver who can develop at the highest level while delivering results under pressure. There is no one else on the grid with Max’s mechanical feedback, consistency, and mental resilience.”
Someone scoffed. “But what about Russell? Antonelli? Where does Max fit?”
“Wherever he wants,” Toto said flatly. “We’ll make it work. The priority is winning.”
A heavy pause.
The CFO spoke up. “What does he cost?”
Toto didn’t flinch. “More than anyone else. But less than staying in 4th place.”
That got a small laugh from one end of the table.
Ola leaned back, contemplative. “Do we think we can get him?”
Toto allowed himself a small breath. “Yes. If we move quickly. If we make it clear that he’s wanted, not just as a driver—but as the centerpiece of our next era.”
“And what about… complications?” the Head of Strategy asked, delicately. “Internal politics, image alignment, his—reputation for being difficult?”
Toto’s voice was even. “Max is difficult because he demands excellence. So do we.”
There was another beat of silence.
Then Ola Källenius smiled.
“Well,” he said, “it’s been a while since we stole a World Champion.”
The tension broke.
“Draw up the numbers,” the CFO said.
“I want the branding team prepared,” said someone else. “If we land him, it’ll shift the entire F1 landscape.”
Ola turned to Toto. “Full green light. Go after him. But keep it quiet.”
Toto nodded, pulse steady despite the weight of it. “Understood.”
As the meeting adjourned and the room emptied, he stood for a moment at the far window.
No more hypotheticals.
The chase had begun.
***
Mercedes F1 HQ, Brackley, England - 8 July 2025
Toto didn’t pour the scotch.
He thought about it. Opened the cabinet.
Let his hand rest on the bottle for a second. Then closed it again.
Instead, he reached for his phone.
Susie answered on the third ring.
“Toto,” she said warmly, in that calm, clear voice that always cut through the static of his thoughts. “Everything alright?”
He sat down on his chair, one hand rubbing absently at his jaw. “Anastasia knew. Before I did.”
“Knew what?”
“Christian Horner,” he said. “He’s out. Red Bull hasn’t made it public yet, but the decision’s been made. Anastasia knew. And she came into my office to tell me. Before I’d gotten so much as a whisper of it. She told me to make the board move faster.”
There was a pause. He could picture Susie in the kitchen of their Monaco apartment, probably barefoot, probably cradling her teacup in both hands like always.
“She didn’t say how she knew?” Susie asked carefully.
Toto let out a quiet breath. “She said she had ‘sources.’”
“That girl,” Susie said fondly, “has the information networks of MI6 when she wants to.”
“Yes, but—how?” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “I know she’s brilliant. I know she’s plugged into everything. But this... I’m the one in the boardroom, and my daughter is coming to me with classified news like she’s running strategy for a rival team.”
There was a smile in Susie’s voice. “Toto. I love you. But you forget sometimes—you raised a Wolff.”
He huffed. “She didn’t get this from me.”
“No. She got the steel from your mother and the precision from her own mind. But the spine, Toto? The way she carries herself into rooms full of people who underestimate her? The way she plays the long game? That’s all you.”
He let the words sink in. They didn’t quite settle.
“I just…” he shook his head, even though she couldn’t see. “I wonder what else she knows that I don’t.”
“Well,” Susie said, dryly, “if I had to guess? She probably knows exactly what she wants. And how to get it. And how many moves it'll take.”
Toto groaned. “She’s going to run us all one day.”
“She already does,” Susie said cheerfully. “You’re just too proud to admit it.”
“She told me the board needs to move on Max. Like she’s already certain where this is going.”
“Well,” Susie said lightly, “maybe she is.”
***
Christian Horner Dismissed by Red Bull Racing Amid Growing Internal Tensions
By Olivia Mercer | Motorsport Correspondent
Silverstone, July 9, 2025
In a move that has stunned the Formula 1 paddock, Red Bull Racing has announced the immediate dismissal of Team Principal Christian Horner, ending a 20-year tenure marked by both unprecedented success and increasing controversy.
The announcement came early this morning, just ahead of the British Grand Prix weekend, and follows weeks of escalating internal pressure, widespread speculation regarding driver dissatisfaction, and reported friction between senior leadership and key figures within the team.
“Red Bull Racing confirms that Christian Horner will step down as Team Principal and CEO effective immediately,” read the official statement. “We thank him for his decades of service and numerous contributions to our success in the sport.”
The statement offered no further insight into Horner’s departure, but insiders suggest that the decision was influenced heavily by ongoing tensions with lead driver Max Verstappen, who has reportedly grown disillusioned with the team’s technical direction and leadership in the wake of Red Bull’s sudden decline in competitiveness during the 2025 season.
Max Verstappen's Influence Looms Large
While neither Verstappen nor his management team have made public comments, multiple paddock sources believe the 2025 driver market chaos — including rumors of Verstappen’s secret negotiations with Mercedes for 2026 — played a key role in the team’s leadership shakeup.
“This wasn’t just about performance,” one senior paddock source said under condition of anonymity. “It was about trust. Red Bull knew they were at risk of losing Max. Firing Horner may have been an act of desperation to retain him — or at least buy time.”
Others have suggested that the call may have come too late.
“Let’s not pretend Horner was untouchable,” noted former F1 driver and current Sky pundit Naomi Schiff. “When a four-time world champion starts seriously considering a move to another team, alarm bells ring. Verstappen has leverage — and this is what it looks like when he uses it.”
A Complicated Legacy
Horner’s tenure as Red Bull Team Principal saw the squad rise from midfield irrelevance to the pinnacle of modern Formula 1, securing six Constructors’ Championships and eight Drivers’ Championships. Known for his sharp political instincts and fierce loyalty to Red Bull’s internal culture, Horner was often a polarizing figure — admired for his competitive drive and criticized for his occasionally combative tone.
Recent seasons have seen that legacy complicated by public friction with technical staff, increased scrutiny of Red Bull’s management decisions, and persistent rumors of internal dysfunction following Adrian Newey’s departure in late 2024.
***
Twitter Thread: Christian Horner is fired:
@/F1 : BREAKING: Christian Horner is to exit Red Bull Racing with immediate effect #F1 🚨
@/HabitualLineStepper: “Toto Wolff right now after hearing the news of Christian Horner getting sacked” (memegly accompanied by stifled laughter)
@/alonsoanon: The fact that Horner is GONE and we all know damn well it wasn’t a coincidence.
MAX VERSTAPPEN ISN’T JUST COOKING.
HE’S GORDON RAMSAY.
@/landoscrs: “me liking every tweet about christian horner getting sacked”
@/fourthvision : No 2 ways around it. Either Max is already leaving or he's on board with a rebuild
@/LightsOutLawyer: MAX VERSTAPPEN DID NOT JUST SUGGEST A MEETING AND WALK OUT WITH A BODY.
@/gridtea:
max said “what are you willing to give me” and red bull said “your own guillotine, your majesty”
@/cursedwheelnut:
the verstappen–wolff enemies to lovers arc is peaking.
i repeat: we are IN THE PEAK.
@/sophiespitstop:
Max watching Red Bull fire Christian Horner as a
gesture of goodwill
like:
👀
🧍♂️
🧳
@/OversteerQueen:
Max to Mercedes was a joke last year.
Max to Mercedes was a rumor last month.
Max to Mercedes is a
threat with teeth
today.
You don’t sack the team principal unless you’re trying to keep your golden goose. 🧍♀️
@/chaoticneutralgp:
Imagine being George Russell right now.
Man said “it’s only normal to talk to the best drivers”
and Red Bull responded by detonating their org chart to keep Max 😭
@/helmetcamhell:
me: no way max is going to mercedes
also me: they just
fired horner
to try and keep him???
also also me:
googling how many championship trophies can fit in a silver arrow
#f1 #RedBullRacing #MercMax
@/pitwallpoetry:
someone said “max is the paddock’s thanos” and now i can’t unsee it.
first it was george talking.
then it was sky italia rumours.
now christian is gone.
who’s next.
#maxverstappen #f1chaos
@/mercedesmurmurs:
guys be honest.
what if max actually goes to merc and brings his engineer, his sim rig, and his cats
@/wheninmonaco: max to mercedes is no longer a rumor. it’s an inevitability.
next week’s headlines:
“verstappen seen wearing silver. it’s over.”
@/f1tea_updates:
🚨 Rumour has it Ola Källenius (Mercedes-Benz CEO) just approved a major investment package for Mercedes F1. No details yet on what it’s for… but sources say it’s “driver-related.” 👀
@/mercedesmeg:
please it’s so obvious. they’re buying max. they’re ACTUALLY BUYING MAX.
they saw red bull fall apart and pressed the eject button so hard the boardroom shook
@/sainzftsunoda:
I love how merc is literally going
“we want max.”
“you can’t have max.”
“we did not ask.”
@/formuladrama:
The last time Mercedes signed off on a big driver investment, they got Lewis Hamilton.
If history repeats itself, good night to everyone except George Russell 😭
@/kimifan1998:
kimi antonelli watching all of this like 🧍🏻♂️
@/racingnath:
so you’re telling me Mercedes is about to drop an ungodly amount of money right when Max Verstappen’s future is in limbo… interesting. very interesting.
@/pitwallpoet:
Mercedes Board: We must plan strategically for the long-term.
Also Mercedes Board: sure Toto, here’s 100 million, go get your emotionally unavailable Dutch wonderboy
@/verstappenlore:
if Toto pulls this off and signs Max I will personally knit that man a thank-you cardigan
@/gridgossip:
not Mercedes dropping a blank check and whispering “Max Verstappen” into the wind like it’s a summoning ritual
@/unreliablepitstop:
If Mercedes pulls this off…
2026 is going to be a bloodbath
***
Slack Channel: #brackley-nerds
Private Channel. ~30 members.
lorelai.pa:
GUYS.
CHRISTIAN HORNER IS OUT.
Fired. Terminated. Off the grid. Literally.
💀💀💀
liam.engine:
WAIT WHAT
I go to the kitchen for TWO MINUTES and Horner gets Thanos-snapped???
ellie.electronics:
It’s real. BBC, Autosport all confirming.
It’s actually happening.
The Red Bull era is… fracturing.
lucy.comms:
First Adrian Newey leaves.
Now Horner.
What's next? Max?
Insert nervous sweating emoji
jess.hr:
Speaking of…
Did anyone else clock that Mercedes just got board approval for a “strategic motorsport investment package” this morning?? 😶🌫️
liam.eng-lead:
YOU THINK IT’S ABOUT MAX???
THIS IS A SAFE SPACE YOU CAN SAY IT
sam.transmission:
oh it’s not
just
about Max
it’s also about vengeance
Toto playing the
long game™
Nicola.sim:
What are the odds this is a coordinated move?
Red Bull unravels from the inside
Mercedes swoops in
Max in silver
The prophecy fulfilled?
leo.mechanic:
this slack channel has become a fanfiction generator
and I’m absolutely here for it
fatima.pr:
I just want to say on the record:
If Max Verstappen walks through our garage doors in 2026,
I
WILL
cry
and then work 120-hour weeks with joy in my heart.
liv.strategy:
Can we name the new engine project “Operation Thunderdome” just in case
james.brakes:
BREAKING: morale in Brackley reaches suspiciously high levels. Local engineers report feelings of “hope” and “glee.” Authorities baffled.
***
Group Chat: “WHO IS MAX VERSTAPPEN DATING”
(Members: Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, Carlos Sainz, Daniel Ricciardo)
Lando:
BREAKING.
CHRISTIAN HORNER.
FIRED.
🚨🚨🚨🚨🚨
Oscar:
You’re joking.
Carlos:
Please tell me this is not a meme.
Lando:
[link to article]
It’s from Sky Sports. It’s real.
He’s OUT.
He’s GONE.
THE MILTON KEYNES MONARCHY HAS FALLEN
Oscar:
What the ACTUAL—
Carlos:
Wait wait wait
What does this mean for Max??
Did he ask for this??
Lando:
Bro.
Did he Thanos-snap Horner?
Daniel:
…………………………
I'm not saying anything.
😶
Oscar:
OH MY GOD
YOU KNEW
Carlos:
DANIEL
DANIEL TELL US RIGHT NOW
Lando:
He DID ask for it, didn’t he
This was the “what are they willing to give him” moment
They offered him the HEAD of the team 😭
Oscar:
Game of Thrones: Verstappen Edition
"Dracarys"
Carlos:
This is insane.
I mean I kinda get it?? But also—
CHRISTIAN?
Lando:
If Max actually joins Mercedes now I am going to combust.
Publicly.
Live.
On TV.
Daniel:
I’m not saying he’s going.
But I’m not saying he’s not.
Oscar:
That’s the most annoying thing you’ve ever said and I’ve known you for 6 years.
Carlos:
I have war flashbacks just thinking about Red Bull restructuring.
Lando:
Max really went “fix the team or I’m gone”
And they were like “sure, head on a plate?”
Oscar:
If Max is the main character this season I’m going to be so mad.
Daniel:
Oh, honey.
He’s not the main character.
He’s the showrunner.
***
Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Gianpiero Lambiase
GP:
Hey.
Just a heads up—Red Bull’s been sniffing around again.
Marketing asked if I “had a sense” of your plans for 2026.
Horner’s seat isn’t even cold and they’re already twitchy.
Max:
I figured.
They tried to corner me after the sim run.
GP:
And?
Max:
I said I was focused on this season.
Which is true.
Technically.
GP:
You know that answer only works if no one’s watching closely.
And
everyone’s
watching closely now.
Max:
Let them watch.
I’m not confirming anything until it’s done.
Not even to them.
GP:
So there
is
something to confirm.
Max:
You’ve known that longer than anyone.
GP:
Fair.
Just remember: if you jump ship, they’ll rewrite the whole narrative.
Make you the villain if they can.
Max:
Then I’ll win from the other side.
Simple.
GP:
God help us all.
Just give me some warning, alright?
Before the fire starts.
Max:
You’ll have it.
You’re the only one I owe that to.
***
Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Dr. Anastasia “Ana” Wolff
Ana:
Your little Red Bull civil war means my father will now spend his entire vacation on the phone.
I was planning on reading Tolstoy in the shade in Sardinia.
Now I’ll be stuck listening to board-level diplomacy over Aperol.
Max:
So dramatic.
You can still read. Just pretend the shouting is ambient ocean noise.
Very immersive.
Ana:
You underestimate how loud he is when trying to
not
yell.
His whisper could launch rockets.
Max:
Fine.
I feel like I deserve some kind of visual compensation.
Ana:
What are you on about now.
Max:
Do I get to see you in a bikini?
For morale. Obviously.
National interest.
Ana:
This is why you’re not allowed anywhere near Sardinia.
Max:
I know you packed the blue one.
Ana:
I hate that you know that.
And that you’re right.
***
Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Toto Wolff
Max:
Heard you're vacationing in Sardinia.
What a coincidence.
I’m also
just so happening
to be in Sardinia.
With a yacht.
Would be a shame if… I don't know… we scheduled a casual conversation about a Mercedes contract? 😇
Toto:
Is this your version of subtle?
Max:
I’m on vacation. This
is
subtle.
We can call it a “strategic coincidence.”
You bring your calendar. I’ll bring champagne.
Toto:
You’re impossible.
Max:
I prefer “motivated.”
Let me know when you’re free. Anchor’s down till next Tuesday. 🛥️
Toto:
...
Saturday afternoon. Come to Dinner.
I’m not stupid.
Max:
Didn’t think so.
Looking forward to it,
🛥️😉
Chapter 14: Chapter 12: Olbia
Chapter Text
V, Port Hercule, Monaco - 10 July 2025
The Mediterranean glittered like sequins tossed across blue silk as the yacht pulled away from Monaco’s Port Hercule.
It was early still—pre-lunch. The air smelled of salt and citrus and the sharp tang of sunscreen. Jack had already kicked off his shoes and was lying belly-down on a striped outdoor lounger, inspecting a pile of LEGO bricks like it was a tactical operation.
Ana sat cross-legged beside him in the shade, her white linen trousers rolled up to the knee. A small tupperware container of sorted LEGO pieces sat between them—her doing, not his. The instruction booklet was already annotated in blue pen, step numbers circled for efficiency.
The yacht hummed gently beneath them. A low, steady engine thrum. The kind of sound that didn’t press against her thoughts. Smooth. Predictable. Safe.
She handed Jack a brick without looking up. “Three-flat. Goes on the front axle.”
He nodded, tongue between his teeth, focused. “You brought the new Technic one.”
“Of course I did.”
Jack giggled and pressed the brick into place. A shadow passed across the deck—Toto, somewhere behind them with a glass of sparkling water and his sunglasses perched on his head like an architectural feature. Susie followed a moment later with a sunhat and a paperback novel. Neither interrupted. This was sacred time.
Ana passed Jack the next piece. A gear block. He didn’t need her help, not really. He was scarily good at this. But he liked when she built with him. Said it made the pieces "click better."
She didn’t say it out loud, but she liked it too. The rhythm of it. The pattern. The simple, linear joy of something going exactly as the instructions said it would. No interpretation. No decoding tone or guessing expressions. Just a picture. A block. A click.
“Do you think this car would survive Eau Rouge?” Jack asked.
Ana tilted her head. “Maybe if it had downforce. But the aerodynamics are tragic.”
Jack nodded seriously. “We can mod it later.”
“We will.”
The boat rocked gently as it veered west, chasing the edge of the coast. Sardinia was hours away. But that was fine.
For now, Ana sat in the shade, LEGO in her lap, her little brother at her side, the sky wide and blue overhead.
And for once, nothing needed decoding.
Everything clicked.
***
Mercedes F1 HQ, Brackley, England - 10 July 2025
Valtteri hadn’t meant to linger. He’d finished his debrief, grabbed a coffee, and wandered back toward the simulator bay out of habit more than anything. Old muscle memory.
What he walked into was less a technical discussion and more… a slow-motion mutiny.
George Russell was pacing the sim platform like a caged animal, voice pitched just a little too loud.
“—so what, you’re telling me Antonelli gets his own setup and I get what, the generic baseline?”
There was a pause. The sim team, from experience, had perfected the art of answering George as little as possible.
George, apparently unfazed by the silence, barreled on. “It’s ridiculous. Why does a rookie get an entirely bespoke package and I get thrown in with scraps?”
Valtteri leaned casually against the doorframe. “Interesting use of the word ‘scraps’ for a car that actually won a race last month.”
George whipped around, startled. “Oh. Valtteri.”
“George.”
The tension in the room didn’t ease. George turned back to the engineers. “I’m just saying, why is Kimi getting a set up written like a love letter to his driving style while the rest of us get a compromise? Since when do we build entire packages around a rookie?”
One of the sim techs didn’t look up from their monitor. “Because it works.”
George stopped mid-stride, staring at them. “Excuse me?”
Another tech coughed into their sleeve. “Kimi’s data with Altair is… clean. Precise. The car responds to him.”
“It hated me,” George snapped. “Actively. I’ve never driven something that fought me that hard in my life. And you’re telling me you built it for him? ”
One of the junior engineers — Nicola, if Valtteri remembered right — muttered under her breath without looking up from her screen. “Ana made it.”
The room froze.
Valtteri watched George’s head snap around. “ Ana? As in—Dr. Wolff Ana?”
Nicola winced. “…Yes?”
Valtteri almost laughed at the way the color drained from George’s face. He stepped into the room, calm as ever.
George stared at Nicola. “She built that ?”
“Tailored it,” Valtteri corrected. “To Kimi. Which is why it worked for him. And not you.”
George’s jaw tightened. “It hated me.”
Valtteri shrugged. “Altair doesn’t hate. It just tells the truth. You didn’t like what it told you.”
George’s jaw tightened. “And what exactly is that supposed to mean?”
Valtteri shrugged, the picture of Finnish serenity. “Means the car doesn’t want overthinking. It wants trust. Kimi gave it that. You didn’t.”
The sim team was doing an admirable job of pretending to be invisible.
The room went quiet.
George opened his mouth. Closed it. Spun on his heel and stalked out of the sim bay without another word.
Valtteri watched the door swing shut, then glanced at the tech who’d spilled the name. “Next time, try not to drop Ana into a live grenade.”
The tech winced. “Sorry.”
Valtteri smiled faintly, sipping his coffee again. “Don’t be. He was going to find out eventually. Better here than in front of her.”
A collective shudder went through the room.
***
Slack Channel: #brackley-nerds
Private Channel. ~30 members.
tom.sim:
So… George knows.
sam.transmission:
KNOWS knows???
megan.sim:
Yep. Valtteri walked in on him yelling about Kimi getting a “love letter setup” and then Nicola just… dropped Ana’s name.
jules.elec:
…oh no.
leo.mechanic:
George knows Ana built it. Altair. The whole thing.
jess.hr:
LORD HAVE MERCY ON HIS SOUL.
fatima.pr:
Is she back from Sardinia yet?
liam.eng-lead:
Nope. Toto too. They’re still on vacation.
kayleigh.powerunit:
Oh god. He’s going to stew on this for a week and then show up acting like Ana personally insulted his driving through code.
ellie.electronics:
…which, to be fair, she kinda did.
nicola.sim:
Nah, Altair didn’t insult him. Altair just refused to lie.
rachel.aero:
Somebody warn Lorelai. If George even breathes near Ana when she gets back, she’s going to go full PA-from-hell.
liv.strategy:
She’s
already
planning the counterstrike. I saw her googling “how to make someone’s chair one centimeter too low without them noticing.”
nicola.sim:
Valtteri, bless him, told George straight to his face: “Altair doesn’t hate. It just tells the truth.”
yas.enginecontrol:
💀💀💀 oh he’s going to
lose it.
benjy.data:
Someone should tell Ana.
james.brakes:
She’s on a boat with Toto. Do you really want to be the person who texts her “btw George found out you wrote the car that made him cry in the sim”?
benjy.data:
…good point.
nicola.sim:
I vote we let it simmer until she gets back. Let George dig his own grave first.
fatima.pr:
Seconded.
lorelai.pa:
Thirded.
fatima.pr:
For the record, when she
does
find out, I am NOT being in the same postcode as that first debrief.
jules.elec:
Oh no, we’re ALL going to be there. Front row. Watching George try to explain to Ana why he thinks her work hates him.
benjy.data:
Brackley will
never
recover from that level of secondhand embarrassment.
***
Text Messages: George Russell & Dr. Anastasia “Ana” Wolff
George:
So apparently that
Altair
package everyone’s whispering about is yours.
Ana:
It’s not mine. It’s the team’s.
George:
Funny, the sim guys said “Ana made it.”
And now an undriveable car hates me.
Ana:
The car doesn’t hate you.
Cars don’t have feelings.
George:
That one did. I’ve
never
driven something that fought me that hard.
Ana:
Altair isn’t built to fight. It’s built to adapt.
George:
To
Kimi.
Not to me.
Ana:
Correct.
George:
…Are you telling me you built an entire package around a rookie?
Ana:
I built a package around a driving style. That happens to belong to a rookie.
George:
…That’s it? No “oh, George, it wasn’t personal”?
Ana:
It wasn’t personal.
It was Engineering.
George:
Engineering that apparently think a teenager is more compatible than a race winner.
Ana:
Engineering don’t care about résumés either.
George:
Do you know how insulting that is to hear?
Ana:
Do you know how insulting it is to have your work called undriveable because you didn’t get along with it in five laps?
George:
Ana, it actively fought me in every corner.
Turn-in, mid-corner balance, throttle mapping—it was like it was trying to throw me off.
Ana:
Altair rewards instinct over calculation. It doesn’t want you to manage it, it wants you to trust it.
George:
That’s great for Antonelli and his golden gut.
What about those of us who actually
think
about our inputs?
Ana:
Then Altair is not your package.
George:
That’s it? No explanation?
Ana:
It’s not built for you. That’s the explanation.
George:
You designed a car that loves a teenager and loathes a race winner.
Ana:
No.
I designed a set-up that reflects exactly what it’s given.
George:
…Are you saying it told me something I don’t want to hear?
Ana:
I’m saying Altair doesn’t lie.
George:
…Right.
Good chat.
Ana:
Next time, don’t fight it.
George:
Next time, build it for me.
Ana:
Drive like Kimi.
***
V, Somewhere near Sardinia - 10 July 2025
The sun had just dipped below the horizon when dinner was served.
Sardinia shimmered in the distance, a silhouette of soft hills and scattered lights. The yacht had dropped anchor in a quiet cove, and the water rocked them gently, the surface like black silk cut with gold where lanterns reflected.
The table was set on the aft deck—simple, understated. Linen napkins. A carafe of chilled water. Grilled sea bass with lemon. Herb potatoes. A salad with fig and goat cheese that Susie had insisted on and Jack had immediately declared “suspicious.”
Ana sat between Jack and Susie, the sea breeze teasing strands of her hair out of its bun. She’d changed into a light navy sundress for dinner—not for anyone else, but because the fabric didn’t itch, and it was soft against sun-warmed skin.
Jack was talking. Of course he was talking. Animatedly describing their LEGO build from earlier like it had been a mission to Mars. “And then Ana figured out the gearing problem, and we added the spoiler, and now it’s got actual drag resistance. I think we should test it down the hallway tomorrow.”
Toto, across from them, chuckled as he served himself another spoonful of potatoes. “You’ll be engineering the next power unit before we get to Porto Cervo.”
Jack puffed his chest. “I already am.”
Ana smiled into her water glass.
Dinner was easy.
Not small talk. Not stiff conversation. But the kind of silence and sound that didn’t rub her raw. Susie asking thoughtful questions. Jack interrupting himself to ask if Ana liked the figs, because he didn’t, and she could have his. Toto recounting a story from his karting days—something about a raccoon, a fuel pump, and a very unfortunate photo.
Ana laughed. Actually laughed.
She didn’t feel the usual tension behind her ribs—the need to brace herself, to mask, to perform ease she didn’t actually feel. She could just be.
There was wine, too. A crisp Grüner Veltliner Toto had brought aboard with far too much ceremony. He poured her a glass without asking. She took a sip. It was good. Cold. Balanced. She liked it.
When Jack finished his fish, he clambered into the lounge chair beside her and fell asleep halfway through retelling the raccoon story, head tucked against her side, sandals forgotten under the table.
Ana didn’t move.
Not for a long time.
She just sat there in the warm hush of sea and wind and quiet voices, her little brother asleep against her, the air smelling of salt and citrus and grilled lemon.
***
V, Somewhere near Sardinia - 11 July 2025
Ana had always been an early riser.
Not by choice—just by nature. Her brain didn’t believe in sleep past 06:30, and her body followed suit, especially on boats. The gentle rocking of the yacht, the muted hum of waves against the hull—it settled her just enough to rest but never enough to linger.
So, at 07:02, she was already propped up in bed, back against the cool wall of her cabin, legs under a cotton throw, a Russian novel open in her lap. The pages were worn, soft at the edges from years of rereading. The words curved in familiar Cyrillic, her thumb stroking a line as she reread it, quietly mouthing the vowels to herself.
She didn’t hear the door creak.
Didn’t notice the soft shuffle of bare feet and Star Wars pyjamas until the mattress dipped beside her and a familiar head nestled against her side.
Jack didn’t say anything. Just… climbed in, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like he did it all the time.
Ana blinked down at him.
He blinked up at her.
“I had a weird dream,” he murmured. “About a talking crab.”
She nodded slowly, brushing a hand gently over his curls. “Understandable.”
He yawned, then glanced at the book in her lap. His brow furrowed.
“That’s not English.”
“It’s Russian.”
Jack squinted at the text. “It looks like spaghetti letters.”
Ana snorted quietly. “They’re Cyrillic.”
“Is that like cursive but for spies?”
She let out a soft laugh. “It’s an alphabet. Like the Latin one. Just different.”
Jack reached over and touched the page, finger hovering over a letter. “What’s that one?”
“Б. It makes a ‘buh’ sound.”
He grinned. “Like Bumblebee.”
“Exactly.”
They went through a few more letters. He asked if she could teach him to write his name in Russian. She did, slowly and carefully, drawing it out on the margin of a scrap paper from the book’s cover.
He studied it like it was a treasure map.
“Do you miss speaking Russian?” he asked after a while.
Ana paused. “Sometimes,” she said honestly. “I think in it, sometimes.”
He yawned and nestled closer, head against her shoulder, and she turned a page with practiced ease. He didn’t ask for anything else—just let the rhythm of her reading lull him.
It was peaceful. Strange and quiet and good.
So naturally, that was when Toto opened the door.
“Anastasia, have you seen—oh.”
He stopped in the doorway, barefoot, coffee in hand, eyes landing on the two of them in bed: Ana upright, still reading, Jack curled under the blanket like a sleepy barnacle.
Ana didn’t flinch. Just lifted one eyebrow. “He came in on his own.”
“I gathered,” Toto said, lips twitching.
Jack stirred. “Papa?”
“Just checking you hadn’t fallen overboard,” Toto said, voice low. “But clearly, you found the best spot on the yacht.”
Jack gave a sleepy grin but didn’t move. “Ana’s bed is cozy.”
Toto’s eyes softened.
Ana closed the book gently, marking the page with a scrap of ribbon. “We were reading,” she said, as if it explained everything.
Toto raised his coffee in a silent salute and stepped back. “Breakfast in twenty.”
Ana gave a small nod.
Jack didn’t budge.
And Ana didn’t mind.
***
Mercedes F1 HQ, Brackley, England - 11 July 2025
It had been gnawing at him since the sim run. Not in a bad way—just a quiet, persistent curiosity that came with years of reading cars like second languages.
Altair wasn’t a setup. It was a fingerprint.
Kimi’s, mostly. But fingerprints sometimes fit more than one lock.
Valtteri found himself leaning on the rail above the sim bay later that afternoon, watching engineers reset the system. “Humor me,” he said, almost to himself.
One of the techs glanced up. “Uh… sir?”
“Get Frederik Vesti,” Valtteri said. “I want to see him run Altair.”
There was a beat of hesitation. “Frederik? Are you sure?”
“He’s got good instincts,” Valtteri said. “Less polish. Sometimes that’s better.”
Twenty minutes later, Frederik was climbing into the rig, looking equal parts confused and excited. “You really want me to drive Kimi’s package?”
“Altair,” Valtteri corrected. “Don’t think about it. Just drive.”
The first lap was messy. Tentative. Frederik learning the car, the car learning him. But it wasn’t bad. The balance didn’t bite. The torque mapping nudged instead of screamed.
By lap three, Valtteri felt the corner of his mouth twitch.
It wasn’t Kimi. But it was
closer.
“Feedback?” he asked through the comm.
Frederik’s voice came back, slightly breathless. “It’s… sharp. You can’t overthink it. If you do, it pushes back. But if you trust it—” He caught Copse perfectly, the sim data tracing a clean, confident exit. “—it feels incredible.”
Valtteri shot a glance at the telemetry overlay. Even with the nerves and rookie edges, Frederik’s traces were cleaner than George’s by miles.
“Rear’s alive,” Frederik added. “Not loose. Just… waiting for you to commit.”
Valtteri hummed softly. “Keep running. Don’t fight it.”
Five laps later, Frederik rolled to a stop, pulling off the headset with a wide grin. “That was insane. Whoever built that—it doesn’t feel like a sim. Feels like the car’s breathing with you.”
“Mm,” Valtteri said, scanning the data. “You did better than George.”
Frederik blinked again. “Oh.” Then, cautiously: “Should I… not tell him that?”
Valtteri let out a quiet laugh. “Unless you want to see a grown man cry? Definitely not.”
Valtteri wasn’t finished testing his theory.
If Altair was truly about instinct, it shouldn’t care about seniority, titles, or whether a driver had their name etched into a trophy cabinet. It should only care about the hands on the wheel.
Which was how he found himself leaning against the sim console again, arms folded, as Doriane Pin climbed into the rig with a skeptical look.
“You want me to run what now?” she asked, adjusting her belts.
“A development package,” Valtteri said casually. “Nothing complicated. Just drive it how you drive.”
Doriane narrowed her eyes. “And why are you here?”
“Curiosity,” Valtteri said, which was technically true.
The techs shared a wary glance. The first lap was exploratory. Doriane didn’t push, letting the car come to her.
Lap two, she committed.
By lap three, the data feed smoothed into something startlingly familiar. Not Kimi-perfect, but damn close. The same trust. The same instinctive weight transfer. The car didn’t just tolerate her — it leaned into her.
Valtteri’s mouth twitched. There it is.
“How’s it feel?” he asked through the comm.
Doriane’s laugh crackled back. “Like the car’s… alive? It wants me to stop thinking. The second I overanalyze, it gets twitchy. But if I just trust it—” She feathered the throttle through Copse, smooth as silk. “—it’s magic.”
Valtteri glanced at the engineers. The overlay was right there on the monitor. Doriane’s lap versus George’s.
It wasn’t even close.
Lap five, she came into Stowe a little hot and caught the rear with a reflexive flick. Perfect save. The car settled instantly.
When she rolled to a stop and climbed out, cheeks flushed with adrenaline, Valtteri was already smirking.
“What was that?” she asked, pulling off her headset.
“Project Altair,” Valtteri said.
Doriane blinked. “The Kimi package?”
“Mm.”
She grinned. “I get why he likes it. That thing sings if you let it.”
Valtteri tilted his head, amused. “You know you just did a better job than George, right?”
Her eyes widened. “Oh. Uh… I probably shouldn’t repeat that.”
Valtteri chuckled, low and knowing. “Definitely not. Not unless you want him to combust on sight.”
He turned back to the telemetry, tracing the lines with his finger.
Kimi. Ferderik. Now Doriane.
And one more name sitting in the back of his mind like a loaded gun: Max Verstappen.
Valtteri sipped his coffee and murmured under his breath, “Altair really doesn’t give a damn about résumés.”
***
Porto di Olbia, Olbia, Sardinia - 11 July 2025
The yacht was anchored just off the coast of Olbia—pastel buildings stacked like sugar cubes along the cliffs and the streets lined with orange trees. Toto had muttered something about needing to review strategy notes and Jack had decided he was on a “boat strike” until they let him eat gelato for breakfast.
So Susie had turned to Ana with a grin and said, “We’re going shopping.”
Ana had blinked. “Shopping for what?”
“Doesn’t matter. We’ll know when we see it.”
Which was how Ana found herself walking beside Susie through sun-drenched alleys that smelled like sea salt and rosemary, a linen tote in one hand and her sunglasses on.
She wasn’t used to this kind of outing. No itinerary. No defined purpose. Just… wandering.
Susie, on the other hand, was in her element.
They browsed pottery stalls and linen shops, Susie humming at patterns, Ana trailing her fingers across smooth terracotta surfaces and embroidered pillowcases. The fabric shops were a surprise: handwoven cotton tunics, loose dresses dyed in earth tones. Ana let herself run her hands over the softer ones. No tags. No polyester. Just clean seams and breathable fabric.
“I like this,” Ana murmured, pulling a cream-coloured shirt from a rack. “It doesn’t itch.”
Susie smiled. “Try it on.”
“I don’t usually—”
“It’s not about usually. You’re on holiday.”
Ana tried it on.
It fit. It felt… like nothing. Which was exactly what she wanted clothes to feel like. She turned in the mirror slowly, watching the fabric move with her. Comfortable. Not too tight. Not too loud. Just soft enough.
Susie didn’t comment. Just added a second shirt in pale blue and handed it to the shopkeeper.
They wandered farther. Bought lemon granita from a café with mosaic tables and sat under a sun umbrella.
“You don’t let yourself do this often, do you?” Susie asked gently, spooning at the melting ice.
Ana shrugged, squinting into the sun. “It’s not usually… useful.”
“Joy is useful,” Susie said. “Rest is useful. Letting yourself be seen, even when you’re not in control—that’s useful too.”
Ana stirred her granita. “It’s easier not to be seen.”
“I know.” Susie’s voice was soft. “But you don’t have to shrink. You don’t have to explain yourself to people who aren’t trying to understand you. You’re not too much.”
Ana didn’t say anything for a moment. Then: “I think I’m still learning how to believe that.”
Susie nodded. “That’s okay. You don’t have to believe it every day. Just… keep showing up. For yourself.”
Ana glanced down at her new cotton shirt, at the cool granita in her hand, at the sea glinting just past the square.
“I think I can do that,” she said.
And for the first time in days, the corners of her mouth lifted—just barely—but Susie saw it.
And that was enough.
***
V, Porto di Olbia, Olbia, Sardinia - 11 July 2025
The sun had dipped low over the Sardinian coast, casting long amber streaks across the deck. Dinner was over, Jack had passed out with a LEGO minifigure still clutched in one hand, and Susie had gone to call her mother.
Toto and Ana were left on the upper deck, a glass of wine in his hand, a book folded shut in hers. The sea murmured quietly beneath them, and the salt breeze tugged at Ana’s braid.
“Hypothetical question,” Toto said, too casually to be casual.
“Your hypothetical questions are never hypothetical.”
“Well,” he allowed, “they’re usually lightly disguised scouting missions.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“You’re me. It’s July 2025. You’ve been given a blank cheque and a green light. What’s your driver lineup for next year?”
Ana didn’t look at him right away. Just tilted her head, processing. “Am I you… or am I me with your job?”
Toto huffed a laugh. “You. With my job.”
Ana blinked slowly. “You’re asking me who I’d want in the other seat?”
“I’m asking you what you’d do,” Toto said. “Not what the board wants. Not what the sponsors want. You.”
She set her book down. “Max. And Kimi.”
Toto raised his brows. “So quickly?”
“Kimi plus Max,” Ana repeated. “Cleanest long-term bet. Complementary data styles. No ego friction. And Kimi’s ceiling is higher than people realise.”
“Interesting,” Toto said slowly. “Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
Toto sipped his wine. “And George?”
Ana raised a brow. “What about George?”
Toto frowned, leaning back in his chair. “George has been consistent. He knows the team. He knows the factory. And I survived Brocedes , Sternchen. I can survive George and Max.”
Ana gave him a flat look. “Did you? Survive it?”
Toto blinked.
“Or did it just end eventually?”
That got a crack of laughter from him. But it faded quickly.
She continued, calmly: “If your benchmark for internal harmony is ‘better than Nico and Lewis,’ you’re not aiming high. You’re aiming… above firestorm. And only because we survived it, doesn’t mean you should try to recreate it like it’s some badge of honour,” Ana said, voice sharper now. “Those years nearly destroyed the team from the inside out. We won, but we bled for it.”
“Besides, that was different,” Ana said with a tilted head. “Lewis and Nico was pride and ego and history. George isn’t Nico. Max isn’t Lewis. And,” Ana added, “I don’t think George can be teammate to Max.”
He frowned. “You think he wouldn’t handle it?”
“I think he’d want to handle it,” she said. “But it would eat at him. Every qualifying. Every headline. Every tiny imbalance in treatment. And then it wouldn’t just be about the racing.”
Toto ran a hand through his hair.
“Kimi,” Ana said again, softer now. “He’s young. Malleable. But not weak. And he respects Max. Enough to want to beat him properly. Not… politically.
“I don’t think Max and George can exist in the same team,” Ana said finally. “Not without splitting the garage.”
“And Kimi?”
“Kimi would follow Max through fire if he thought he could learn something from it.”
Toto looked over. “You’re very sure about Max.”
Ana didn’t respond right away. She just looked out over the water.
Then she said, softly, “Max doesn’t like chaos. People think he thrives in it, but that’s not true. He thrives in control. He masters chaos—but only when it’s external. He needs stability inside the car. Inside the garage. Inside the team.”
Toto’s gaze sharpened slightly.
“Max will fight for every inch on track,” Ana said. “But he’ll walk away from anything that makes his foundation feel unstable. That’s why Red Bull worked—until now. Horner was chaos, but Max didn’t feel it, because his race engineer was order. Jos is a storm, but Max had his sister, his sim rig, his cats. Structure.”
Toto went quiet.
Ana sipped her tea, watching the light dip lower across the water. “You asked for my opinion.”
“I did.”
“And I gave it.”
“You always do,” he said, with something like pride.
“Kimi has something George doesn’t.”
“Which is?”
“Elasticity,” Ana said. “Growth curve. The capacity to learn rapidly under pressure and not break. He listens. He adapts. And Max respects him.”
“Kimi has potential,” she continued. “And loyalty. And patience. And he doesn’t take criticism as an attack. If you give him the car, he’ll give you the future.”
Toto was quiet, staring out at the waves.
“I’m not saying George isn’t talented,” Ana added, more softly. “But you asked me what I’d choose.”
“And you chose Max and Kimi.”
She nodded.
Toto sighed, then smiled faintly. “You really think Kimi can handle the pressure?”
“I think he already does,” Ana said. “And I think Max would respect him more than George. Maybe even mentor him, if you’re lucky.”
Toto leaned back, his expression unreadable. “You’ve thought about this.”
“I always think about the things that matter.”
“And this matters?”
She didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”
He looked at her for a long moment, then gave a small nod.
“I don’t dislike George,” Ana added. “I just don’t think you can build a new chapter of Mercedes around a powder keg and a lit match.”
Then Toto said, quietly, “You really think Kimi can take us forward?”
“I think if you give him the time and the space…” Ana said, “he’ll take us somewhere entirely new.”
***
Group Chat: “TEAM 33”
(Members: Max Verstappen, Jos Verstappen, Raymond Vermeulen)
Max
Landed.
Raymond
Try not to set anything on fire this time.
Jos
Where are you again?
Max
Sardinia.
Jos
Since when?
Max
Since this morning.
Having dinner with Toto tonight.
We’re both here.
Pure coincidence. 😊
Raymond
You’re telling me the CEO of Mercedes just happens to be vacationing where your yacht is docked?
Max
Wild, right?
Small world.
Jos
Jesus Christ.
You’re actually charming your way into the seat and the family.
Raymond
Dinner with Toto.”
Do you want me to send wine or a ring box?
***
V, Porto di Olbia, Olbia, Sardinia - 12 July 2025
Ana was mid-way through slicing a peach for Jack when Toto, with all the emotional nuance of an accounting software patch, looked up from his tablet and said, “Max will be joining us for dinner tonight.”
The knife paused, hovering above the fruit.
Susie, across the galley table in her linen cover-up and sun-dampened hair, narrowed her eyes. “I thought you said no work talk. No nonentities . That was the rule , Toto. Vacation.”
“I didn’t invite him,” Toto said, tone entirely too dry for someone dropping a bomb like that into a kitchen filled with fresh fruit and an unsuspecting eight-year-old. “He just so happens to be in Sardinia. With a yacht. Near ours.”
Ana’s heart dropped clean through her stomach.
Her hand trembled slightly as she set the knife down, not daring to look up. Instead, she reached for another peach half like it was the most important thing in the world and not—
Not Max.
Max.
The Max she’d known since she was eighteen.
The Max who had first kissed her in a nightclub in Monaco in May 2016.
The Max who texted her in Dutch when he was too tired to translate to English.
The Max who once unbuttoned her shirt mid-argument and said “I am not winning this debate, but I am winning this blouse.”
The Max that had once ripped Ana’s panties in the backseat of a SUV in Spa 2019. The Max that could undo her bra with one hand.
The Max who had once taken her apart in a Milan hotel room with one hand on her throat and the other tracing her ribs like he was memorising her. The bruises had been there for weeks. The orgasm had been spectacular.
And now he was coming to dinner .
With her family .
This wasn’t a dinner.
This was psychological warfare in linen napkins.
Max Verstappen was going to sit across from Toto Wolff and charm him while Ana pretended not to remember how it felt to have him inside her. She might actually combust.
Ana picked up a slice of peach and chewed, ignoring the rush of blood in her ears.
“Oh cool!” Jack grinned from his seat, feet swinging under the table. “Can I ask him about the last race? I saw his onboards and they were insane .”
“Sure,” Toto said, sipping his espresso.
Ana forced herself to breathe. Even. Quiet. Controlled. Like she hadn’t just short-circuited internally.
Because it was fine.
It was fine .
She and Max had rules. Well—no, they didn’t have rules. But they had an understanding . No expectations. No mess. Just physics and flesh and the occasional feral, godless mistake that neither of them talked about in daylight.
They didn’t do dinner .
They didn’t do parents .
Her ears buzzed. She wiped her hands on a tea towel and stepped over to rinse the peach juice off her fingers. Cool water. Focus on sensation. Anchor. Regulate.
Behind her, Toto continued reading something on his tablet, completely unaware of the emotional meltdown he’d just dropped like a gentle email notification.
Max was coming here.
To this yacht .
To this kitchen .
To eat grilled fish and salad with her father .
She would have to make eye contact with him while her little brother asked him about DRS zones and her stepmother passed the wine and no one knew that he had seen her come apart with his name in her mouth more times than she could count.
She was going to die.
“Do we know why Max is here?” Susie asked, more sharply now.
Toto didn’t even look up. “He said it was coincidence.”
Ana almost choked on air.
“Oh sure,” Susie muttered. “Coincidence. I’m sure he coincidentally moored near us just as we were finalizing driver contracts.”
Ana dried her hands carefully, then picked up Jack’s Lego figure and began absentmindedly attaching the tires. It gave her something to do . Something to control .
She couldn’t freak out. She would not freak out.
She had spent a decade building herself into something solid and unflinching. Her brain worked on a different OS than everyone else’s, but she had made it functional . She masked. She memorized. She adapted. She was fine .
She would be fine tonight too.
Even if Max Verstappen sat across the dinner table and made that face —the one where he looked at her like she was a secret only he knew how to keep.
Even if he brushed her wrist by accident when passing the salt and she remembered, in excruciating clarity, the way those fingers curled around her thighs.
She was going to be fine .
She was a scientist .
She could compartmentalize .
…Right?
She looked down at the Lego in her hand.
It was missing a piece.
Of course it was.
***
Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Dr. Anastasia “Ana” Wolff
Ana:
ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR MIND
Max:
hi Poekie
yes, I am. about you. 🥰
Ana:
Max Emilian.
This is
not
funny.
Max:
😳
ok now I’m worried, full name and no punctuation
what happened??
Ana 🛰️
YOU.
You happened.
You know exactly what happened
You invited yourself to DINNER with my FAMILY
On a yacht
On VACATION
Max:
😇 I didn’t
invite
myself. I mentioned I was nearby
Your father is the one who said “come to dinner”
I was being polite
Ana:
POLITE?
You’ve been inside me.
You
don’t
get to be polite.
Max 🏁
jesus christ ana
don’t text things like that when I’m outside
I almost dropped my phone
Are you… mad?
Ana:
No, I’m THRILLED. Obviously.
Max I’m going to have to sit at that table and pretend I’ve never seen you without your fireproofs on.
Which is a LIE.
I know exactly where your dumb shoulder freckle is.
Max:
You love that freckle 😌
Ana:
Not the point.
You
ambushed
me. With
my father
.
What next? You want to help me put Jack to bed and braid my hair?
Max:
…do I get to braid your hair? 👀
Ana:
WHY DID YOU DO THIS?!?!?
WHY WAS YOUR GRAND PLAN TO SHOW UP AND EMOTIONALLY WATERBOARD ME OVER LINGUINE?!?
Max:
okay
whoa
that’s not what I’m doing
I didn’t come here to mess with you
I just thought… maybe I could make things easier
if your dad and I are going to be working together eventually, this is better than a boardroom
and also
if I’m being honest
I missed you
Ana:
You
missed
me so you invited yourself to DINNER WITH MY PARENTS?!
Max:
Okay.
I didn’t mean to blindside you.
I thought maybe… it was time.
I didn’t expect you to be
this
angry.
i didn’t mean to make you feel like this
i really didn’t
but i’m not sorry for wanting to be part of your world
Ana:
Then maybe you should’ve asked if I was ready to let you in.
Not just
decided.
I can’t do this right now.
Max:
…okay.
Then be angry.
I’ll still be there at dinner.
I’ll talk about tire degradation and pretend I’ve never seen you naked
deal?
***
Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Gianpiero Lambiase
Max:
hey
so
i think i may have…
miscalculated something
GP:
Define “miscalculated.”
And please don’t let it be anything that involves the FIA, your contract, or international diplomacy.
Max:
i may have
inadvertently
agreed to have dinner
with toto
and susie
tonight
GP:
……
Okay.
That’s fine.
You’re discussing the Merc contract. Logical move.
Max:
yes
but also
ana is there
GP:
ANA IS
THERE
???
Max:
yeah
we’re all on vacation
technically
just dinner
super casual
GP:
SHE’S YOUR SECRET FRIENDS-WITH-BENEFITS SITUATION, MAX.
SECRET.
EMPHASIS ON
SECRET
.
AND YOU’RE EATING GRILLED SEA BASS WITH HER PARENTS LIKE IT’S A BBC FAMILY DRAMA???
Max:
it didn’t feel that serious when i said yes
i just thought it would be nice
you know
normal
GP:
NORMAL?
Normal is taking her to a hotel in Nice.
Normal is NOT dinner on her father’s yacht.
WHO IS ALSO THE TEAM PRINCIPAL OF THE TEAM YOU’RE ABOUT TO JOIN.
Max:
ok i get it
i misjudged the situation
she seemed…
really angry
GP:
OH REALLY?!?!
You don’t say!
You’re telling me that the woman who’s kept your entire
very complicated
,
very long-running
,
completely off-the-record
relationship a secret for
over a decade
is mad that you’re SIPPING WINE with her
parents
???
Max:
technically i haven’t had wine yet
GP:
MAX EMILIAN VERSTAPPEN.
Max:
look
she’ll calm down
probably
eventually
i just need to wear something that makes me look
not threatening
but also successful
you know?
GP:
You need to wear a bulletproof vest and a muzzle.
That’s what you need.
You’re going to give me a heart attack.
Max:
love you too gp
GP:
Don't talk to me until after dessert.
***
V, Porto di Olbia, Olbia, Sardinia - 12 July 2025
Ana had made it through Austria. Through Susie’s pointed “you don’t have to change for anyone” speech she was only 73% sure wasn’t about George. Through Max texting her about Christian Horner like it was gossip between friends.
But this?
This might be the end of her.
Dinner.
With Max.
And her parents.
On the same yacht.
In Sardinia.
Ana sat very still at the polished teak table, her fingers wrapped tightly around a chilled glass of sparkling water. The condensation slid down her knuckles. She didn’t notice. Her gaze was fixed straight ahead, her posture immaculate, her breathing measured—but her entire nervous system was doing cartwheels.
She could hear everything.
The low thrum of the generator.
The polite clink of cutlery.
Jack quietly humming to himself beside her as he carved a face into his olive with a butter knife.
And Max’s voice.
Low. Even. Charming. Controlled.
Goddamn him.
Max Verstappen—reigning four-time world champion, secret complication, and the world’s worst decision-maker—was smiling politely at her father.
Max was chatting with Toto about the technical regulations like he wasn’t the human embodiment of every terrible, impulsive decision Ana had ever made.
He was leaning back casually in the chair, sleeves rolled to the elbow, the corner of his mouth tugging into that crooked grin that made engineers across the paddock forget their own names.
Ana couldn’t breathe properly.
She didn’t know how he was so calm. She didn’t know how her father was so calm.
Susie kept glancing at her every few minutes like she was trying to work out which exact part of Ana’s internal firewall was currently catching fire.
Ana didn’t speak much. She couldn’t. Her mouth felt dry, her thoughts tangled. Every time Max said something in that soft, unbothered tone of his, her body remembered things it absolutely should not be remembering at a dinner table with her parents. Her chest was tight. Her fingers were numb. The air was too warm and her skin too itchy and this was—
Max reached for the wine.
She flinched.
It was barely perceptible. Just a flicker in her posture. But Susie noticed. And so did Max.
Their eyes met.
Max tilted his head, question in his eyes.
Ana looked away.
Jack was talking about sea turtles. Or maybe airplanes. Or both. She focused on him. Focused on her little brother, his animated hands and excited voice and wide smile. Focused on not letting her breathing hitch.
“Are you all right?” Susie asked quietly.
Ana nodded once, sharp and precise.
She couldn’t break here. She couldn’t.
Not with Max across the table. Not with the way he looked at her like he knew. Like he always knew.
Not with Toto in his linen shirt and wine glass in hand, relaxed and oblivious and making small talk about strategic vision like this wasn’t the dinner that was going to unravel Ana from the inside out.
She dug her fingernails into the palm of her hand. A quiet grounding trick. Focus on sensation. Not the flash of memory behind her eyes. Not Max. Not what his voice did to her bones.
Her head was buzzing.
Her stomach twisted when she heard him say something about “next season.” Heard Toto say “we’ll see what the board decides.”
He was talking like a man who had nothing to lose.
Ana had everything to lose.
Especially if anyone here figured out what Max Verstappen meant to her.
And what he didn’t.
And everything in between.
She needed air.
Her pulse was hammering now. She could feel sweat under her collarbone. Her fingers twitched under the table, tapping rhythm patterns on her thigh. She tried to count backwards from 100 in Russian, like her therapist had taught her.
But then Max glanced at her. Just once.
A flicker of his eyes. A tiny lift of one brow.
You okay? it said. Are you breathing?
She looked away.
She wanted to scream.
Not because he was here.
Because he was here, and acting like this was
nothing
.
Like her world wasn’t spinning out from under her feet.
Like she hadn’t spent years building walls and rules and compartmentalised
logic
.
Like he hadn’t just bulldozed through all of it with a stupid smile and a button-down shirt with the top two buttons undone.
Her fork clattered against her plate. Susie glanced over. “Darling?”
Ana cleared her throat. “Sorry. Just tired.”
Max’s eyes narrowed slightly. The only tell he ever gave when he was worried.
She hated that he could read her so well.
She hated that she still wanted him to care.
Toto raised a glass. “To odd company and strategic timing.”
Max clinked glasses with him.
Ana didn’t lift hers.
Because if she did, her hands might shake.
***
V, Porto di Olbia, Olbia, Sardinia - 12 July 2025
Max had thought the hard part was over.
Dinner had gone well , all things considered.
Toto hadn’t kicked him off the boat. Susie had smiled— genuinely —at least twice. Jack had shown him his LEGO submarine. The food was good. The wine better.
He’d even made the table laugh once or twice.
He thought he’d managed it. Walked the tightrope without falling.
But then Ana disappeared.
She hadn’t said much all evening. That wasn’t unusual—she wasn’t a big talker at the best of times. But this…this had been something else. Stiff shoulders. Short answers. The tremble in her hand when she picked up her glass.
And now she was gone.
He found her down by the lower deck steps, just outside the galley kitchen. The rest of the yacht was glowing with soft yellow light, music drifting faintly from the speakers above deck. But down here, it was quiet. Tucked away. Cool.
She didn’t hear him approach.
She was leaning against the wall, one arm braced above her head like she needed it to stay upright.
Her other hand was clenched in her cardigan, fingers twitching. Not tapping, just—trembling.
Her breath hitched.
Max stopped cold.
He’d seen her stressed before. Angry. Frustrated. Even exhausted.
But he’d never seen
this
.
Not like this.
“Ana?” he said, quietly.
She jumped. Physically flinched.
She turned too fast and he saw it— really saw it—in her eyes.
Overloaded. Burning at the edges. Her pupils too wide. Her jaw too tight. The practiced calm, the shield of intellect and indifference— gone .
“Oh shit,” he breathed.
She blinked at him once. “Don’t.”
“I didn’t realise—”
“Exactly. You didn’t realise.” Her voice was hoarse. Sharp and low. “Because you never do. You just…you walk in like it’s a game, Max. Like none of this matters. Like you’re not—” Her hand fluttered in the air, failing to find the words. “You just keep pushing.”
He moved slowly, like approaching a wild animal. “I thought dinner went fine.”
“It wasn’t fine.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. And he meant it. Fuck, he meant it so much his chest hurt.
“You don’t get it,” she snapped. “You can talk to my father like it’s nothing. Joke with Susie. Smile. I can’t do that, Max. I have to control everything just to seem normal. Every word. Every expression. Every single reaction. And tonight? You broke the rules.”
“I didn’t know it would be this hard for you,” he said softly.
“That’s the problem, Max,” she whispered, almost shaking. “You never have to know. You don’t live in the aftermath.”
He reached out, slowly. Touched her arm. “I didn’t do this to hurt you.”
She looked at him, finally. Really looked.
And he saw it.
Not anger. Not even really panic.
Just exhaustion .
Deep, bone-heavy, soul-tired exhaustion.
He swallowed hard.
“I thought it would be okay,” he said, voice lower now, as if speaking too loud might make it worse. “I thought maybe if we just…pretended, it wouldn’t feel so strange.”
“Of course you can pretend,” she whispered. “You’re good at that.”
That one hit.
Square to the chest.
Max’s hand dropped.
“I’m sorry,” he said again. “I didn’t mean to corner you. Not like this. I just—” He exhaled, dragged a hand through his hair. “I missed you. I wanted to see you. That’s all.”
“I didn’t ask you to come to dinner,” she said.
“I know.”
“I’m not okay, Max.”
He nodded.
And for once, finally , he understood.
Not just that she was upset. Not just that she was overwhelmed.
But that he’d made it worse.
That all his casual ease, all his pretending—
had hurt her.
He stepped back.
“Do you want me to leave?”
She hesitated.
Then nodded.
Max turned without another word. No argument. No quip. No parting smile.
Just silence.
***
V, Porto di Olbia, Olbia, Sardinia - 12 July 2025
She made it to the bathroom just in time.
The lock clicked shut behind her and her knees gave out, her body folding in on itself like she’s collapsing inward, like her lungs were trying to hide from the inside out.
She sat on the cold marble tiles, hands shaking so badly she couldn’t even get her hair out of her face, couldn’t undo the top buttons of her linen dress, can’t breathe.
Not properly.
Not deeply.
Not enough .
The mirror above the sink reflected a woman she barely recognized—flushed, panicked, vibrating with the kind of silent hysteria that feels bone-deep. Her throat burned. Her chest ached. Her vision has narrowed to a pinpoint.
She gasped again and again and again, but the air wouldn’t go in right. Her ribs were locked tight. Her heart was sprinting away from her.
This is stupid.
This is so stupid.
She survived dinner. She didn’t look at Max for too long. She didn’t touch him. She smiled like he wasn’t the man she’s been sleeping with for nearly ten years. She smiled like he wasn’t looking at her like he knows her better than anyone else ever has .
She lied through her teeth for the sake of family harmony and team politics and—
And now she was here, trembling like her body is coming apart one nerve ending at a time.
The door opened without warning. She forgot to lock it. Or maybe she did but didn’t turn the bolt fully.
“Ana?” Susie’s voice is quiet but firm. “Ana, sweetheart—oh, darling —”
The panic spiked, sharp and stupid. Ana turned her face into the wall, trying to hide the tears, the embarrassment, the weakness of it all.
“I’m fine,” she choked out.
“You’re absolutely not,” Susie said, crouching beside her. “You’re having a panic attack.”
Ana let out something between a sob and a laugh.
Susie didn’t flinch. Just rubbed gentle circles between Ana’s shoulder blades, grounding pressure. Comforting. Familiar.
“Try to breathe with me, alright? In for four, out for six. Come on, now.”
It took a few tries. It always did. But Susie was calm and steady, her voice the same one she’s used since Ana was 14 years old and Susie had told her she was allowed to be whatever kind of girl she wanted to be , even if the world wanted her softer.
Eventually, Ana breathed. Not perfectly, but enough to stop her hands from shaking.
She didn’t move from the floor. Just curled her legs up and leant against the wall, blinking slowly as if coming back to herself.
Susie waited a moment, then spoke again, soft: “What happened?”
Ana swallowed. Her throat feels raw. “I masked too hard.”
Susie didn’t say anything, but Ana feels her shift slightly, confusion rippling under the silence.
“At dinner,” Ana added. “I… performed the way I needed to. For Papa. For the team.”
She said it like it’s the full truth.
It was not.
It was only half the truth.
Because masking for Toto is a reason she could say out loud. Masking for Max—masking Max —that was too complicated, too dangerous, too real .
Susie took a breath, like she’s about to speak, then stopped herself. Another pause. Then:
“You didn’t want to ruin Toto’s chances at signing Max.”
It’s not a question.
Ana nodded.
Let her believe that.
Let her think Ana spiraled because she didn’t want to cost Mercedes the championship. Let her think Ana was overwhelmed by loyalty and pressure.
It was easier than the truth.
Easier than saying: Max looked at me like he missed me, and I remembered every single version of us I’ve never been allowed to keep.
Easier than: I love him, and I can’t stop.
Easier than: I’ve been pretending we’re just friends for so long that I don’t know how to stop performing, even when it’s killing me.
Susie sighed and pulls Ana into a hug.
“I’m proud of you, you know,” she murmured. “But you shouldn’t have done this, sweetheart.”
Ana closed her eyes.
And let herself be held.
Just for a moment.
Before she had to pretend again.
Chapter 15: Chapter 13: Milton Keynes
Chapter Text
V, Porto di Olbia, Olbia, Sardinia - 12 July 2025
The yacht was quieting down. Jack had been tucked into bed hours ago, the clatter of dinner long faded into the sea breeze. Toto rinsed the last wineglass at the sink and glanced toward the lower deck, frowning slightly.
He hadn’t seen Susie in a while.
Not that it was unusual—Susie liked to wander after dinner, liked quiet corners and starlit decks and long calls to her mother. But something in him, some soft warning bell, stirred under his ribs.
He padded down the corridor, barefoot and frowning.
The door to Ana’s room was half-cracked. That’s what stopped him.
He stepped closer. The overhead light was off, but there was a faint lamp-glow.
Then he heard it—whispers. The low hush of Susie’s voice. The shuffle of someone sitting on the bed. The edge of a sigh.
He knocked gently, then opened the door fully.
Susie was perched on the edge of Ana’s bed, her hand resting on Ana’s ankle through the blanket. Ana lay curled under the covers, pale and quiet, her braid draped over the pillow. Her eyes were closed. Not asleep—but somewhere near it.
Toto's stomach dropped.
He looked at Susie.
She shook her head, soft and slow. “Later,” she mouthed.
He nodded once, silently closing the door behind him.
They stood on the back deck fifteen minutes later. The sea lapped softly against the hull. The stars glittered overhead. Toto gripped the railing like it might steady the weight pressing against his chest.
Susie handed him a glass of water.
“She had a panic attack,” she said gently. “Bad one.”
Toto shut his eyes. “Scheiße.”
“She was trying so hard not to break. You know how she is. She thinks if she just does everything right, the world won’t notice how hard it is for her to be in it.”
He stayed quiet, throat tight.
“She masked through dinner,” Susie said softly. “Held it all together because you wanted this to go smoothly. And then when it was over, she collapsed in the bathroom. She couldn’t breathe, Toto.”
His fingers curled tighter around the glass. “I didn’t know.”
“Neither did I. Not until I found her on the floor, trying to breathe.” Susie crossed her arms, her voice soft but serious. “It was a bad one, Toto. She was rattled.”
He ran a hand over his face. “I thought she was just… quiet tonight.”
“She was masking,” Susie said. “Holding it all together. For you.”
That made his chest tighten.
“I didn’t ask her to,” he murmured.
“She doesn’t need you to ask,” Susie replied. “She does it anyway. She always has. Ever since she was a teenager, she’s been performing what she thinks will make you proud.”
Toto stared at the floor. “I never wanted that.”
“No,” Susie said gently. “But that doesn’t mean she didn’t believe she had to. Especially after what her mother did.”
Toto’s mouth pressed into a thin line. The mention of Ana’s mother always curled something cold in his gut. A ghost he’d never quite banished.
“I didn’t even notice,” he said again, quieter this time. “She sat through dinner holding herself together with both hands, and I thought she was just tired.”
“She was tired,” Susie said softly. “But not in the way you think.”
“I pushed her into this. I should’ve never asked her to sit through dinner like that.”
“You didn’t force her. She chose it. For you. For the team. But you need to understand what it costs her.”
He nodded, heavy with guilt.
There was a beat of quiet.
Then Susie tilted her head slightly, amusement flickering behind her eyes. “You know… I think she and Max are more alike than either of them realise.”
Toto blinked at her. “Max?”
They’re both brilliant,” Susie said. “Both private. Both need control over their environments just to feel steady. And neither of them let people in easily.” She smiled faintly. “You’ve always seen Max as a firebrand. Reckless. But I think you’ve missed the stillness underneath. He plays it off with charm, but he’s sharp. And grounded. And careful about who he lets close.”
Toto frowned. “You think he came to dinner because of her?”
Susie gave a tiny shrug, not quite teasing, not quite serious. “Maybe he’s not here just for the engine.”
“What are you implying?” Toto asked, half-bristling, half-confused.
“I’m saying,” Susie said, “your daughter is a very beautiful, very brilliant woman. And if Max Verstappen has half a brain in that championship-winning skull of his, he probably noticed. Given that he watched her all evening like she hung the stars.”
Toto stared. “He’s signing because it’s a strategic decision.”
“Mhm,” Susie said, unconvinced. “Sure. Strategic.”
“She’s my daughter.”
“She’s also twenty seven,” Susie said with a smirk. “And allowed to have a life.”
Toto groaned.
“I’m joking,” she added, patting his chest gently. “Mostly. I’m just saying, it wouldn’t be the worst reason to defect from Red Bull.”
But Susie’s teasing faded as she reached up and gently touched his chest, grounding him.
“She’ll be okay,” she said. “She just needs rest. And space. And maybe a bit less pressure.”
Toto nodded, jaw still tight with guilt.
“She loves you, you know,” Susie added. “Even when she’s struggling, you’re the anchor she holds onto.”
“I don’t want to be the reason she drowns,” he said, quiet and pained.
“You’re not,” Susie said firmly. “But maybe next time, listen a little closer.”
He nodded again.
***
Text Messages: George Russell & Alex Albon
George:
Mercedes is replacing me.
Like
actually
replacing me.
With Kimi.
And they're doing it
in the code.
Alex:
Morning to you too.
What the hell are you talking about.
George:
Altair. The new set up package.
It hated me.
Like
actively hated me.
Alex:
Pretty sure you just hated it.
George:
No.
It
fought
me, Alex.
Turn-in, throttle, rear balance—every time I made a decision it was like the car went, “nah.”
It felt personal.
Alex:
I promise you the car didn’t develop sentience to spite George Russell.
George:
You weren’t there.
You didn’t
feel
it.
Like it was judging me for not being Italian enough. Or under 21.
Alex:
So to recap:
The car hates you because you're not Kimi Antonelli.
George:
YES.
And do you know who wrote the code?
Ana Wolff.
Alex:
Okay but Ana Wolff writes everything. She's like Mercedes' firmware fairy godmother.
George:
Exactly.
Which means this was
intentional.
They built a car that rewards blind instinct and teenage fearlessness.
Basically a mechanical middle finger to drivers with racecraft and strategy.
Alex:
Or—and stay with me—
you’re being
dramatic
because the rookie was faster than you in the sim.
George:
It's not just the sim.
They’re grooming him.
Toto’s acting like he’s found the second coming of Schumacher.
And now the car is designed to love only him.
Alex:
George.
You sound like you need to go touch grass.
Preferably while holding hands with a therapist.
George:
You’re not taking me seriously.
Ana didn’t even
try
to make it work for me.
She just said, “Drive like Kimi.”
Alex
Cool.
Go time-travel back to being 17 and Italian and fearless.
Problem solved.
Also,
you won a race last month.
Calm down.
George
You’re not helping.
Alex
I’m not
trying
to help.
I’m trying to keep you from showing up at Ana’s office with a printed powerpoint titled
What About Me?!
George:
You know what it is?
She doesn’t take me seriously.
Alex:
George.
You just accused her setup change of having feelings and a vendetta.
George:
It’s not just that.
It’s everything.
She treats me like I’m an algorithm glitch.
Like I’m… overcalculated and underwhelming.
Alex:
…Okay, poetry.
George:
Maybe that’s the issue.
She needs someone who can match her.
Alex:
Uh huh.
And you think
you
can?
George:
Yes.
Eventually.
She just hasn’t seen me at full capacity yet.
She only sees the stress version of me.
But once she
gets
me—
She’ll see it.
We’d be great.
Alex:
Okay.
Wow.
This just went from weird to
please stop texting me this
.
George:
Look, I’m just saying—
If I were with Ana, I wouldn’t be replaceable.
Nobody would fire the guy dating the boss’s daughter.
Alex:
OH MY GOD.
George:
What? It makes sense.
Alex:
No.
No, it doesn’t.
You think dating her is a
contract strategy
?
George:
I’m saying it’s… mutually beneficial.
Stability. Integration. Legacy.
Like a long-term structural alignment.
Alex:
That is the worst romantic pitch I’ve ever heard.
George:
We’d make sense.
You’ll see.
Give it time.
She’ll come around.
Alex:
I’ll alert the Nobel committee.
You’ve discovered a new form of delusion.
George:
Mark my words.
This isn’t over.
Alex:
Unfortunately, I believe you.
***
Text Messages: Lando Norris & Alex Albon
Alex:
you will
not
believe the conversation i just had with george.
honestly considering calling HR on his behalf.
Lando:
pls tell me he didn’t try to fight a sim again
Alex:
worse.
he thinks Mercedes is replacing him with Kimi via
the code.
Lando:
what the fuck does that even mean.
Alex:
he drove a kimi specific package and said—and I quote—“it hated me.”
he claims Ana built it specifically to destroy his confidence
because she’s grooming Kimi to be Mercedes’ golden boy
and also, wait for it,
he thinks dating Ana would make him unfireable
Lando:
????????
??????????
Lando:
wait wait wait
he wants to date toto’s daughter
to secure his contract??
Alex:
yeah
“stability, integration, legacy”
man spoke like he was merging two hedge funds
Lando:
bro she’s not a job security plan she’s a
Wolff
Alex:
he literally said
“If I were with Ana, I wouldn’t be replaceable.”
like he’s pitching himself for a
mergers and acquisitions romance plot
Lando:
i’m sorry but
does george not realise that ana wolff would eat him alive?
Alex:
apparently not
he said she “hasn’t seen him at full capacity yet”
like he’s a prototype or some shit
Lando:
NOOOO
Alex:
i genuinely think he believes he’s the Ana Whisperer
Lando:
alex
she terrifies me
i once tried to make small talk and she just
stared
at me
for like ten full seconds
Alex:
she does that
her resting face has more processing power than my entire laptop…
Lando:
i’m so ready for him to
try
to ask ana out
💀💀💀
***
V, Porto di Olbia, Olbia, Sardinia - 13 July 2025
The morning light was too gentle. That was the first thing Ana noticed.
The Sardinian sun had the audacity to be soft and golden, as if the night before hadn’t happened. As if she hadn’t unraveled on cold marble, hadn’t let Susie find her collapsed like a broken metronome in the bathroom. As if she hadn’t told Max— Max —to leave and meant it, even as every part of her wanted him to stay.
The shame clung to her skin like salt. Her limbs felt heavy with it.
She’d woken before dawn, already tense, already tired. The adrenaline had burnt out sometime around 3 a.m., leaving her mind cottony and her body raw. The cardigan she’d worn to dinner was still on the floor where she’d dropped it, limp and crumpled. She didn’t pick it up.
She got dressed in silence.
Washed her face. Brushed her hair.
Went to the kitchen and made tea with shaky hands.
And then she went to find her father.
Toto was standing on the upper deck, dressed in a fresh white polo and linen trousers, but even from across the deck, she could see the fatigue in his posture. The way he leaned on the railing just a little too long. The lines around his mouth deeper than usual. The untouched espresso beside him.
He turned as she stepped into the light.
“Anastasia,” he said gently, like she might still break.
“Papa,” she replied. Her voice was steady, even if her stomach wasn’t.
They stood in silence for a moment. Just the sound of waves lapping gently against the hull and the call of gulls overhead.
Then Toto gestured to the seat beside him. “Come sit.”
She obeyed.
The teak felt warm through her cotton trousers. Her tea was too hot, but she didn’t care.
Toto didn’t speak right away. He watched the sea, his expression unreadable.
Then, finally, he said, “Susie told me.”
Ana stared into her tea.
“She said you had a panic attack,” he continued, quietly. “That you were masking all through dinner. That you were trying to be perfect for me.”
Ana didn’t respond.
Toto looked at her now, really looked. “You don’t have to do that, you know.”
She nodded once. Still silent.
“I mean it, Sternchen. I don’t want you performing for me. I don’t want you—” He broke off, exhaling roughly. “You shouldn’t have to shape yourself into something unrecognisable just to sit at a dinner table with me.”
“It wasn’t just the dinner,” Ana said softly.
That made him still.
“I know I’ve always been... high-functioning,” she went on, her eyes fixed on the tea in her lap. “But sometimes functioning is just... management. And sometimes it breaks.”
Toto’s jaw clenched. “It’s my fault.”
“No—”
“It is,” he insisted. “I put you in a position where you felt you had to hold everything together. You knew I was trying to close a deal with Max, and you didn’t want to interfere. That’s what this is about, right? The pressure?”
She hesitated.
And in that hesitation, the lie formed.
“Yes,” she said, quietly. “That’s part of it.”
Toto looked pained. “Anastasia…”
“I didn’t want to ruin it,” she continued, forcing the words out one by one. “You’ve worked so hard. And Mercedes needs a lead driver with experience. And I thought if I just—held it together—then it would be fine. I thought I could do that for you.”
Toto leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, head bowed. “You shouldn’t have had to. Not like that.”
Ana didn’t speak.
Because yes , she had wanted to be perfect for him. She always did. But the breakdown hadn’t been about the deal. Not really. Not about the signature, or the optics, or even the dinner.
It had been about Max.
About Max, and the way he’d looked at her. About the years they’d spent pretending it was just physical. About the ache in her chest when she realised that he could sit next to her, so easy, so casual, while she was busy burning alive from the inside out.
It had been about lying. To herself. To Toto. To everyone.
It had been about the weight of almost , and the unbearable cost of never quite .
And none of that— none —was something she could say.
Not when Toto was already blaming himself.
So she sat still and let him think the guilt was his to carry.
“I just want you to be okay,” he said finally, voice low. “Not perfect. Not poised. Just you .”
Ana looked at him, eyes glassy but calm.
“I’m trying,” she whispered.
Toto nodded.
He didn’t press. Didn’t ask for more.
He reached out and gently covered her hand with his own.
And for the first time in what felt like hours, Ana let herself breathe.
It wasn’t relief.
But it was something like mercy.
***
V, Porto di Olbia, Olbia, Sardinia - 13 July 2025
The others went ashore.
Toto wanted to scout a hiking trail. Susie made noise about fresh fruit at the market. Jack wanted gelato. They offered for her to come along, but Ana claimed a headache and stayed behind.
She didn’t have a headache.
Not exactly.
It’s more like she felt flayed. Like the emotional hangover of last night had peeled her skin back and now the wind hurt.
She was sitting on the sunbed, knees drawn to her chest, oversized sunglasses hiding her puffy eyes. The world was perfect. The yacht was pristine. The sea sparkled like a postcard.
Ana felt like she had been scraped clean from the inside out.
Her phone buzzed beside her.
[MAX VERSTAPPEN]
I’m sorry.
I didn’t mean to blindside you like that.
She stared at it for a long time.
Another buzz.
You were quiet last night. But I saw it.
I saw
you
.
Another.
I can be an idiot sometimes.
Do you want to talk?
She typed and deleted four different responses. Eventually landed on:
[ANA WOLFF]
I don’t want to talk.
Pause. Three dots. Then they vanish. Then again:
Where are you?
She didn’t answer.
Ten minutes later, she heard it.
The distant whine of a jet ski cutting across the water, growing louder. She glanced up, already knowing. Max.
He was in a black tee and board shorts, no lifejacket, smug as hell as he swung the thing around and pulled up alongside the yacht like this was normal behavior.
She leant over the rail. “You’re going to get eaten by a shark.”
“You’ve got better odds of getting hit by a Red Bull contract right now,” he grinned.
“Cute.”
“Can I come up?”
“No.”
He tilted his head. “Can I tempt you over here then?”
“A jet ski, really?”
He shrugged, like he wasn’t up all night thinking about her. “Desperate times.”
There’s a pause. A long one. Then she climbed down the ladder.
She didn’t speak as he steadied her by the waist and pulled her onto the back of the jet ski. She didn’t speak as he drove them to his yacht, moored around the bend, privacy glass and understated money.
Inside, the air conditioning was soft. The cabin was quiet. The bed was made. There were oranges in a bowl. She didn’t let herself think about the implications of any of that.
Max opened his mouth.
Ana shook her head. “Don’t.”
He stopped.
She stepped forward. Placed one hand on his chest. Then the other.
Max didn’t move.
“Please,” she said. Barely a whisper. “I don’t want to talk. I don’t want to feel . I just want…” Her voice cracked. “You’re the only thing that ever shuts it off.”
It landed somewhere in his chest like a punch. But he nodded.
Okay.
No talking.
No past, no future.
So he kissed her.
And for a moment everything was perfect.
***
Unleash the Lion, Porto di Olbia, Olbia, Sardinia - 13 July 2025
It had never happened before. Not once.
Ana had always thought of her body as two different operating systems: the one that lived under fluorescent lights and cotton seams, hyperaware of everything that scratched or pressed wrong—and the one that existed when Max touched her.
With Max, it was different.
Always had been.
He never overwhelmed her. Never pushed too far. With him, touch was a language she trusted.
Until that day.
She couldn’t say what it was exactly. A shift in the air. The drag of a sheet against damp skin. A noise from somewhere beyond the closed door. The room didn’t feel right. She didn’t feel right.
The edge came quick. Sudden. Her throat tightened before she understood what was happening.
Everything she’d been enjoying—his weight above her, the drag of his cock inside her—suddenly became too much.
Her skin twitched like a live wire, an electric jolt beneath her ribs. Her breath stumbled and then galloped. The ceiling, eggshell and textureless and vastly far away, pressed down with its emptiness.
His jaw was nestled against her shoulder, the scratch of his stubble gentle as always—but now it flickered across her nerves, too rough. She tried to lasso her mind, drag it back from the edge, make it behave.
This was Max. Safety. This was good, it was supposed to be. Her body revolted.
“Max—” she whispered. “Red.”
He stopped instantly. Like a switch flipped.
Every movement ceased. No hesitation. No confusion.
Max didn’t ask questions. He didn’t need to.
His hands went still where they’d been braced beside her. His eyes met hers—clear, steady, present. Then he eased back with careful slowness, lifting his weight from the bed and reaching for the sheet, pulling it gently up and around her.
No tension in his shoulders. No wounded pride. Just Max, doing exactly what she needed.
Ana curled inward, breath shallow. Her fingers clawed at the edge of the sheet like she could hold herself together by sheer pressure. Her body buzzed with static, every nerve ending lit up too bright.
“Okay. Okay, Nastya. We’re done. I’m right here.”
Ana dragged in a breath, fingers curling hard into the sheets. “Sorry. I just—”
“Don’t apologize,” Max said quietly. Calm. Steady. Like he was holding the whole room still for her.
“It’s not you, I just—” She exhaled hard, frustration biting at the edges. “Something feels wrong. Like my skin’s on fire. I can’t—”
Max’s voice cut in, soft but firm. “Okay. We stop. You’re okay. You’re safe.”
Ana curled into herself, pressing her face against her knees, trying to shake the buzz crawling under her skin. “I’m fine,” she muttered.
Max settled beside her, careful not to touch until she shifted closer on her own. “You don’t have to be fine. Not with me.” His voice was gentle when he asked, “Can I do anything?”
That cracked something in her chest. “It’s never happened before. Not with you.”
“You don’t have to explain,” Max said softly.
Ana closed her eyes. “I feel stupid.”
“You’re not,” he said immediately. “You were perfect. You told me what you needed. That’s the whole point.”
She opened her eyes and looked at him—at the calm, steady way he sat there, concern in his eyes but no trace of hurt. No defensiveness. No bruised ego.
She had no idea what it had been that had tripped the switch.
They had done far more adventurous things than missionary over the years. Far more adventurous. She had let him tie her up. She had trusted him to choke her, for fuck’s sake. And none of that had freaked her out.
But this was…
Ana risked glancing at him. His expression wasn’t pity. It wasn’t frustration. It was just… Max. Steady and present and entirely hers.
He brushed a stray piece of hair from her face, fingers feather-light. “What do you need?”
Ana let out a shaky laugh. “Honestly? You holding me and not talking for a minute.”
Max smiled faintly. “I can do that.”
He wrapped his arms around her—loose, unpressured, just there—and she let herself melt into him, the static slowly bleeding away.
After a while, she whispered, “You’re not… upset?”
Max made a soft sound. “Ana. You think I’d be upset because you needed to use your safeword? That’s not how this works. That’s never how this works.”
Her chest loosened slightly.
His fingers traced slow, idle patterns along the edge of the blanket. “You said Red , and I listened. That’s it. That’s the whole point. You say stop, we stop. You say softer, we go softer. You say nothing, I still listen. I always will.”
Ana huffed a tiny laugh, the tension easing a fraction. “You’re… annoyingly good at this.”
“Yeah,” Max said, grinning faintly, eyes crinkling in the light. “That’s because I like you more than my ego.”
And somehow, that made everything feel quiet again.
***
Unleash the Lion, Porto di Olbia, Olbia, Sardinia - 13 July 2025
He hadn’t seen it coming.
Not the way Ana’s voice sounded. Not the way she said it.
He had been above her—close, quiet, everything slow—and then:
“Max,” she said, barely a whisper. “Red.”
And his whole body stilled.
Max had always prided himself on reading Ana well. Not just in bed. In everything. The flickers behind her eyes, the half-second silences between words. He noticed things other people didn’t. That was the entire foundation of whatever this was. Her rules. His patience. The trust between them, built in inches over years.
But this—this he hadn’t seen coming.
She didn’t even flinch when she said it. But her voice —
It was like she’d reached for a parachute mid-fall.
He pulled back immediately. No hesitation. No questions. Just movement. The sheet, the space, the silence.
Ana curled in on herself like her body needed to protect something inside it. Max sat beside her, careful not to touch, trying to keep his breathing even when everything in his chest had gone tight.
He had never heard her use a safeword before.
Never.
Not in ten years. Not with him.
And worse than that—worse than the fear that he’d done something wrong—was the fact that she’d been the one who initiated this.
After everything she hadn’t said.
She’d pulled him into the bedroom with that familiar blankness in her eyes. The one that always meant I don’t want to talk. I just want you.
And Max had said yes.
Because he always did.
Because sometimes it felt like that was the only version of her he was allowed to have. The physical one. The one who needed him with her body, even if her words stayed locked behind her teeth.
She never wanted to talk about her parents. About Mercedes. About feelings. But she’d come find him after a press day, or a bad flight, or a dinner like that one—and he’d let her.
He’d always let her.
So when she kissed him earlier, sharp and urgent, he’d followed. Let it happen. Let himself believe, even for a second, that she was fine. That maybe this —this touch, this wanting—was how she steadied herself.
But now—
Now she was trembling beside him, breath shallow, and all he could think about was how badly he’d missed it.
How badly he’d missed her .
The first thing she said was “Sorry.”
Of course she did.
Max closed his eyes for a second, breathed in slowly, trying to quiet the panic scratching at the edge of his own ribs.
This wasn’t about him .
It wasn’t.
But his mind kept circling back.
He thought he’d known her body. Known what she needed. He’d made a career out of instinct. Out of reading pressure and weight and timing.
But he hadn’t seen this coming.
And the worst part?
He should’ve.
She’d barely spoken at dinner. Barely looked at him. Her shoulders had been tight since she walked through the door.
He should’ve known.
“I feel stupid,” she muttered beside him.
Max’s throat tightened. “You’re not.”
And he meant it. God, he meant it.
But that voice in the back of his head—quiet, cruel—whispered: You should’ve asked. You should’ve noticed. You should’ve said no.
You should’ve protected her from this. Even from herself.
“I just—something feels wrong,” she whispered. “Like my skin’s on fire. I can’t—”
Max stayed still. Voice low. “Okay. We stop. You’re okay. You’re safe.”
His brain was racing. Not with judgment. Not with frustration. With questions . Did she want him here at all? Was he making it worse just by being in the room?
Did she come to him for comfort, or because he was the easiest way to feel nothing ?
“I’m fine,” she muttered.
He didn’t argue. He didn’t touch her again, not until she moved closer—her body brushing his like she needed it. He let out the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.
She whispered, “It’s never happened before. Not with you.”
And that broke him a little.
Because it meant that even the one safe place she used to have— him —wasn’t safe tonight.
She looked at him like she was waiting for something. For frustration. For pride. For pain.
He gave her none of that.
“You did exactly what you were supposed to,” he said gently. “You told me. I listened. That’s it.”
But it did shake him.
Because Max had built his whole understanding of Ana on the fact that with him , she didn’t have to flinch. Didn’t have to explain.
She’d asked for sex like it was a shield—and he’d said yes, thinking it would soothe the thing neither of them wanted to say out loud.
Maybe it had always been like this. Maybe he just didn’t want to see it.
Ana tucked into him like she was trying to disappear. She whispered something like “You’re not upset?” and his chest cracked wider.
How little did she think of him, to expect anger ?
How little did she expect gentleness ?
“No,” he said, quietly. “Ana. You think I’d be upset because you needed to use your safeword? That’s not how this works. That’s never how this works.”
She didn’t answer.
But she relaxed a little. Breathing softer now. The tremble in her hands slowing.
He laid there, holding her, steady as he could. Let her come back in her own time.
They laid there in silence for a while.
Ana's back was tucked against his chest, her knees drawn up, the sheet wrapped loosely around them both. He didn’t move. Not because he didn’t want to—he always wanted to touch her, to hold her closer—but because he knew the difference between comfort and pressure. And right now, even the weight of expectation would be too much.
“I’m sorry,” he said, voice low.
Ana didn’t answer.
Not for a long time.
Then, finally: “For which part?”
He winced, just slightly. But he deserved that.
“For ambushing you,” he said. “For not thinking it through. For thinking that because I was ready, you had to be too.”
Ana didn’t shift. Didn’t turn around. She just lay still, like her body was still negotiating whether or not it could trust the air.
“You blindsided me,” she said quietly. “With my family. With you.”
“I know.”
“You sat across from my father and smiled like it didn’t matter.”
“It mattered,” Max said quickly. “I was just trying to—” He exhaled. “God. I don’t even know what I was trying to do. Be close to you? Exist in your world a little? Make the transition feel less... cold?”
Her shoulder tensed. “It wasn’t your world to walk into.”
Max nodded against her back. “I know that now.”
Silence again. Heavy and thick.
“I had a panic attack in the bathroom after you left,” she said, almost conversational. “Susie found me. Do you know what I told her? That I was scared I’d ruin Toto’s contract.”
He turned his head slightly to look at her, but she kept her gaze fixed on the sheets.
“I lied to my parents,” Ana murmured. “Because it was easier than telling the truth. Easier than saying: you walked into that dinner and reminded me that I don’t get to have anything that isn’t compartmentalized.”
Max’s chest tightened. “Ana…”
She finally looked at him then, and he saw it. The cracks. The hairline fractures in the mask she’d built so carefully over the years. She wasn’t angry. Not really. She was tired.
Bone-deep tired.
“You didn’t just show up for dinner, Max,” she said quietly. “You showed up in the one place I can’t hide from. And you made me pretend we were strangers. Do you have any idea what that does to me?”
Max opened his mouth, then shut it.
He could see the truth of it in her eyes — the strain, the exhaustion, the small tremor in her hands that had nothing to do with what happened moments ago and everything to do with what happened last night.
He wanted to say he was sorry again, but it felt too small.
Instead, he brushed his thumb over the back of her hand. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“I know.” Her voice was softer now, but not forgiving. “That’s the worst part. You never mean to. But you did.”
Max felt that one land. Hard.
He didn’t push. He didn’t argue. He knew if he reached too far, too fast, she’d shut down completely. And if he lost her here, he wasn’t sure he’d get her back.
So he just held her a little closer, careful not to make it a cage. “Tell me what you need,” he said quietly.
Ana’s shoulders dropped the tiniest fraction. “I need you not to make decisions for me.”
Max nodded. “Okay.”
“And I need you to stop pretending this is easy.”
His chest ached. “It’s not easy. Not even close.”
That earned him the faintest flicker of a smile. Small. Fragile. But real.
“I’m still angry,” she said.
“I know,” Max said. “I’ll wait until you’re not.”
Ana closed her eyes, head tipping back against his shoulder. “That might take a while.”
Max kissed the crown of her head, gentle. “Then I’ll wait a while.”
He felt her exhale, long and shaky, the tension bleeding out by degrees.
Max didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just held her there in the quiet, careful not to push, careful not to lose the only piece of her she was willing to give him right now.
He wanted to pull her closer. Tell her none of it mattered. That she didn’t need to carry the weight of being perfect. That he didn’t care about clean endings or rules or how tightly she could hold her boundaries in place.
But he didn’t.
Because he also knew if he pushed—even a little—he’d lose her.
***
PRIVATE CHAT — Secure channel
Andromeda 🛰️ is online
JadeQueen 👑 is online
Andromeda:
You awake?
JadeQueen:
Always.
What’s going on?
Andromeda:
Something happened.
With him.
JadeQueen:
...the same
him
you’ve been writing about since undergrad?
The ghost boy? The one you swore wasn’t serious and then accidentally memorized his entire schedule?
Andromeda:
🙄
Yes. Him.
JadeQueen:
Okay. Lay it on me.
Andromeda:
He came to dinner.
With my family.
JadeQueen:
Wait—
what
?
Andromeda:
Showed up.
Sat across the table from my father like it was normal.
Didn’t tell me.
Didn’t
ask
.
Just… arrived.
JadeQueen:
Annie.
That’s—
I mean,
fuck.
That’s not just inconsiderate. That’s setting you up to implode.
Andromeda:
It was like watching a building collapse in slow motion.
I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think.
I smiled. Ate my food. Played the part.
JadeQueen:
Because you always do.
But that doesn’t mean you
should have to.
Andromeda:
Afterwards I had a panic attack.
Locked myself in the bathroom.
My stepmother found me. I lied and said I was scared I’d messed up a work contract.
Which wasn’t
untrue
.
JadeQueen:
I want to throw something across the room.
Maybe at him.
You told me once—he’s the only person who doesn’t overload your system. Who makes you feel
safe
.
How does
this
fit into that?
Andromeda:
That’s the thing.
He’s still the only place that feels quiet.
But last night it wasn’t.
Last night, everything was
too much.
Even him.
JadeQueen:
…Did you tell him that?
Andromeda:
I haven’t.
Not really.
I—
I shut down.
We slept together instead.
And then I had a panic attack halfway through.
JadeQueen:
Shit.
Annie.
Andromeda:
I used my safeword. For the first time ever.
He stopped immediately. He was… perfect, honestly. But I still feel like I broke something.
JadeQueen:
You didn’t break anything.
You reached your limit and he respected it. That’s
healthy
. That’s what it’s
supposed
to look like.
Andromeda:
Part of me still can’t stop thinking—
Why didn’t he ask me?
JadeQueen:
Because he assumed you’d just
deal
.
Like you always do.
Because he’s gotten used to having you without having to earn all of you.
Andromeda:
I think he thought it would help.
Like—maybe it would be less painful if he forced the overlap.
My family, my work,
him
.
JadeQueen:
Except you’ve built those walls for a
reason
.
And pushing past them without asking? That’s not love. That’s selfish.
Andromeda:
He wasn’t cruel. Just… thoughtless.
I think he wanted to be seen.
To belong to something that wasn’t just stolen moments.
JadeQueen:
And what about
you
, Ana?
Do you want to belong to him in the open? Or has this whole thing always been easier because it
wasn’t
real in daylight?
Andromeda:
It’s real.
God, it’s
so
real.
That’s the problem.
I can’t be what he wants.
JadeQueen:
What do you
think
he wants?
Andromeda:
Someone open.
Someone soft.
Someone who lets him in without needing five locks and a security clearance.
JadeQueen:
Okay, but—do you
know
that’s what he wants?
Or do you just assume that’s what people expect of him?
Andromeda:
It doesn’t matter.
Because I can’t be that.
I’m not built that way.
He deserves someone who doesn’t keep a firewall around their heart.
JadeQueen:
Or maybe you’ve just learned to expect that everyone
will
leave, so you beat them to it.
Maybe you’re not afraid of being unloved.
Maybe you’re afraid of being loved
well.
JadeQueen:
Make it real on your terms.
Not like this.
You don’t owe him your silence.
And you
definitely
don’t owe him your trust if he keeps taking it for granted.
Andromeda:
I don’t know what to do.
I want to forgive him.
I also want to cry and scream and never let anyone see that part of me again.
JadeQueen:
You’re allowed both.
You’re allowed to love him and still be
furious
.
You’re allowed to protect your peace
even from the people you love
.
Andromeda:
I’m so tired.
It’s like I’ve spent years holding all my pieces together and now I’ve run out of glue.
JadeQueen:
Then let something break.
The right people will help you rebuild.
The wrong ones will be angry they can’t access you anymore.
Andromeda:
I don’t know what kind he’ll be.
JadeQueen:
Then watch.
Let
him
do the work.
Let him
earn
the pieces of you he wants to keep.
Andromeda:
You always make it sound so simple.
JadeQueen:
It’s not simple.
It’s just
true
.
Andromeda 🛰️ is offline
Chat archived
***
Twitter Thread: Sardinia
@/F1RumourMill:
📸 [Attached: grainy photo shots of two luxury yachts moored in Porto di Olbia. One clearly ID’d as Toto Wolff’s, the other as Max Verstappen’s.]
uhhhhhh so apparently Toto Wolff’s yacht and Max Verstappen’s yacht are docked next to each other in Sardinia 👀👀
@/chicanesandtea:
ok but WHY are they both in Olbia at the same time???
[toto voice] “coincidence.”
↳@/gridgirlmaths:
coincidence yeah sure and my cat just accidentally did my taxes
@/softtyresonly:
I’m not saying contract talks.
I’m just saying CONTRACT TALKS.
@/paddockcryptid:
this feels like one of those nature documentaries where two apex predators meet at a watering hole and decide who lives
@/undercutqueen:
if Max really jumps to Merc in ‘26 this is going to be the funniest “we should’ve seen it coming” moment in history
@/dutchlaps:
ok but what if it’s just rich people vacationing???
↳@/latifisburner:
rich people don’t vacation with
other team principals
unless they want something.
@/rumbleintherumble:
Plot twist: they’re all just sharing sunscreen.
↳@/tracklimitslol:
this isn’t fanfic
this is either the start of a dynasty
or the end of Red Bull as we know it
@/YachtWatchF1:
Two superyachts docking this close is an act of war in Monaco. In Sardinia? It’s foreplay.
@/MScorpAnalytics:
Mercedes’ stock has gone up 1.6% in the last three hours.
Coincidence?
@/w14toto:
toto wolff. max verstappen. SAME MARINA.
concrete negotiations my ass, this is a whole MERCEDES PR STRATEGY MEETING
@/charlesonfilm:
i see the vision:
✨soft mediterranean light
✨linen shirts
✨contract negotiations disguised as family dinner
@/rumourmillf1:
plot twist: they’re all just arguing about power unit integration and we’re out here writing fanfiction in real time
@/redflagthirst:
does anyone else hear wedding bells or am i just dehydrated.
@/understeerqueen:
Wedding bells?? babes that’s the sound of a 2026 Mercedes power unit spinning up. same difference tho.
@/chicanequeen:
ok BUT WHY ARE THEY PARKED NEXT TO EACH OTHER
this is not “casual mooring” this is
strategic docking
@/tyregossip:
if this is what I think it is… Toto really said “vacation negotiations”
@/paddockcryptid:
someone find Ana Wolff. if she’s on that yacht I’m putting money on this being 2026 Mercedes contract talks
@/ERSplease:
no because imagine being a random fisherman and you just see Max Verstappen and Toto Wolff having wine on adjacent decks. Sardinia did not sign up for this level of F1 drama
@/w14engine:
if Max goes to Mercedes I am calling this photo the origin story. someone screencap this for Drive to Survive season 8
@/gridpanic:
do you people understand what you’re saying.
you’re implying Max Verstappen is casually on vacation with Toto Wolff’s family.
@/brakebiasbabe:
besties.
if Toto and Max are on vacation together it’s already DONE.
someone at Red Bull is sweating through their polo shirt rn.
@/undercutking:
this is giving “one dinner in Sardinia and a 5-year contract” energy.
@/enginewhisperer:
plot twist: Max’s yacht broke and Toto is just giving him a tow.
@/motorsporttea:
Mercedes x Verstappen 2026 CONFIRMED?? 👀👀👀
@/gridcryptid:
what if it’s just like. vacation bros. “hey max, want to come over for a barbecue?”
***
Group Chat: “WHO IS MAX VERSTAPPEN DATING”
(Members: Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, Carlos Sainz, Daniel Ricciardo)
Lando:
WHAAAAAAAAAAT
Oscar:
…what did you break now?
Lando:
I DIDN’T BREAK ANYTHING
go on twitter RIGHT NOW
Carlos:
What am I looking at?
Lando:
TOTO’S YACHT
MAX’S YACHT
SARDINIA
NEXT TO EACH OTHER
Daniel:
oh my god
Oscar:
…are we really doing the yacht conspiracy thing?
Lando:
YES. YES WE ARE.
DO YOU KNOW WHAT THIS MEANS????
Carlos:
That they both like… water?
Lando:
NO
MERCEDES. 2026.
OH MY GOD. MAX IS GOING TO MERCEDES.
Daniel:
my popcorn is already in the microwave
Oscar:
This is all from a
blurry yacht photo
?
Lando:
YES.
THAT’S HOW THE INTERNET WORKS.
Carlos:
Lando, breathe.
Lando:
I CAN’T BREATHE.
IF HE LEAVES RED BULL… WHAT THEN?
Oscar:
…if this is true, Netflix is going to lose its mind.
Daniel:
we’re all going to lose our minds
Carlos:
Can we wait for actual confirmation before declaring the end of the world?
Lando:
NO.
THE END IS HERE.
TOTO. MAX. YACHTS.
IT’S HAPPENING.
Oscar:
He’s been like this since Austria, hasn’t he?
Carlos:
Sí. It’s getting worse.
Daniel:
nah, let him have this.
yacht conspiracies are the best conspiracies.
Lando:
THANK YOU DANIEL. SOMEONE GETS IT.
george’s master plan is officially crashing and burning
Oscar:
…
what master plan?
Carlos:
What?
Daniel:
wait what
Lando:
GEORGE
wants to DATE ANA WOLFF
so that TOTO WON’T FIRE HIM
Oscar:
I—
WHAT
Carlos:
¿Perdón?
Daniel:
SHUT UP
NO HE DOESN’T
Lando:
YES HE DOES
and he thinks it’s a
tactical advantage
Oscar:
This is the worst strategy since Ferrari 2022
Daniel:
I’m sorry, what kind of Bridgerton nonsense is this
Carlos:
You're saying George thought dating Ana = job security???
Lando:
yes.
he literally said "if I were with Ana, I wouldn't be replaceable"
and something about "structural alignment" like it was a merger
Oscar:
oh my god
Daniel:
okay. okay. that’s actually iconic.
deranged. but iconic.
Carlos:
He
knows
who she is, right?
Like he’s
met
her?
Lando:
bro.
he said she just hasn’t seen him “at full capacity” yet
like he’s a wind tunnel
Oscar:
this can’t be real
Lando:
hold on
adding alex
he had to live through the whole conversation
>> Alex Albon has been added to the chat <<
Alex:
why am I being summoned
Lando:
tell them
tell them what george said
Alex:
oh.
yeah.
he thinks dating Toto’s daughter will secure his seat
called it a “long-term integration strategy”
Daniel:
OH MY GOD
Carlos:
No no no no no no
Oscar:
that’s not dating
that’s a
hostile acquisition
Alex:
he also accused Ana of writing code with a personal vendetta
Lando:
and now he thinks she’s going to “come around” eventually
like she’s a vintage espresso machine and not a person
Carlos:
I fear he’s not going to survive it
Alex:
he called it mutually beneficial
I nearly filed an HR complaint on her behalf
Daniel:
Ana’s going to look at him once and shut down his entire emotional operating system
Carlos:
I don’t even think she’ll need words
just one blink
and a single “No.”
Oscar:
this is the most entertaining midseason breakdown we’ve ever had
Lando:
i’m still not over “you haven’t seen me at full capacity yet”
LIKE WHAT
Daniel:
please write that on his tombstone
Daniel:
can we all agree to watch this in real time
no interventions
Lando:
agreed
maximum chaos
Alex:
I’ll bring popcorn
and a backup therapist
Oscar:
I’ll bring a fire extinguisher. Just in case.
Carlos:
and I’ll bring a shovel
to dig the grave George will jump into himself
Lando:
WE’RE SO BACK.
***
Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Daniel Ricciardo
Daniel:
So.
How was dinner with your
future father-in-law
😏
Max:
Daniel.
No.
Daniel:
Oh come on.
You can’t just
not
say anything.
You were on a yacht
Eating pasta
With Toto Wolff
While sitting across from a woman you’ve been secretly sleeping with for a
decade.
Max:
Do you
want
me to die?
Is that it?
Daniel:
I mean.
It’d be dramatic.
But no.
I like you alive.
Max:
He doesn’t know.
And he’s not going to know.
Unless you say something.
Daniel:
Me?!
You think I’m the security breach here??
Max:
Yes.
Absolutely.
100%.
Daniel:
Fair.
But also.
You
do
realize at some point you’re going to have to tell him, right?
You can’t just show up to Brackley in 2026 like
“Hi Toto, I brought my race engineer and also I’ve been defiling your daughter since 2016.”
Max:
Daniel I swear to god.
Daniel:
Just saying!!
If I were Toto, I’d want advance warning before handing you a power unit
and
the Wi-Fi password.
Max:
Do you
enjoy
stress testing my blood pressure?
Daniel:
Deeply.
Also:
You’re in love with her.
So maybe stop acting like this is still a casual thing and start thinking about how not to get punched into the Adriatic by her dad.
Max:
…
Working on it.
Daniel:
Good.
Because if you fuck this up, I’m team Ana.
Max:
Everyone is team Ana.
Daniel:
That’s because she’s terrifying and brilliant.
And has better taste than you deserve.
Max:
Thank you.
Really helping.
Daniel:
Anytime, future son-in-law. 🫡
***
Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Dr. Anastasia “Ana” Wolff
Ana:
You made Jack’s week.
He hasn’t stopped talking about DRS since you left.
Max:
good
he’s a smart kid
and very pro-DRS
Ana:
I’m still mad at you.
Max:
I know.
You can be mad. I’ll take it.
Ana:
It’s exhausting being mad at you.
Max:
then don’t be
just tell me what to do to fix it
Ana:
Don’t make me lie like that again.
Not to them.
Not to myself.
Max:
…okay.
promise.
Ana:
Goodnight, Max.
Max:
goodnight, Nastya.
***
V, Porto di Olbia, Olbia, Sardinia - 14 July 2025
The sea was so calm it looked like someone had ironed it flat.
Ana was sitting cross-legged on the sunbed, laptop balanced on her knees, pretending she wasn’t working when her phone buzzed against the teak table.
She answered without thinking. “Wolff.”
“Anastasia.” The voice was warm, clipped in that very specific Cambridge way. “You’re still frighteningly efficient at answering calls.”
Ana blinked. “Henry?”
Toto, half-reading a report at the other end of the deck, glanced up.
“I see you remember me fondly,” Henry Portman said dryly. “Isn’t like you remembered to return my last call.”
Ana pinched the bridge of her nose. “I remember you apologizing over stale scones and saying, ‘I’m so sorry, I think I’m actually quite gay, darling.’”
There was a pause. Then a huff of laughter. “Ah, yes. My emotional magnum opus.”
Toto froze. Ana didn’t notice.
“I’m on vacation,” she said flatly. “This better be good.”
“It is,” Henry said smoothly. “I have a student. Second-year engineering. Energy systems prodigy. The kind of mind that makes professors feel like they’ve been coasting since their PhD. I immediately thought of you.”
Ana sat up a little straighter despite herself. “Define prodigy.”
“The kind who can look at a hybrid flow model and tell you exactly where you’ve bled two percent efficiency just by blinking at it,” Henry said. “They want F1. They want Brackley. And frankly, you’d be an idiot not to steal them before Red Bull gets wind.”
Ana was already reaching for a notepad. “Name?”
Henry chuckled. “You haven’t changed a bit.”
“Send me their work. I’ll decide if they’re worth the email.”
“Oh, Anastasia,” Henry said fondly, “if you’d been this terrifying 8 years ago, our six weeks would’ve lasted three.”
Ana snorted. “You dumped me because you realized men were your thing, Henry.”
“Technicality.”
Toto’s pen froze over his tablet.
Ana rolled her eyes and scribbled down the name he rattled off, already mentally cross-referencing the CVs she’d seen last quarter. “Fine. I’ll look.”
“Good girl,” Henry said. “I’ll buy you a drink next time I’m in Monaco. Unless you’re still terrifyingly efficient at declining invitations.”
“I am.”
“I wouldn’t expect less.” There was a beat, then: “And Ana? You’re still the smartest person I’ve ever slept with.”
Ana deadpanned, “Henry, the bar for that compliment is subterranean with the exception of Edward.”
He laughed. “Goodbye, Anastasia.”
She hung up and went back to her notes like nothing happened.
Henry Portman.
Six weeks.
One disastrous love affair.
One mutual escape hatch when he realized he was very much gay after all.
And now, 6 years later, still occasionally blowing up her phone with prodigies and poor life choices.
***
V, Porto di Olbia, Olbia, Sardinia - 14 July 2025
He’d been expecting… what? A technical call. An engineer. A supplier. Something dry and predictable, the kind of thing Ana answered in that perfectly even tone that meant she was already three steps ahead of everyone else in the conversation.
He hadn’t been expecting
Henry
.
Or the words “I think I’m actually quite gay.”
Or his daughter, without missing a beat, replying,
“I remember you apologizing over stale scones.”
Toto’s pen froze above the report. His brain stalled.
Henry? Six weeks?
Ana had never — never — talked about relationships. Not once. He had assumed, quietly and carefully, that maybe she just… wasn’t interested. Romance, sex, dating — all things other people complicated their lives with. His daughter? His daughter built thousands of lines of code and named them after stars. She didn’t…
And then Ana, casually as if she were discussing brake bias, said, “You dumped me because you realized men were your thing.”
Toto nearly choked on his espresso.
He sat there in stunned silence, watching his daughter calmly write down a name, like she hadn’t just detonated an entire decade of assumptions in under thirty seconds.
He didn’t get a chance to speak before Ana hung up, set her phone down, and went straight back to her notes as if nothing had happened.
Toto cleared his throat. “Do I… want to know what that was?”
Ana didn’t even look up. “Henry Portman. Cambridge. Horrid love affair. Calls when he has students worth poaching. He wasn’t technically my professor,” she said. “If that’s what you’re worried about.”
Toto’s brain glitched. “I’m worried about everything right now.”
Ana sighed. “He realized he was gay after six weeks. I realized I hated sharing my workspace. It was mutually disastrous.”
“You never told me you’d… dated anyone.”
Now she looked up. Blinked once. “You never asked.”
“I just assumed—” He stopped himself.
Ana raised one brow. “That I wasn’t interested in sex?”
Toto coughed violently. “ Anastasia. ”
She shrugged. “I’m autistic, Papa, not a Victorian ghost.”
Before he could respond, Susie walked out onto the deck holding a bowl of apricots. She took one look at Toto’s face and said, “What happened?”
“Anastasia” he said faintly, “has had boyfriends. ”
Susie snorted. “Well, of course she has.”
Toto turned. “You knew?”
“I put her on birth control when she was sixteen,” Susie said cheerfully, popping an apricot into her mouth. “I wasn’t going to have her experimenting with someone’s idiot son without protection.”
Toto turned to her, scandalized. “You what?! ”
“I wanted her to be safe,” Susie said, perfectly calm.
“You didn’t tell me!”
“You would’ve panicked ,” Susie replied.
“I just—” He gestured vaguely, floundering. “You’ve never… mentioned anyone.”
“Because they were not worth mentioning,” Ana said simply, and went back to typing.
Toto stared. “There were others ?”
Ana, still not looking at him: “Henry. And that sustainability consultant in Berlin who cried during sex for reasons I still don’t understand.”
Toto’s jaw actually dropped. “ Anastasia Yelena! ”
“I didn’t make him cry,” she said mildly. “It just… happened. Once. Unclear why.”
“Berlin,” Toto repeated faintly, like maybe if he said it enough times it would make sense. “You were in Berlin —”
“Conference. 2019. Also, technically, a date with Charles Leclerc in 2018. Fred Vasseur set it up. He spoke about Ferrari like it was a religion. It freaked me out.”
Toto made a faint choking noise. “Charles—what— what ?”
Ana shrugged. “He meant well. It was just… a lot of red and dogma. He looked at the Prancing Horse logo like it was the Holy Trinity and spoke about Maranello like it was Vatican City. It was weird. We did not have chemistry.”
Toto stared. “You—you went on a date with—”
“Yes,” Ana said simply. “No, we didn’t kiss. Yes, he paid for dinner. No, I don’t want to talk about it.”
Toto was still staring at Anastasia like she’d just confessed to arson. “You—none of this— you never told me any of this! ”
Toto rubbed his temple, trying to reconcile Ana, who spent most of her teenage years buried in schematics and complaining about scratchy fabrics, with Ana, who apparently had multiple boyfriends.
“I—how long have you—”
“I lost my virginity after Monaco 2016,” Ana said matter-of-factly. “Lewis took me clubbing.”
Toto stared at her, slack-jawed. Susie had gone back to flipping through her magazine like this was Tuesday and not the complete obliteration of everything he’d assumed about his daughter’s personal life.
Ana was calm. Unbothered. Typing something on her laptop like she hadn’t just verbally defibrillated her father across the teak breakfast table.
Toto actually made a noise that might have been a strangled what . “ Lewis?! ”
“Not with Lewis,” Ana said with faint exasperation. “He just took me to the club. I met someone my age.”
He could barely form words. “ I’m sorry—what? ”
Ana glanced up. “I was eighteen, Papa. It was legal. I was sober. I wanted it. It wasn’t awkward. It wasn’t a mistake. It was mine. He was my age. He knew what he was doing, which I cannot say for most eighteen-year-old boys, so I consider myself very lucky. It was great. ”
The deck went silent. The sound of waves slapping gently against the hull felt suddenly obscene.
Toto's brain short-circuited. “You—Anastasia—you can’t just say things like that! ”
Susie, from her lounge chair, sipped her coffee and didn’t even look up. “At least she didn’t say it was disappointing. Most people’s first times are.”
Toto swung toward her like she’d lost her mind. “Susie!”
“What?” she said mildly. “Would you prefer she lied and said she waited until marriage in a castle somewhere in the Alps?”
“Yes!” Toto barked. Then froze. “No! I— I don’t know! ” Toto scrubbed a hand over his face. “Who?”
“Doesn’t matter,” Ana said smoothly, already looking back at her laptop.
“ Doesn’t matter?! You just—Ana—eighteen—great—”
Ana just went back to her laptop, unruffled. “He knew what he was doing,” she repeated. “That’s all you need to know.”
Toto let out an audible gasp. “ Anastasia. ”
“What?” Anastasia said, expression flat. “You said I should experience the world. I experienced it.”
“ You— ” Toto’s voice cracked an octave higher than he’d like to admit. “You never said anything about any of this!”
Ana finally looked up, expression perfectly calm. “Because it was irrelevant.”
Toto stared at her.
“I need a drink,” he muttered.
Susie patted his arm sweetly. “I’ll pour you one. But honestly, Toto, did you really think she got her PhD without at least one disastrous affair?”
Ana, looking vaguely satisfied, picked her laptop back up and muttered, “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a prodigy to poach.”
And just like that, the conversation was over.
***
Text Messages: Fred Vasseur & Toto Wolff
Toto:
Fred.
Explain to me why I am just now learning that you once
set my daughter up on a date with Charles Leclerc.
Fred:
Ah. That.
Toto:
That?!
You set up my daughter with a Ferrari driver.
MY daughter. WITH CHARLES.
Fred:
To be fair, he wasn’t a Ferrari Driver then. He was still at Sauber. I told him to go for the smartest girl he could.
Didn’t work out.
Probably for the best. Otherwise there would’ve been a fistfight in the paddock.
Toto:
…
WHAT?!
Why would there be a fistfight in the paddock?!
Fred:
You know.
Egos.
Racing drivers.
It’s a small sport.
Toto:
That’s not an answer.
Fred:
Relax, it was one date. She left before dessert.
Toto:
Before dessert?!
Fred:
She said Charles talked about Ferrari like it was a religion.
Honestly? She’s not wrong.
Toto:
Frederic. If I find out you ever tried matchmaking in my family again, there
will
be a fistfight in the paddock.
***
Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Dr. Anastasia “Ana” Wolff
Ana:
I should probably thank you for making my first time having sex… pleasant.
Max:
…what?
Ana:
You heard me.
2016. Monaco.
That was my first time.
Max:
Ana.
No.
You’re joking.
Ana:
Why would I joke about that?
Max:
because
holy
fucking
shit
you didn’t TELL me?!
Ana:
You didn’t ask.
You seemed confident.
Max:
CONFIDENT???
ANA. THAT WAS MY FIRST TIME TOO.
Ana:
…wait. What?
Max:
YES WHAT.
YOU THINK I JUST CASUALLY HAD PRACTICE BEFORE THAT??
Ana:
…you were very good at it for a first time.
Max:
so were you!
jesus christ
we’ve been doing this for almost TEN YEARS and you’re telling me this
now
??
Ana:
It only came up in conversation today.
Max:
with WHO?!
Ana:
My father.
Max:
YOUR
WHAT
ANA.
Ana:
Relax. I didn’t mention you.
Max:
oh great
thank you
love that for me
love that for us
holy shit
Ana:
Are you upset?
Max:
no??
I’m just—
we were each other’s firsts??
this whole time??
Nastya... That’s… kind of insane.
Ana:
Is it?
Max:
yeah.
insane.
perfect.
…kind of makes sense though, doesn’t it?
Ana:
Yes.
It does.
You’re welcome.
Max:
You’re
welcome?
Ana:
For making your first time pleasant too.
***
Group Chat: “TEAM 33”
(Members: Max Verstappen, Jos Verstappen, Raymond Vermeulen)
Max:
I’m going to sign with Mercedes.
Raymond:
Is this a joke or should I pour a drink?
Jos:
What happened to “Red Bull for life”?
Max:
Life changed.
Raymond:
Max.
Are you serious?
Max:
Yeah.
I’ve thought about it. I’m done with the politics.
And I want to win again.
But more than that—I want to
want
it.
Mercedes gives me that right now.
Jos:
I thought we said we’d wait until the summer break.
You’ve barely spoken to Red Bull since Austria.
Max:
Yeah. And that’s not changing.
You know how it’s been. You’ve
seen
it.
Raymond:
This isn’t just about the car, is it.
Max:
No.
Jos:
Is this about her?
Max:
It’s not
only
about her.
But yeah. It’s also about Ana.
And before you say anything—I know what I’m doing.
Jos:
I’m not saying anything. Yet.
Raymond:
When are you telling them?
Max:
Toto’s sending over the final paperwork by next week.
I’ll wait until Spa to make it official.
I owe GP a proper conversation first.
Jos:
And Red Bull?
Max:
I’ll tell them in person. But I’m not staying out of guilt either.
Raymond:
If this is what you want, we’re behind you.
Max:
I don’t want chaos.
I just want a fresh start. And I want to be close to her.
Not halfway across the paddock pretending we’re nothing.
Raymond:
Jesus Christ.
Max:
Just line things up.
Quietly.
I’ll handle the rest.
Jos:
If you’re happy, that’s what matters.
But
don’t
half-ass it. Don’t go unless you’re ready to win in silver too.
Max:
I’m not going to Mercedes to play house.
I’m going to fucking
race
.
The rest is just a bonus.
***
Lambiase Residence, Milton Keynes, England - 17 July 2025
The sun was doing that rare British thing where it remembered how to be warm, and the Lambiase garden was full of the kind of suburban tranquility that always makes Max feel like he’s wandered into someone else’s life.
Francesca’s bike was leaning against the fence. A pile of schoolbooks sat abandoned under the outdoor table, next to what appeared to be a French verb sheet with increasingly dramatic doodles in the margins.
“Don’t step on that,” GP called from the open kitchen door. “She’ll accuse you of ruining her academic future.”
Max grinned, carefully bypasses the paper, and walked through the open door into the house that still smells faintly of tomato sauce and something sweet cooling on the counter.
GP was barefoot, in jeans and a hoodie, holding a cup of espresso like it’s a weapon.
“You didn’t come here for coffee,” he said without preamble.
“No,” Max replied, and his grin faded.
GP gestured toward the dining table. “So? Let’s have it.”
Max sat, exhaled slowly. “I’m going to sign with Mercedes.”
GP didn’t react immediately. Just sips. Nods once. “Okay.”
Max blinked. “Okay?”
GP leant back in his chair. “You’ve been heading this way since April. I’ve just been waiting for you to admit it out loud.”
There was a long pause. A quiet sort of relief and grief mingling in the air.
Max said, voice lower now, “You’re still coming with me?”
GP raised an eyebrow. “Do you think I’ve stuck with you this long because I like Milton Keynes?”
That earned a faint laugh.
“You didn’t even ask why.”
“I know why.” GP leant back, exhaling like a man who’s been waiting for this shoe to drop.
Max fidgeted. “You’re okay with it?”
“I’ve had worse breakups,” GP said dryly. Then adds, more gently: “You’re not doing this because of how bad things are—you’re doing it because you want more than what you’re getting. I can respect that.”
Max nodded, grateful. But then GP raised a hand.
“Just so you’re prepared… once this leaks—or once you breathe the wrong way in the wrong corridor—they’ll place me on gardening leave. Effective immediately.”
Max’s stomach twisted. “Shit.”
“I’ll be gone before the next race,” GP said. “They’ll assign you a new race engineer to finish the season. It’ll be awkward. It’ll be political. You’ll survive.”
“I don’t want to do this without you.”
“I’ll be there when it matters,” GP said. “And besides—gardening leave just means I finally get to sleep through FP3.”
The silence that followed is almost companionable. Old war comrades, planning one last mutiny.
Then GP tilted his head. “Is she part of this too?”
Max doesn’t ask who she is.
“Yes,” he answers. “Not the only reason. But enough of one.”
GP drained the rest of his glass. “Then we’d better make it worth it.”
A door creaked upstairs, then soft footsteps on the staircase.
“Hi, Max,” Francesca, GP’s 16 year old daughter, said as she came into the kitchen, ponytail askew and hoodie sleeves too long. Max the dog hot on her heels, wagging his tail excitedly.
“Hey, Chess,” Max said, smiling a little. “Destroying education one croissant at a time?”
“She’s deciding where she wants to do her A-Levels,” GP muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Currently obsessed with Bosworth.”
Francesca shrugged. “It has a strong STEM program and good fencing facilities.”
Max nodded, thoughtful. “It’s a good school.”
Francesca perks up. “You know it?”
“Ana Wolff went there,” Max says casually, then immediately regrets it as GP's wife stuck her head into the garden with a tray of lemon tarts and raises a very interested eyebrow.
GP glares. “Don’t you dare tell Francesca that Ana Wolff went to Bosworth.”
Max, shameless: “She already heard me.”
Francesca beams. “Wait, seriously? That’s so cool —”
GP hums. “It only costs, you know, forty thousand pounds a term , so what could go wrong.”
GP’s wife, Eloisa, gave him a warm smile as she checks the oven for something that smells suspiciously like homemade lasagna. “Hi, Max. You’re staying for dinner, right?”
“Only if GP doesn’t throw me out.”
They sit in silence for a while. Somewhere down the living room, Francesca is playing music at a volume just below rebellion.
Max glances around the garden again. The bike. The pictures. The chaos. The life .
“You’ll afford Bosworth,” he says eventually. “Especially if I make sure Mercedes knows I don’t come without you.”
GP gives him a flat look. “That better not be a bribe.”
“It’s a loyalty bonus.”
“Still sounds like a bribe.”
“Call it whatever you want,” Max shrugs. “You’ve earned it.”
GP just shakes his head.
But there’s a small, proud smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
***
Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Toto Wolff
Max:
Morning.
I’ve thought about it.
I’ll sign.
But GP and I are a package deal.
No GP, no Max.
Let’s win some championships together.
Toto:
Understood .
Welcome to Mercedes, Max. Both of you.
Let’s make history.
Chapter 16: Chapter 14: Brackley
Chapter Text
Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Dr. Anastasia “Ana” Wolff
Max:
I’m going to sign.
Ana:
…
Well.
I’d better build a good powerunit then.
Max:
I’m counting on it.
***
The Townhouse, Brackley, England - 17 July 2025
Ana’s suitcase was still half-unpacked in the entryway when she saw the message.
Max Verstappen:
I’m going to sign.
Just four words.
Simple. Final. World-altering.
She stood in her kitchen with her phone still in hand, the faint hum of the fridge the only sound in the otherwise quiet townhouse. Her heart kicked once, twice, then went into a full-body sprint.
It wasn’t like she didn’t know. Wasn’t like they hadn’t talked about it. Danced around it. Calculated, calibrated, and dared it.
But now it was real. Confirmed. Imminent.
Max was coming to Mercedes.
To her team.
To her floor.
To her father.
She exhaled slowly, deliberately. Her throat felt tight.
The worst part wasn’t the professional fallout. She could handle the press. The engineering side. The integration chaos. She could even handle the media tornado that would swirl around Mercedes signing Max Verstappen in the twilight of the Red Bull era.
What she couldn’t handle was this sudden weight on her chest. Like a trap had been sprung and now there were too many layers to undo.
Because Toto didn’t know.
And now Max would be here.
Every race weekend. Every sim day. Every strategy briefing.
He’d be here, and she'd have to keep pretending he wasn’t hers.
Ana dropped her phone onto the counter like it burned. Her limbs moved on autopilot. She turned, walked upstairs, and grabbed the bag she’d barely unpacked from Sardinia.
It took five minutes to repack. Her laptop. Three t-shirts. Two pairs of jeans. The only toothpaste she liked from that one shop in London. Max’s hoodie—the one she told herself was just comfortable even though it made her feel better in rooms with bad lighting.
She yanked the zipper closed, her fingers shaking now.
Brackley was suddenly too small. Too sharp.
She couldn’t think here. Not clearly.
There was only one person who could make sense of this.
One person who’d known since the beginning.
One person who had seen her fall apart, put herself back together, and never once asked why Max Verstappen was the one thread she couldn’t cut loose.
***
PRIVATE CHAT — Secure channel
Andromeda 🛰️ is online
JadeQueen 👑 is online
Andromeda:
I’m coming to visit.
Today. For the weekend. If that’s okay.
JadeQueen:
OH???
The countryside is quaking.
The girls have missed you.
Andromeda:
I need to borrow your quiet.
And maybe your goats.
JadeQueen:
They’re sheep.
But they’ll forgive you if you feed them.
Andromeda:
Fair trade.
Andromeda 🛰️ is offline
Chat archived
***
Murphy Sheep Farm, Harlestone, England - 17 July 2025
The road to the farm narrowed into a gravel path flanked by hedgerows and the occasional curious sheep. Ana slowed the car and rolled down the window. Fresh air, tinged with damp grass and the faint scent of hay, curled into the cabin. It was quiet out here. Still in a way her world rarely was.
The white-painted gate creaked as she pushed it open. A black-and-white sheepdog lifted its head from the porch and gave a single, unimpressed bark before retreating back into the shade.
Xia was already waiting.
She stood by the front door, boots muddy, braid slung over one shoulder, sleeves rolled up past her elbows. A smudge of flour dusted her cheek, and she was holding a half-unwrapped snack bar in one hand like it was a weapon. She grinned as Ana climbed out of the car.
“You brought the bribes, right?”
Ana managed a tired smile. “One edible, one programmable.”
“Then you’re allowed in.”
Xia closed the distance and pulled her into a tight hug. She smelled like lavender, flour, and something faintly mechanical—like her kitchen was powered by a firewall.
For a moment, Ana let herself lean into it. The steadiness. The familiarity.
They had met at Bosworth over a decade ago. Both awkward in different ways, both brilliant, both lonely.
Ana had been the quiet one with a fascination for propulsion systems and a spine of carbon fiber.
Xia had been brighter in every sense—half-Chinese, romantic to her core, gifted in Computer Science, and terrifyingly good at breaking into things. Firewalls, encrypted systems, forbidden server rooms. Ana had once watched her reroute an entire dormitory’s Wi-Fi through the library printer just to avoid a curfew lockout.
Cambridge had tried to pull them in different directions—System Engineering for Ana, Computer Science for Xia—but they’d kept each other anyway. Xia had left after her Bachelor’s, married her childhood sweetheart Aidan, and traded lecture halls for lambing season and a kitchen table that always had tea on it.
She was still the best hacker Ana had ever met.
“You look like you haven’t slept in days,” Xia said, stepping back with a frown.
“I haven’t,” Ana replied.
“Kids are in the orchard with Aidan. Come inside. I’ve got something that passes for coffee and a lemon tart that might be better than therapy.”
The farmhouse smelled like bread and vanilla and the detergent Ana remembered from the first time she stayed over in their guest room years ago. The floorboards creaked in the same places. A stuffed robot with googly eyes sat on the windowsill next to a well-loved plush cat. There were finger paintings on the fridge, some of them signed in wobbly crayon letters: Alana and Keira.
Xia caught her looking. “They ask about you, you know. Alana thinks you live in space.”
Ana looked up, eyes catching hers. “I still can’t believe you named your daughter after me.”
Xia shrugged, unbothered. “I owed you one,” Xia said, nudging her shoulder. “Now. Sit. Breathe. Start from wherever it hurts least.”
Ana sat.
She didn’t unpack the suitcase yet. But she did let herself curl her hands around a chipped mug and stare out across the field, where two tiny figures darted between trees and the world spun slower than usual. For the first time in days, her chest didn’t feel like it was full of wire.
And she thought, Okay. Maybe here, I can begin to think.
“You don’t want to talk, you don’t have to. But if you do—”
“I do,” Ana said softly.
And Xia, ever the softest romantic wrapped in code and chaos, simply nodded.
“Then let’s start with tea. You always think better with a mug in your hands.”
The lemon tart was better than therapy. Ana wasn’t sure if it was the lemon zest or the almond crust or the fact that Xia had always baked like it was a love language.
She sat at the kitchen table, the chipped mug still in her hands, steam curling upward into the late afternoon light. Xia moved around the room with the easy rhythm of someone who belonged to this place—one foot between farmhouse and firewall, apron tied over a hoodie that had “Ctrl+Alt+Delete” stitched on the hem.
Ana stared at the mug. Turned it once, then twice.
Xia didn’t press. She never had.
So Ana said it—quietly, carefully. Like testing the shape of the truth before it could hurt.
“Max is going to sign with Mercedes. .”
There was a long silence. Only the soft hum of the kettle, the tick of the old clock on the wall, the sound of wind brushing the orchard trees outside.
“Well,” Xia said, settling into the chair across from her, “that explains the look on your face like the world just tilted 4 degrees sideways.”
Ana didn’t answer right away. She ran her thumb along the rim of the mug. “He texted me. Just… ‘I’m going to sign.’ Like I didn’t build the fucking power unit that made the move even remotely tempting.”
Xia raised an eyebrow. “You say that like you’re angry at him.”
“I’m not,” Ana said quickly. “I’m not. I just…” She shook her head. “It’s not about the contract. I always knew this might happen.”
Xia didn’t say anything. Just reached for the sugar jar and stirred her tea with quiet patience.
Ana sighed, finally looking up. “It’s that it felt like I’d been bracing for something else. And then it wasn’t the thing I thought it would be. And now I don’t know what to do with all the fear I saved up.”
Xia nodded slowly. “What did you think you were bracing for?”
“I thought…” Ana paused. Then gave a helpless little laugh. “I don’t know. I thought maybe I’d lose him. Not to Mercedes. Not to my father. But just… lose him.”
“And instead, he’s moving into your team.”
Ana’s voice was dry. “Oh yes. Fantastic. Now we can implode professionally and personally. Efficiency.”
“You’re scared,” Xia said, with that infuriating clarity she’d always had.
“I’m always scared,” Ana muttered.
“No. This is different.” Xia leaned forward, elbows on the table, tone soft. “You’re scared because now you have to live in a world where the thing you wanted… actually happened.”
Ana looked at her sharply. Xia didn’t flinch.
“You’ve been with him or how long? Don’t answer that,” Xia said, lifting a hand. “But he is signing. He’s here. He’s going to be yours in a way that isn’t secret. And that’s terrifying. Because if it doesn’t work—”
“It’s my team. My career. My father,” Ana said quietly.
“It’s your everything,” Xia said, nodding. “Which is why I need to ask you something, and you need to answer honestly.”
Ana raised a brow.
“Do you trust him?”
Ana didn’t even hesitate. “Yes.”
“Then good,” Xia said. “Now we just have to work on getting you to trust yourself.”
Ana let out a sound that might’ve been a laugh, or a sigh, or both. “I feel like I’ve lost my grip on the version of me who could think twelve steps ahead. Everything’s slipping and I’m just—reacting.”
Xia shrugged. “Ana, you literally built a power unit that made the fastest man in Formula One leave his team for yourproject. You didn’t lose that version of yourself. She’s just tired.”
Ana blinked, eyes stinging suddenly. She looked down at her mug.
The farmhouse hummed around them—warm, alive, grounded in a rhythm that didn’t care about motorsport schedules or media leaks or legacy.
“You’re staying for a few days,” Xia said, like it was already decided. “We’ll feed you, distract you, and make you do the bedtime routine at least once so you remember how to human. And when you're ready—we'll make a plan.”
Ana didn’t argue. She just nodded and picked up the fork.
The lemon tart really was better than therapy.
***
Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Daniel Ricciardo
Max:
I’m signing with Mercedes.
Daniel:
👀👀👀
Daniel:
Wait, like… for real for real?
You’re actually doing it??
Max:
Yeah. Contract’s getting finalized.
Toto knows.
Ana knows.
GP’s in.
Daniel:
Mate.
MATE.
This is the most chaotic AND most calculated thing you’ve ever done.
I’m proud.
Max:
You’re proud?
Daniel:
You’re leaving Red Bull.
For Mercedes.
With your engineer.
To be closer to the girl you’ve been sleeping with in secret for ten years who also just happens to be the daughter of your new boss.
This isn’t a career move.
This is a prestige drama.
I’d watch seven seasons of this on HBO.
Max:
You’re unbelievable.
Daniel:
You’re the one signing up to race under your girlfriend’s last name.
I’m just here for the popcorn. 🍿
Max:
Shut up.
Daniel:
Do I get to be best man when this all blows into a surprise wedding?
Max:
I said shut up.
Daniel:
I’ll start writing my speech 😌
***
Text Messages: Jos Verstappen & Victoria Verstappen
Jos:
Did you know your brother has a thing for Toto Wolff’s daughter?
Victoria:
…Jos.
He doesn’t have a thing for her.
He’s been in love with her since he was eighteen.
Jos:
In love?!
With Ana Wolff??
That explains… far too much.
He’s signing with Mercedes.
Victoria:
…Because of her?
Jos:
Not just because of her.
But she’s part of it.
A big part, I think.
Victoria:
He’s been chasing her for a decade
Always thought she’d never choose him
And now she’s showing up to his hotel room to check on him after crashes
What did you expect him to do? Stay at Red Bull and pretend he doesn’t care?
Jos:
I didn’t expect marrying into the Wolff family to be part of his 5-year career plan.
Victoria:
Oh, he’s had that plan since 2021
There’s a ring in his Monaco apartment
Don’t ask me how I know
Just know that he’s dead serious about her
Jos:
Jesus.
I thought I raised a ruthless champion, not a romantic lunatic.
Victoria:
You can be both
He just wants to win races and be loved by the scariest woman in motorsport
Jos:
And you think she feels the same?
Victoria:
I think she’s trying not to.
And I think she’s losing that battle
He’ll win her eventually. He always does.
Jos:
God help Toto.
Victoria:
Honestly?
He’ll be lucky to have Max as a son-in-law.
And Ana? She’ll be lucky to have someone who’s waited this long just to be hers.
***
Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Victoria Verstappen
Victoria:
Just don’t let her break your heart, Maxie.
Max:
Little late for that warning, Vic.
She’s had it since the day I met her.
Victoria:
Then why keep going?
Ten years of chasing her and pretending it doesn’t kill you every time she pulls away?
Max:
Because when she lets herself want me
—it’s everything.
I’d rather have half of her honestly than a whole life faking it with someone else.
Victoria:
You always were dramatic for someone so quiet.
Max:
Comes with the territory.
I don’t fall easily. But when I do, I don’t stop.
Victoria:
And what if she doesn’t fall all the way?
What if she always holds a part of herself back?
Max:
Then I’ll wait.
She’s worth the waiting.
Victoria:
I just don’t want you to be the one bleeding for it.
You already changed teams.
Changed cities.
You’re betting everything on her.
Max:
Not everything.
I’m betting on me, too.
On the life I want.
She’s part of that, yeah.
But even if she walks away…
I’ll still be proud I didn’t pretend to want less.
Victoria:
God, you’re in deep.
Like, “already got the vows written” deep.
Max:
I do.
Victoria:
Just don’t break when she runs, Max.
Because she will.
You know she will.
Max:
I know.
I’ll catch her anyway.
***
Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Sophie Kumpen
Max:
I’m signing with Mercedes.
Sophie:
…
You’re joking.
Max:
I’m not.
Sophie:
You’ve been with Red Bull since you were 17.
Are you sure?
Max:
I’m sure.
Sophie:
Because of her?
Max:
Not just because of her.
But yeah.
She’s part of it.
A big part.
Sophie:
This might be the most romantic thing you’ve ever done.
Max:
It’s not about romance.
It’s about being where I want to be.
With the people who make sense.
With her.
Sophie:
That’s what I mean.
It’s not flowers and chocolates.
It’s real.
It’s moving your whole life for someone and not asking them to meet you halfway.
It’s the kind of love most people don’t have the courage for.
Max:
I’ve loved her since Monaco.
Even when she pretended I didn’t exist.
Even when she told me I wasn’t ready for her.
Maybe I wasn’t.
But I am now.
Sophie:
She’s lucky.
Even if she doesn’t see it yet.
Max:
She sees it.
She’s just scared.
Sophie:
Then hold steady.
Let her find her way.
And Max?
If she breaks your heart—
Max:
She won’t.
Sophie:
Okay.
Then go get the life you’ve been waiting for.
And tell Toto I expect good champagne at the wedding.
***
Murphy Sheep Farm, Harlestone, England - 18 July 2025
The sun was beginning its slow descent across the fields, brushing the orchard in a syrupy gold, when the sound of thunderous feet echoed through the hallway.
Ana looked up from her spot on the couch just in time to see a flash of pink leggings, a swirl of curls, and a blur of tiny socks skidding across the wooden floor.
“Anaaaaaa!”
Alana rounded the corner first, her braid halfway unraveled and a pink plastic tiara perched precariously on her head. She launched herself at Ana with the full, unfiltered joy of a four-year-old who has no concept of personal space and no doubt she’ll be caught. Ana barely had time to brace herself before arms wrapped tight around her neck and a soft, lemon-scented cheek smushed against hers.
“You’re here! You’re really here!”
“I am,” Ana said, laughing into the hug. “In one piece, no less.”
A second later, Keira followed—two years old and fiercely determined. She marched in with a stuffed lamb clutched under one arm and climbed unsteadily onto the couch like it was Everest. Then she plopped herself into Ana’s lap with all the gravity of someone claiming territory.
Ana looked between them—Alana curled into her shoulder, Keira wedged into her lap—and felt something shift low in her chest. A quiet click. Like something settling into place.
Xia appeared in the doorway with a fond smirk. “They’ve been waiting since lunch.”
Alana turned with a dramatic gasp. “You said she wouldn’t be here ‘til bedtime!”
“She’s early,” Xia said, lifting a brow at Ana. “Miracles happen.”
Keira shoved the lamb toy into Ana’s face. “Baah.”
“Thank you,” Ana said solemnly. “Excellent livestock representation.”
Keira beamed.
She had never been a kid person. Not in the way people expected. Jack had been the first—her half brother. Jack had taught her that children didn’t need to be coddled. They just needed to be taken seriously.
But Alana and Keira… they were different.
They weren’t hers by blood. They were hers by Xia’s decree.
They were chaos and glitter and wet kisses on cheeks. And somehow—without her noticing—they had burrowed under every layer of her armor and made themselves comfortable.
Alana poked her cheek. “Did you bring your laptop?”
Ana raised a brow. “You’re four.”
“And I know how to Google without parental controls,” Alana said proudly.
“Good Lord,” Ana muttered.
“You promised to show me how to make the moon follow me on the iPad,” Alana added, climbing closer. “Remember?”
“I did,” Ana said, brushing hair from her forehead. “And I will.”
“Up!” Keira demanded.
Ana lifted her obligingly and tucked her into the crook of her arm. “There. Commander Keira is in position.”
Keira clapped, triumphant.
Xia leaned against the doorway, arms folded. “You want me to rescue you?”
Ana shook her head.
“No,” she said, her voice softer than before. “I want to stay right here.”
***
Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Dr. Anastasia “Ana” Wolff
Max:
You still have contacts at Bosworth?
Ana:
…Why.
Do you want to go back to school and actually finish it this time?
Max:
Funny.
No. GP’s daughter wants to apply. Francesca.
He’s spiraling because it costs more than a paddock club suite per term.
ANA
True. But also, worth it.
The STEM program is excellent.
Tell her to prep hard for the entrance essay. They don’t play around.
Max:
She will.
Thought maybe you could help.
Ana:
What’s she like?
Max:
Sharp.
Bit sarcastic.
Obsessive about maths, apparently. GP says she’s gunning for Aerospace Engineering.
Also thinks I’m “technically famous, but not in a cool way.”
You still have pull with admissions, right?
Ana:
…I sit on the alumni trust board, Max.
I am the pull.
Max:
Of course you are.
You’re terrifying.
Can you write to them?
Ana:
I’ll call Beatrice in admissions tomorrow.
Francesca’s full name?
Max:
Francesca Sofia Lambiase.
Thank you.
Ana:
You’re a good friend.
Max:
Only sometimes.
Right now I’m just trying to buy GP some peace before the world explodes.
Ana:
Noble cause.
Max:
Thank you, Ana.
You didn’t have to.
Ana:
Good schools matter.
So do the people you show up for.
***
Murphy Sheep Farm, Harlestone, England - 19 July 2025
The stars had come out by the time Ana and Xia found themselves on the back porch, mugs of tea in hand, their voices low to avoid waking the girls. The crickets had started their nightly concert, and the faint bleating of a distant sheep punctuated the quiet. A soft breeze tugged at the laundry still hanging on the line—tiny socks and ruffled dresses swaying like flags.
Ana sat curled in one of the weathered chairs, knees pulled up, cardigan wrapped around her like armor. Her eyes were fixed somewhere over the orchard, jaw tense in that particular way Xia had known since Bosworth. The weight-in-the-stomach kind. The I’m-thinking-myself-in-circles kind.
“You’re quieter than usual,” Xia said after a while.
“I’m tired,” Ana answered. But not like it meant sleep.
Xia didn’t press. Just sipped her tea and waited.
Eventually, Ana said, “Max is going to sign.”
“Yeah,” Xia said softly. “You told me.”
There was a pause.
“I love him,” Ana said. Quiet. A little like she was saying it to the wind instead.
Xia blinked, setting her cup down with care. “Okay.”
Ana’s eyes slid toward her. “That’s all you’re going to say?”
“You’ve said it like you’ve committed a felony. I thought I’d give you space to plead your case.”
Ana huffed a bitter breath. “I can’t be what he wants.”
“Why not?”
“You’ve met me.”
“Yes. Extensively. Often with fondness.”
“I’d make a terrible wife. A horrific mother. I’d probably forget school picture day because I’m rebuilding a gearbox. I’d teach a toddler to speak in unit vectors. I—”
“You’d love them so precisely it would take their breath away,” Xia interrupted.
Ana’s throat tightened. She looked down at the tea. “That’s not the same.”
“It’s enough.”
“No, it’s not. I don’t feel things like normal people do. I don’t know how to do the soft stuff. The rest of the world wants me to come with smiley manuals and pastel emotions, and I—I just don’t.”
“That’s bullshit,” Xia said calmly.
Ana blinked.
“You feel things deeply. You just don’t perform them like everyone else expects. That’s not the same as not feeling.”
Ana gave a tired, dry laugh. “Tell that to George Russell. He called me a cold fish.”
“Did he now.” Xia’s voice turned icy. “I’ll ruin his credit score.”
Ana snorted.
“I’m serious,” Xia said, already reaching for her phone. “One anonymous breach and I can downgrade him to sporkclass flights for the next five years.”
“That’s not a real class.”
“It will be.”
Ana laughed, short and dry. “He thinks I’d be better if I talked more. Smiled more. Softened edges I’ve spent my entire life sharpening.”
Xia raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure he’s not flirting with you?”
Ana stared at her.
“Because that’s definitely how some guys flirt,” Xia continued. “By negging women smarter than them and mistaking it for foreplay.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Ana muttered. “George Russell flirts with his own mirror. I’m just a reflection that doesn’t flatter him. He’s just… annoyed that I won’t bend to his view of how women in F1 should behave.”
“Or,” Xia said, “he thinks if he pushes you hard enough, he can mold you into something he finds manageable.”
Ana went quiet.
Xia softened. “Max never did that.”
Ana’s gaze dropped to her tea again. “No.”
“He never once tried to file down your edges.”
Ana shook her head. Her voice softened. “Max doesn’t ask me to change.”
“Then maybe he’s the one who deserves you.”
“Ana shook her head, throat tight. “What if I ruin him?”
Xia smiled. Not patronizing—gentle. “You won’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do. Because I’ve known you since we were fourteen. And when you love someone, Ana, you love like gravity. Quiet. Constant. Undeniable.”
“I don’t deserve him.”
Xia leaned over and flicked her forehead. “Stop saying that. Deserving isn’t the point. Choosing is.”
Ana rubbed her head. “That hurt.”
“Good. Let it stick.”
They sat in silence for a moment longer, until Xia added, “You’re allowed to want more, Annie. Even if it’s messy. Even if it doesn’t look like what you were built for.”
Ana looked down at her hands.
And quietly, like she was afraid to hope, she said: “I don’t want to be alone forever.”
“You won’t be,” Xia said quietly.
“Max asked me if I still had contacts at Bosworth.”
Xia glanced over. “Is he trying to get into sixth form?”
Ana gave her a look. “Francesca. His race engineer’s daughter. She wants to apply.”
“Oh.” Xia smiled faintly. “That’s kind of adorable.”
Ana hummed. “He asked if I could help. Said she’s sharp. Obsessed with maths. Thinks he’s famous, but not in a cool way.”
“Honestly? Accurate.” Xia tilted her head. “You said yes?”
“Of course.” Ana shrugged. “Bosworth changed my life. She deserves a shot.”
“And Max asked?”
Ana nodded.
Xia watched her for a long beat, then said, “You don’t do that for just anyone.”
“I do it for the people who matter,” Ana replied. “Max… shows up for people. I can’t say no when it’s about him”
“You do know,” Xia said slowly, “that asking you to help get someone into Bosworth is the equivalent of hiring a private military contractor to teach a Girl Scouts troop how to build a bomb shelter, right?”
“I told him I’d call Beatrice in admissions.”
Xia nudged her knee. “That’s the Ana Wolff I know. One phone call and the gates of academia open.”
Ana didn’t respond right away. She looked down at the sheep puzzle piece in her hands and turned it over twice before saying, “I want her to have a better experience than I did.”
Xia’s voice was gentle. “Bosworth was good.”
“It was.” Ana nodded. “But the one before... wasn’t.”
Silence again. The kind only old friends could hold.
Ana finally added, “There were some girls. Older. From the hockey team.”
Xia straightened. “You never told me that.”
“I didn’t want you to look at me differently.”
“I wouldn’t have.”
“I know that now,” Ana said quietly. “But back then, I was just... the weird Russian-Austrian girl with the nonstandard processing speed and no emotional vocabulary. They didn’t understand me. I think it made them angry.”
Xia didn’t ask for details. She didn’t need them. Her hand found Ana’s and held it, firm.
She traced her thumb over the hem of her sleeve. “Boarding school in Switzerland. Academic enough. But… cruel. In that polished, expensive way. I didn’t fit. At all. I wasn’t polished. I was twelve and already correcting our physics teacher.”
Xia stayed silent.
Ana kept going, voice steady but brittle. “I was the weird Russian girl who didn’t want to go to chapel, didn’t cry when her mother didn’t visit, and spent her free time building propulsion systems out of scrap in the art room.”
She exhaled slowly. “One night, four girls from the hockey team locked me in a kit closet after practice. Pushed me in hard enough that I hit my head on a shelf bracket.”
“Oh my god,” Xia whispered.
“I was bleeding,” Ana said, clinically, like it was just another injury on a test dummy. “Concussion. Mild, I think. I stayed locked in overnight. They didn’t even find me until midday the next day. School tried to cover it. Said it was an ‘accident.’”
Xia’s jaw tightened.
“I spent the rest of that term in the infirmary or the library. And when I came home for Christmas, I told Papa I wouldn’t go back. I don’t think I’d ever said ‘no’ to him before.”
“And he listened?”
Ana hesitated. “He didn’t have a choice. I’d already applied to Bosworth without telling him. Got in on the STEM scholarship. He didn’t find out until the acceptance letter arrived.”
Xia blinked. “You hacked your way into Bosworth?”
“Technically, I merit-ed my way in. But yes. I wrote my own recommendation letter too.”
Xia stared. And then laughed, soft and disbelieving. “Of course you did.”
“I needed out. And I needed a school that cared more about quantum elasticity than field hockey.”
“And instead you got quantum elasticity and me.” Xia grinned.
“You were the first person who sat next to me at lunch.”
“You looked like you were preparing to physically bite anyone who tried.”
“I might’ve.”
“You were terrifying. And amazing.”
Ana smiled, finally. “You made it bearable.”
“You made it home,” Xia said, voice quiet now. “For me too.”
They let the silence settle again. Familiar. Worn in.
After a while, Ana looked up. “Francesca could really thrive there.”
Xia nodded. “Then you were right to get her in.”
“I just hope… she finds someone like you.”
Xia leaned over and bumped their mugs together gently. “She might just find someone like you.”
Ana huffed. “Poor child.” Ana looked down at their linked hands. “It’s not just about helping. It’s about making sure she has somewhere that’s safe. Where she’s allowed to be smart. Where no one will try to crush that out of her.”
Xia leaned her head against Ana’s shoulder. “Then you’re doing exactly what you’re meant to.”
***
Mercedes F1 HQ, Brackley, England - 21 July 2025
Toto Wolff wasn’t a man prone to superstition.
He believed in numbers, in process, in precision. But even he had to admit—there was something off about the energy in the building that morning. Not wrong, exactly. Just… different.
The corridors of Brackley were usually humming by this hour—early meetings, the quiet intensity of engineers deep in calibration, the rhythmic tapping of simulation logs and lap deltas. And that was still there, technically. But underneath it all was a new current. Something subtle.
Almost like someone had realigned the gravity.
He passed through the technical floor first. A few heads turned. Usual greetings followed: “Morning, Toto,” “Morning, sir,” “Coffee’s fresh.” All normal. But when George passed by on his way out of a sim review, the silence was sudden and complete. Not hostile—just… restrained. A polite nod. A handful of murmured replies.
And when Kimi Antonelli walked in ten minutes later, still in his black hoodie and too-long curls, there was a shift.
People smiled.
Actual, genuine, reflexive smiles. Someone clapped him on the shoulder. The sim techs subtly straightened up in their chairs. One of the junior engineers—Nicola, Toto thought her name was—actually said "You're early, that's a good sign." And Kimi, ever the awkward prodigy, gave a shy shrug and muttered something about throttle mapping.
It wasn’t a competition.
But if it had been…
Later, during a strategy review, he watched as George made a comment—pointed, frustrated, laced with some passive-aggressive jab about sim setups—and nobody in the room reacted. Not even Anastasia’s second, Solomon, who usually rose to defend the engineers.
Instead, there was a faint, barely concealed eye-roll from the back corner. One of the data techs coughed discreetly into his sleeve. Kimi, sitting with a tablet balanced on his knee, didn’t even look up.
And then, when George left the room, someone quietly muttered, "Altair doesn’t lie."
It got a low chuckle.
Toto blinked.
The meeting resumed like nothing had happened.
Later still, in the garage bay, he watched as Kimi asked a question about mechanical grip tradeoffs and two engineers leaned in to answer before he’d even finished his sentence.
When George showed up twenty minutes later, asking about a chassis update, the same engineers gave each other a look before politely deflecting with “We’ll get back to you.”
Toto didn’t miss the difference.
And he didn’t understand it.
There was no hostility. Nothing overt. Just a gentle, collective quiet shifting of loyalties. A soft gravitation toward the 18-year-old rookie who barely looked old enough to vote, and a careful, cautious distancing from the man with four podiums and a win this season.
He made a note to check in with Anastasia. Maybe she had an explanation.
But as the day went on and the silences thickened, as he watched the team subtly rearrange themselves around a different center of gravity, Toto Wolff had to admit—
Something had changed.
And he didn’t quite know why.
***
Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Eloisa Lambiase
Max:
[Rightmove link]
This one’s got a huge garden, 4 beds, and it’s like 25 minutes from Bosworth and Brackley. Francesca could basically teleport.
Max:
Also: Aga in the kitchen. You seem like an Aga person.
Eloisa:
Max.
That house has a wine cellar.
Until you forget to mention that GP won the lottery or the discovery of oil in our garden, we are not suddenly rich enough to buy a place with an actual ballroom.
Max:
But it would be so good for Francesca’s 18th
Think big
Eloisa:
Max.
Max:
…what if someone else bought it and let you live there?
Eloisa:
No.
Max:
Look, GP’s about to walk away from a championship-winning team because I want to leave.
He’s putting his entire career on the line. Francesca’s A Levels are going to cost the GDP of Luxembourg.
Let me do something.
Eloisa:
Max. That’s generous. It really is.
But we don’t need charity. We’re not struggling.
We have savings. We planned for this.
Max:
I know.
But you’ve held GP together for years.
And GP held me together for just as long.
If there’s a way I can make your life easier—
Not as a favour. As a thank you.
Eloisa:
Max. This is very sweet. And completely insane. You're not buying us a house.
You’re allowed to spoil your engineer with championship trophies, not real estate.
Max:
You’re moving anyway. GP told me you were going to start looking.
Eloisa:
Looking.
Browsing.
Not accepting real estate portfolios from emotionally overcompensating Dutch race car drivers.
Max:
🙄
Just let me help a little.
It’s not charity. It’s a thank you. You’re both leaving a lot behind because of me.
Eloisa:
We’re not leaving it because of you.
We’re leaving it for you. That’s different.
And we wouldn’t do it if we didn’t believe in what’s coming next.
Max:
Still.
Let me help you find something nice.
You’ve always let me crash at your place and raid your fridge. I owe you.
Eloisa:
You owe me precisely two bottles of Barolo and one dinner where you cook and don’t set off the smoke alarm.
Max:
Deal.
Also…
[Rightmove link: 4-bed, mid-century, huge garden with a pond, 12 mins from Brackley and Bosworth, oak floors, detached garage with gym potential]
Last one I promise. Look, Max the dog would even have his own pond!
Eloisa:
Max.
This one does have a nice pantry…
Max:
😏
I knew you'd crack.
***
Mercedes F1 HQ, Brackley, England - 21 July 2025
Ana didn’t look up when she heard the door open.
She didn’t need to. There was a specific rhythm to George Russell’s footsteps — slightly too deliberate, a bit too loud, like he was announcing himself with every stride.
“Morning,” he said.
“Good morning,” Ana replied without pausing her work. She was adjusting Kimi’s latest feedback integration loop, recalibrating the sim’s thermal modeling to better reflect his corner exits in high-heat environments. Precision work. It required focus.
Which, apparently, was not something she would be allowed to have.
“I’m not here for the sim,” George added, settling too close to her console for comfort. “Just… wanted to talk.”
Ana flicked her eyes toward him for exactly one second. Enough to acknowledge his presence. Not enough to invite it.
“I’ve been thinking about Altair,” he continued.
She kept typing. “Don’t fight it this time. It rewards trust.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him smile.
“You know, you’re a mystery.”
Ana said nothing.
“Most people in this building can’t go five minutes without overexplaining everything. But you… you’re like if quiet quitting was a person.”
Ana paused. Blinked once. “I’m sorry?”
“I meant that as a compliment,” George said, too quickly. “You’re very… still. Which is rare. And kind of intimidating. But also refreshing.”
Ana stared at her screen. “Thank you,” she said, though she wasn’t sure what she was thanking him for.
He kept going. “Like, I could fix you, but also I’d rather learn from you. You know?”
Her head tilted slightly. She turned to him, confused. “Fix me?”
“Not fix fix,” George backpedaled. “Just… loosen you up. You’re always so serious. You don’t even blink most of the time. I think you’d be happier if you let yourself relax. Maybe came out with us sometime.”
Ana looked back to her screen. “I’m quite happy, thank you.”
“That’s just it though,” George said, undeterred. “You think you’re happy. But have you ever considered that maybe the version of you everyone sees isn’t the best version?”
Ana's jaw tensed.
“You’re clearly brilliant,” he continued, “but also very… robotic. I just think there’s more to you. Something under all the logic. And I think if someone could just reach that, you’d be… amazing.”
“I already am amazing,” Ana said. Calm. Factual.
He laughed. Like it was a joke.
It wasn’t.
“I just think you’d be better off if you opened up a bit,” he said. “Let people see the real you. I could help with that. We’d make a good team, you and me.”
Ana turned her full attention to him now. Brow furrowed. “You and I have never worked on the same project.”
George grinned like he’d just proven a point. “Exactly. Think how much we’re missing out on.”
She stared at him.
Then turned back to her monitor. “I have to finish debugging Kimi’s feedback loop.”
George pushed off the console, a bit stiffer now. “Right. No time for distractions.”
Ana didn’t look up. “I don’t consider human conversation a distraction,” she said evenly. “But I do consider it irrelevant when it stops being useful.”
She meant it neutrally. Logically.
George seemed to take it personally.
She didn’t notice.
As the door closed behind him, Ana logged her note: Thermal mapping to be re-synced with lateral load index — Antonelli preferences.
George, somewhere down the corridor, muttered something about puzzles and cold fish.
Ana blinked once. Saved the file.
***
PRIVATE CHAT — Secure channel
Andromeda 🛰️ is online
JadeQueen 👑 is online
Andromeda:
George was weird again today.
I think he was trying to give me a compliment.
It included the phrase “quiet quitting.”
JadeQueen:
Oh god.
He’s flirting with you.
Andromeda:
He is not.
He said I was robotic and needed “loosening up.”
That’s not flirting. That’s unsolicited feedback.
JadeQueen:
Annie.
My darling terror.
That’s flirting in the worst possible way.
Andromeda:
I’m not convinced.
He also said I don’t blink enough.
That feels like a medical observation, not romantic intent.
JadeQueen:
That’s negging.
It’s textbook.
He insults you so he can fix you and feel important.
It’s his mating call.
Andromeda:
I don’t think calling someone “robotic” is a mating call.
JadeQueen:
Maybe not in your world.
But in his?
It’s practically a marriage proposal.
Next week he’ll say you “intimidate” him and then offer to take you to dinner “as a challenge.”
Andromeda:
…He did say I intimidate him.
Yesterday.
During the sim debrief.
JadeQueen:
🥂 I rest my case.
You’re being flirted with by an insecure guy in race boots.
Andromeda:
This is why I don’t understand people.
Why can’t anyone say what they mean?
JadeQueen:
Because they’re not you.
You’d just say: “I like you. Want to share data?”
He thinks he needs to insult you into submission.
Andromeda:
It’s deeply inefficient.
JadeQueen:
Also creepy.
Also never going to work.
Andromeda:
…
I didn’t say anything about that.
JadeQueen:
You didn’t have to.
I know your type.
Andromeda 🛰️ is offline
Chat archived
***
Mercedes F1 HQ, Brackley, England - 21 July 2025
By the time Toto knocked on her office door, Ana was knee deep in code, the lines swimming in front of her eyes.
Still, she glanced up and gestured him in.
Toto stepped inside, closing the door behind him with the quiet finality he reserved for serious conversations. He didn’t sit—just leaned slightly against the edge of her desk, one hand in his pocket, the other cradling a cup of espresso that had long gone cold.
“Anastasia,” he said softly, “it’s official. Verstappen is coming.”
Her hands paused above the keyboard. For one brief second, she didn’t breathe.
“His race engineer is joining him,” Toto added. “It was part of the deal. They’re a package.”
She nodded, too quickly. “That makes sense.”
It did. Strategically, logistically, technically—it made perfect sense. Gianpiero Lambiase was one of the best race engineers on the grid. Max trusted him implicitly. Bringing him to Mercedes would make the transition smoother.
It was good. Max without GP would be like destabilizing a molecule—something vital would unravel.
But that wasn’t the part Ana was struggling with.
Max was coming.
Not just to Brackley, but to her Brackley. Into the heart of everything she had built, into the calm order she relied on to keep herself stitched together. Into the glass corridors she walked at 2 a.m. when the world felt too loud. Into the silence where she had once been safe from wanting anything too much.
“There’s something else.”
She raised a brow.
“George,” Toto said. “Do you know what’s going on?”
Ana blinked. “With…?”
“He’s—” Toto exhaled through his nose. “There’s been a change. In the team. The way people respond to him. I can’t put my finger on it, but it’s not the same.”
Ana schooled her face into neutrality. “I hadn’t noticed.”
Which wasn’t entirely a lie. She’d noticed something, of course. The tension in the sim bay. The engineers’ hesitation. The way Kimi could walk into a room and everyone subconsciously leaned forward, while George walked in and they all leaned back.
But she didn’t know what caused it. Not in data terms. Not in ways she could chart or diagnose.
Toto studied her for a long moment. “If you hear anything—”
“I’ll tell you.”
Another silence passed.
Then, softly: “You’re okay with Max coming?”
Ana blinked again. Slowly. “It’s not my team, Papa. It’s yours.”
“It’s yours too.”
She didn’t answer.
He stood, pressing a hand briefly to her shoulder. “Keep an eye on the integrations. I’ll handle the politics.”
“I always do,” she murmured.
As soon as the door closed behind him, Ana sat down, folded her hands, and stared at the wall for a long time.
She should’ve said more.
She should’ve told him everything.
About Max. About the last decade. About the hotel rooms and the panic attacks and the reason her hands still shook when she wasn’t looking.
But she didn’t.
She never did.
Because if she started telling the truth, she didn’t know if she’d be able to stop.
***
PRIVATE CHAT — Secure channel
Andromeda 🛰️ is online
JadeQueen 👑 is online
Andromeda:
Can you do a light-background check on someone for me?
JadeQueen:
👀
Name and reason, Your Majesty.
Andromeda:
Gianpiero Lambiase.
Race engineer. Red Bull, currently.
Max asked if I could help his daughter apply to Bosworth.
Just want to make sure the guy’s legit.
JadeQueen:
Ooh. Soft domestic favour. Noted.
Gimme five.
JadeQueen:
Full name: Gianpiero Lambiase. Born 14 October 1980, London.
Fluent in Italian.
Graduated Imperial College London, Mechanical Engineering.
Started in F1 in early 2000s with Jordan, followed the team through all its forms—Midland, Spyker, Force India, etc.
Joined Red Bull full-time in 2015.
Race engineer to Max since 2016.
Drives a grey Audi A6 like a man with nothing to prove.
Andromeda:
Anything off?
JadeQueen:
Not unless you count being terrifyingly competent.
Oh, also—fun fact:
JadeQueen:
Prior to F1, Gianpiero was actually a drummer in a moderately successful indie band called Torperstate.
Runner-up in the MTV Unsigned Band Awards in 2003.
Andromeda:
…You’re lying.
JadeQueen:
Swear on my firewall.
There’s a video of them performing at some grimy bar in Bedford.
Leather wrist cuffs. Eyeliner.
It’s glorious.
Andromeda:
Why do you always find this kind of thing.
JadeQueen:
Because you find the code.
I find the chaos.
We make a good team.
JadeQueen:
Mobile: [REDACTED]
Email: [REDACTED]
Not sketchy. No red flags. No debts. No lawsuits. No crypto nonsense.
JadeQueen:
Verdict: Fully functional adult.
Cares about his kid.
Should be allowed within a 200m radius of Bosworth’s admissions office.
Andromeda:
Thank you.
JadeQueen:
Anytime.
Tell Max his race engineer had a rockstar phase.
You know. For bonding.
Andromeda 🛰️ is offline
Chat archived
***
Mercedes F1 HQ, Brackley, England - 22 July 2025
“So what do you know about Gianpiero Lambiase?”
The silence hit like a dropped wrench.
Valtteri paused mid-chew. Kimi blinked, once. Bono looked up very slowly from his salad, wariness etched across his face.
“Why?” Bono asked warily. “What’s he done?”
“Nothing,” Ana said, far too neutral. “Yet.”
Bono squinted. “You say that like you’re running a background check and not just… curious.”
Ana raised a brow. “You don’t find it odd that someone has stayed with Max Verstappen that long on purpose?”
Bono set his fork down. “GP’s loyal to Max. Not Red Bull. That’s the first thing you need to know. If Verstappen leaves, GP’s already packing his bags before the ink’s dry.”
Kimi blinked. “Not to the team?”
“Nope,” Bono said. “Red Bull could offer him a gold-plated simulator and a corner office. Wouldn’t matter. He’s not there for the logo. He’s there because Max trusts him, and he trusts Max. Full stop.”
Valtteri hummed. “That explains the contract structure. I remember hearing he renegotiated his terms directly after Max re-signed in 2023.”
Bono nodded. “Exactly. GP made it clear: if Max leaves, he’s gone. No debates.”
Ana finally looked up, blinking slowly. “And they let that happen?”
“They didn’t have a choice,” Bono said. “You can’t separate them. Max doesn’t want to race without him. You want Verstappen, you take Gianpiero too. Like a buy-one-get-one-free deal with a short fuse.”
Ana’s stylus tapped against her tablet, neat rhythmic beats. “Loyalty to a person over a system. Interesting.”
Kimi nodded approvingly. “Loyal. Italian. That’s enough for me.”
Bono smirked. “Well, he also likes mountain biking. Crazy about it. Does these insane solo trails in the Alps during off-seasons.”
Ana blinked once. “Huh. Apparently, he was also in a rock band.”
Kimi choked on his espresso. “What?!”
“Torperstate,” Ana said blandly. “Drummer. They were runners-up at the MTV Unsigned Band Awards in 2003.”
Bono’s eyes widened. “I did not know that.”
Ana gave the faintest shrug.
Kimi was still wheezing. “I want him on the team immediately.”
Valtteri chuckled. “You just want more Italians in the building.”
“Yes,” Kimi said, unbothered. “Good for morale.”
Bono pointed at her with his fork. “Jokes aside- That loyalty cuts both ways. He’ll die on a hill for Verstappen, but he’ll also go to war with anyone who screws him over. And he’s got a bit of an Italian temper when he’s pushed.”
Valtteri nodded. “I’ve seen him light up the pit wall. Calm ninety percent of the time, but when he snaps? It’s surgical. Doesn’t waste words. Just cuts straight through the bullshit and leaves everyone in the room re-evaluating their life choices.”
Kimi tilted his head. “So… like Ana?”
Ana didn’t even look up. “I don’t have a temper.”
Valtteri and Bono said, in perfect unison, “Yes, you do.”
Ana’s brow ticked. “I have standards. That’s different.”
Bono chuckled. “GP would agree with you. Man doesn’t raise his voice often, but when he does? You know it’s because the standard’s been broken.”
Ana finally looked up. “And Max listens?”
“Every time,” Bono said. “That’s the thing — it’s not just that GP tells him what to do. He tells him why. They trust each other enough that when one pushes, the other doesn’t see it as control. They see it as protection.”
Ana nodded once, quiet. Filed it away.
Kimi glanced between them. “You like him already.”
Ana didn’t respond. But the faintest twitch at the corner of her mouth gave her away.
Valtteri leaned back. “There’s a reason Verstappen never shuffled through engineers the way some drivers do. He found the one person who could both match him and manage him, and then he built everything around that.”
Valtteri arched a brow. “You want to know if he’ll follow Max to Mercedes.”
Ana didn’t answer. Which, in Ana-speak, meant yes.
Bono sighed. “If Max signs, GP’s coming too. Everyone knows it. They work like a matched pair.”
“And you’re okay with that?” Ana asked, tilting her head.
Bono shrugged. “I’m not afraid of competent people.” Then, after a beat: “Though I am going to need to see that band footage.”
***
Text Messages: Unknown Number & Gianpiero Lambiase
UNKNOWN
Good afternoon, Mr. Lambiase.
I’ve spoken with the Head of Sixth Form at Bosworth.
Francesca’s application will be fast-tracked once submitted.
I’d recommend referencing her coding awards and the robotics project she did last spring. They’re very keen on STEM excellence this year.
You’ll receive an email by next Monday.
GP:
…Sorry—
Who is this?
UNKNOWN
I also told them she plays violin, by the way.
You’re welcome.
GP:
I’m going to need a name before I start spiraling about school board corruption and secret MI6 handlers.
UNKNOWN
Dr. Anastasia Wolff.
GP:
Jesus CHRIST
You nearly gave me a heart attack
I thought Max had roped in some royal godparent I didn’t know about
Ana:
Max asked if I still had sway with the school board. I sit on the alumni board.
Francesca will thrive at Bosworth.
I made sure of it.
And before you try to argue—don’t.
It’s done. Consider it a professional courtesy.
GP:
You’re scarily efficient
Ana:
I’m a Wolff. It’s genetic.
GP:
Thank you. Really.
She’s going to lose her mind when she hears.
Ana:
Just make sure she knows she earned it.
I’m just… background noise. With access.
Chapter 17: Chapter 15: Brackley
Chapter Text
Text Messages: Gianpiero Lambiase & Max Verstappen
GP:
Did you give her my phone number?!
Max:
Who?
Wait.
Oh.
She texted you already?
GP:
Already??
She called the
Head of Sixth Form
, she got Francesca’s application fast-tracked, and she
knew about the robotics project
from last spring.
Also?
SHE KNEW FRANCESCA PLAYS VIOLIN.
This woman is terrifying.
Max:
Nah, I didn’t give her your number.
She probably ran a background check on you.
You’re in her system now.
There’s no escape.
GP:
Jesus.
Max:
You asked for help.
You didn’t specify a level of intensity.
And Ana only operates at “global infrastructure rewire” speed.
GP:
She signed off with “consider it a professional courtesy.”
Is this what it’s like being friends with her?
Max:
Yup.
Efficient.
Occasionally feels like being on the receiving end of a military-grade satellite strike.
But it gets results.
GP:
She fast-tracked the application.
Before I even finished filling out the parent portal.
How?!
How does she do that?
Max:
She's Ana.
She gets things done
before
you realise you needed them done.
GP:
Did you tell her I was stressed about the school?
Max:
I mentioned it.
She volunteered to help.
Then said "I sit on the alumni board. I am the pull."
Direct quote.
GP:
Mate.
You didn’t tell me you were dating a Bond villain.
Max:
She’s not a villain.
She just knows how the system works.
And how to bend it into origami.
GP:
Francesca is going to scream when she finds out.
Max:
Just make sure she knows she earned it.
Ana will say the same.
GP:
…
I don’t know whether to be grateful or terrified.
Max:
Both is good.
***
Text Messages: Dr. Anastasia “Ana” Wolff & Max Verstappen
Max:
So.
You
did
help.
Ana:
I said I would.
Max:
Yeah, but I thought “help” meant like…
forwarding a link.
Not calling the Head of Sixth Form, pulling alumni strings, and casually slipping in violin trivia.
Ana:
She
does
play violin.
It’s relevant.
Bosworth values multi-disciplinary applicants.
Max:
You terrify me.
In a weirdly comforting way.
Ana:
That’s a contradiction in terms.
Max:
So are you.
And I mean that in the nicest, most "you’re incredible and I have no idea how your brain works but I love it" way.
Ana:
You’re deflecting with flattery.
Max:
Because I’m grateful.
Because you
didn’t
have to do it.
Because GP’s basically short-circuiting from how fast you pulled that off.
And because Francesca is going to lose her mind in the best way.
Ana:
She deserves it.
Bosworth will be lucky to have her.
Max:
You’re really bad at taking compliments, huh?
Ana:
I prefer data over emotion.
Max:
Okay then.
Data point: You helped.
Data point: You cared.
Data point: That means a lot.
Even if you won’t admit it.
Ana:
Noted.
Max:
Thank you, Nastya.
You’re the best part of my evil master plan.
Ana:
You don’t
have
a master plan.
Max:
Sure I do.
It’s just mostly built around you.
***
Mercedes F1 HQ, Brackley, England - 22 July 2025
Toto hadn’t meant to linger on the simulator floor.
He’d come down to check on the updates for Zandvoort package and sign off on a few resource reallocation requests. But instead, he found himself hovering by the observation deck above the sim bay, arms folded, eyes fixed on the quiet rhythm of the engineers at work.
Below, Kimi Antonelli was climbing out of the simulator pod, helmet off, curls damp with sweat. He moved with that casual confidence of someone who didn’t quite realize the weight of the world was shifting to make room for him.
A prodigy. A risk. A possibility.
Toto didn’t like making decisions this early. But 2026 wasn’t that far away. And Max Verstappen was going to sign.
That changed everything.
He turned without looking and murmured, “Peter.”
Bono didn’t even flinch. He’d been standing just behind him, sipping a now-cold coffee and watching the same session unfold.
“Boss,” Bono said, voice even.
Toto’s eyes stayed on the garage floor. “How do you think he’s doing?”
There was a beat. “Which ‘he’?”
Toto exhaled. He should’ve known Bono would catch that. “Kimi.”
Bono shifted, leaning casually against the railing. “He’s a monster in low-speed corners. Still working on tire management over longer stints, but his adaptability is off the charts. Every session, he learns something and applies it immediately. You don’t have to repeat yourself with him. He stores everything.”
Toto nodded once.
“And George?” he asked, more carefully.
Bono didn’t answer right away.
That told Toto enough.
“He’s… fine,” Bono said eventually. “Still a good driver. Still fast. But he’s rattled.”
“Because of Max?”
“Because of everything ,” Bono replied. “He’s not dumb. He knows the wind is shifting. Kimi’s coming up strong, and now Max is walking through the front door. It’s hard not to do the math.”
Toto’s jaw ticked.
“We brought George in to build with us. He’s part of this team. I don’t want to throw him aside.”
“And I don’t think he thinks you will,” Bono said. “But he knows what it means when Verstappen signs with a team. He becomes the gravity well. Everyone else either adapts or gets flung off course.”
Toto stayed quiet.
“And George,” Bono continued, “he’s been… trying. But it’s not the kind of trying that helps. He’s in his own head. The feedback is overcomplicated. He second-guesses the car, second-guesses his instincts. And he’s trying to adjust the setup to fight Altair instead of listening to it.”
Altair. The new upgrade. Ana’s code.
Toto frowned. “And Kimi?”
“Listens,” Bono said simply. “Doesn’t try to wrangle the car into doing what he wants. He lets it speak and learns the language.”
Toto was already weighing futures in his head. Max would want someone who wouldn’t get in his way, who wouldn’t try to edge him out in politics or narrative. George wanted to be number one. Kimi just wanted to drive.
“Gut feeling?” Toto asked. “If you had to pair one of them with Max.”
Bono didn’t hesitate.
“Kimi,” he said. “No ego. No baggage. He’ll learn from Max without resenting him. And Max—he respects talent. Especially quiet, sharp talent. You would get a partnership. If you are lucky…you could get a mentorship.”
Toto nodded, eyes drifting back to the sim floor.
Max Verstappen was a once-in-a-generation decision.
And so was this.
***
Wolff Residence, Monaco - 22 July 2025
Toto had stared at the same three words for twenty minutes.
Driver lineup pending.
The email from the board sat open on his laptop, clean and clinical. Numbers and projections, sponsor demands and budget forecasts all neatly attached in PDFs. There was nothing emotional in it. No weight in the words. But Toto felt it. In his bones.
George or Kimi.
He’d asked Ana the question almost idly, half expecting her to hedge. She didn’t. She’d said Max and Kimi like she’d been carrying the answer for months.
Now, in the quiet of his office, he turned the words over and over.
Max and Kimi.
Susie found him like that — hands steepled under his chin, laptop glowing in the dim.
“You’re brooding,” she said lightly, stepping into the room.
“I’m deciding,” he corrected, though his voice didn’t sound as firm as usual.
She glanced at the laptop. “Lineup?”
He nodded once.
Susie leaned against the desk, crossing her arms. “You already know what you’re going to do.”
Toto exhaled slowly. “Do I?”
“Yes.” Her tone was maddeningly certain.
He leaned back, rubbed at his temple. “George has been loyal. He knows the team. He knows the factory. He’s consistent.”
“And Kimi?”
“Kimi is…” Toto hesitated, searching. “Raw. Instinctive. Altair woke something in him. And Max respects him. That’s… rare.”
Susie studied him for a moment, but Toto kept going — almost talking to himself now.
“There’s something else,” he admitted. “I can feel it in Brackley. People like George, but they… lean toward Kimi. He hasn’t been here long, but the mood shifts when he’s in the building. Less guarded. More—”
“Hopeful?” Susie supplied.
“Yes.” He frowned. “It’s not about popularity. But the way a team feels about a driver… it matters more than most admit. Brackley lights up when Kimi is around. Like they did for Lewis.”
Susie’s mouth curved faintly. “Sounds like you’ve already decided.”
Toto gave a humorless laugh. “And you’re not afraid of letting go of stability?”
“Of course I am,” she said. “But sometimes stability is just… inertia dressed nicely.”
That landed heavier than he expected.
Susie moved closer, her voice softening. “Ana told you Kimi and Max, didn’t she?”
Toto looked up sharply. “How do you know that?”
“Because I know her,” Susie said simply. “And because she’s right.”
Toto exhaled through his nose, leaning back in his chair. “She’s very sure.”
“She’s usually sure about the things that matter.”
He stared at the laptop again. George or Kimi. Familiar or future.
Susie touched his shoulder. “You asked for my opinion?”
“Yes.”
“Then listen to your daughter.”
He huffed out a small laugh. “You’re both ganging up on me now?”
“Not ganging up,” Susie said, smiling faintly. “Just… reminding you. You don’t build a new era by clinging to the old one.”
Toto looked at the email again. The cursor blinked in the reply box.
He thought of Anastasia’s voice, calm and unflinching: Max and Kimi. Cleanest long-term bet.
He thought of Brackley’s quiet shift in tone whenever Kimi walked in the room.
He thought of George, competent and consistent—and of Max, the kind of driver who needed someone unshaped, unafraid to learn beside him instead of against him.
Susie’s hand squeezed his shoulder once, grounding.
“Future or safety, Toto,” she said quietly. “Which one wins you championships?”
Toto closed his eyes. Then typed two words.
***
Wolff Residence, Monaco - 22 July 2025
Susie closed Toto’s office door behind her, the faint click sounding louder than it should in the quiet corridor.
He’d looked tired — not just I’ve been in meetings all day tired, but the kind of tired that sat in the shoulders and behind the eyes. It wasn’t only the driver lineup weighing on him. There was something else under the surface, though he hadn’t said it aloud.
She started toward her own office, mind turning over the conversation.
Max and Kimi. The shift in Brackley’s mood. The unspoken undercurrent around George.
Her steps slowed.
Something tugged at the edge of her memory — a different conversation, months ago. The buzzing of her phone on her desk, Valtteri’s name flashing. A “hypothetical” that hadn’t been hypothetical at all.
hypothetically
if someone in the team kept giving your daughter unsolicited advice on how to be more likeable
like. warmer. more “human”.
and also hypothetically had a history of this sort of behavior
what would you do
Now, standing in the corridor, she felt the weight of that exchange settle differently.
At the time, she’d left it there. Quiet observation. She hadn’t pushed for a name then — partly out of trust, partly because Valtteri had been careful not to hand her something explosive without warning.
But now… she was fairly certain the hypothetical wasn’t hypothetical at all.
Her stomach sank.
One and one made two.
And if she was right about who Valtteri had been talking about, then the board’s looming decision wasn’t the only problem her husband was about to have on his desk.
And if George Russell had indeed decided to make her daughter into a project, she was going to have to step in before Toto put two and two together. Because if he did?
It wouldn’t be cookies Kimi was getting. It would be front-row seats to a controlled detonation in the Mercedes motorhome.
***
Text Messages: Valterri Bottas & Susie Wolff
Susie:
I’m going to skip the pleasantries.
Was it George?
Valtteri:
…yes.
Susie:
Jesus Christ.
I gave him the benefit of the doubt.
Valtteri:
Yeah, well.
Benefit revoked, probably.
Susie:
Probably?
Valtteri:
I don’t think it’s
just
the “be warmer” nonsense.
I think it’s flirting.
Bad flirting.
Weird, entitled, “let me fix you” flirting.
Like he’s decided she’d be perfect if she were less… her.
Susie:
Ana wouldn’t even recognise it as flirting.
Valtteri:
I know.
She probably thinks he’s doing some weird social experiment.
Meanwhile he’s making himself look like an idiot in front of half of Brackley.
Susie:
Half of Brackley?
Valtteri:
Yeah.
Especially since she literally coded Altair to
sing
for Kimi’s driving style…
and the system
will not
run properly for George.
I’m pretty sure it loathes him.
Refuses half his inputs. Kimi calls it “the personality clash.”
Susie:
That’s not a personality clash, that’s my daughter writing passive-aggressive code.
Valtteri:
…exactly.
She’s already decided she doesn’t like him.
She just hasn’t realised it’s because of
this
.
Susie:
She will.
And when she does, I’ll make sure she never has to sit through another one of his “helpful suggestions” again.
Valtteri:
Ana will never say anything, but it’s not going away.
Susie:
Thank you for confirming.
Now excuse me while I find a diplomatic way to ensure George Russell never speaks to my daughter again.
***
Group Chat: “TEAM 33”
(Members: Max Verstappen, Jos Verstappen, Raymond Vermeulen)
Raymond:
It’s done.
Mercedes contract is finalized.
Just needs your signature.
Jos:
About time.
How soon can you sign?
Max:
Well…
I’m in Belgium already.
Raymond:
And?
Max:
We can do it tomorrow.
Nice and simple.
Jos:
Tomorrow??
You’re this calm about changing teams?
Max:
Yeah.
Decision’s made.
No point dragging it out.
***
Text Messages: Toto Wolff & Max Verstappen
Max:
You got any plans tomorrow?
Toto:
…Max.
We are
literally
one day away from Media Day for the Belgian GP.
I have about eighteen plans tomorrow. Why?
Max:
Because we’ll all be in Belgium anyway.
Toto:
…Yes?
Max:
And I’d rather not have this leak before we want it to.
You and I both know it will the second I sign.
Toto:
…You’re telling me you want to do this
tomorrow
?
Max:
Better than doing it after someone’s already sold the story to the press.
Toto:
You do realize my comms department is going to have a collective aneurysm.
Max:
Then you should probably warn them tonight.
Toto:
You’re impossible.
Max:
And yet here we are.
10 a.m.?
Toto:
Fine.
10 a.m.
***
Susie found Toto in the kitchen, phone face-down on the counter, coffee cooling beside him.
He didn’t look up as she stepped in, just reached for the mug like the caffeine might finish whatever conversation he’d just had.
“I’m going to Belgium early,” he said finally.
Susie arched a brow. “Early as in…?”
“Today.”
“That is early,” she said, leaning against the counter. “What’s the rush?”
Toto hesitated—just long enough for her to know it wasn’t logistics. “Max wants to sign. Before Media Day.”
She blinked. “Today?”
He nodded once. “His logic is… not flawed. Better to do it before anyone has the chance to leak it.”
Susie felt her lips curve despite herself. “So that’s it, then. He’s ours.”
Toto’s mouth twitched like he was trying not to make it a smile. “Almost. The papers will be signed in Belgium. We’ll announce soon after. We’ll need to get comms aligned, brief sponsors, prepare the internal rollout…” He trailed off, already mentally moving through a checklist.
Susie sipped her tea. “I assume the comms department loves you for this.”
His mouth curved wryly. “They’ll survive.”
She didn’t doubt it. Toto could throw a grenade into the middle of a PR schedule and still have people thanking him for the shrapnel.
But as he moved on to muttering about legal paperwork, Susie’s thoughts drifted elsewhere—back to the text from Valtteri, the Finnish “hypothetical” that wasn’t hypothetical at all. Back to the little knot of cold anger she’d been carrying ever since he’d confirmed that, yes, it was George giving Ana those backhanded “be more human” comments.
She hadn’t told Toto.
George.
George and Ana.
Or, more specifically, George and whatever strange blend of unsolicited “advice,” personality adjustments, and faintly patronising commentary he’d decided Ana needed. Valtteri’s warning replayed in her head in that blunt Finnish cadence: I think it’s flirting.
She didn’t want to believe it. Not fully. George didn’t seem suicidal. But she did believe he was trying to change Ana—polish the steel, sand down the edges. Which meant he didn’t understand her at all.
Toto would understand. And then he’d detonate.
Which was exactly why she wasn’t telling him. Not now. Not during a race weekend. And especially not during this race weekend, where Max’s signing would be the axis everything turned on.
No—Belgium was for Max. For the announcement, the media circus, the start of whatever future Toto had decided on. The George problem could wait until after the champagne had gone flat and the headlines had cooled.
And Ana… Ana didn’t seem to realize George was flirting, let alone undermining her. She’d just shrug it off and keep working, oblivious to the fact that Brackley had clearly started favouring Kimi over him.
No, Susie decided, setting her cup down. The George conversation could wait.
Max Verstappen was signing with Mercedes today. That was a storm she was willing to walk into. The other one? She’d keep that powder dry—at least until the ink was dry on the contract and the champagne had been drunk.
One war at a time.
***
Text Messages: Dr. Anastasia “Ana” Wolff & Susie Wolff
Susie:
Hey you.
Just checking in.
Ana:
On… what?
Susie:
On
you
.
How you’re doing.
Life, work, etc.
Ana:
Is something wrong?
Susie:
No?
Do I need a reason to check on you?
Ana:
…Historically, yes.
Susie:
🙄
Humour me.
How are you?
Ana:
I’m… fine.
Work’s fine. The office hasn’t burned down.
Susie:
That’s not the same thing as
you
being fine.
Ana:
It’s in the same category.
Adjacent, at least.
Susie:
Anastasia.
Ana:
…
Okay.
I’m fine-ish.
Mostly tired.
Working a lot.
Kimi’s learning fast.
Susie:
There we go.
Progress.
Ana:
Is this about something?
Susie:
It’s about me wanting to know if you are okay.
Ana:
…
Weird.
But… noted.
Susie:
Weird in a bad way?
Ana:
No.
Weird in a… nice way.
Susie:
Good.
I’ll keep being weird, then.
Ana:
You do that.
…Thanks, Susie.
Susie:
Anytime.
***
A Hotel Room, Spa, Belgium - 22 July 2025
The contract was thick—more pages than a season calendar and heavier than it should be for something made of paper. It's spread out across the long conference table in a high-end hotel suite just outside Spa, where the rain is already tapping against the windows like it wants to be let in on the moment.
Max Emilian Verstappen – Mercedes AMG Petronas F1 Team Driver.
It feels surreal.
Not because he doubts the decision. He’s done doubting. He knows the car is right, the project is right, the team is building something worth stepping into. But still—after everything he’s built, after all the blood and championship points and headlines—it feels like closing a chapter written in Red Bull blue.
And opening one in silver.
Toto is here, tall and watchful at the far end of the table. Mercedes legal is here too, alongside Raymond, Max’s lawyer, and one of the marketing guys who keeps smiling like they’ve already won a world title. There’s champagne sweating in a bucket in the corner, untouched. Premature. The air’s too still for celebration.
Max doesn’t speak much.
He reads every page carefully, pen resting in his hand like a loaded weapon. He’s not nervous—just aware. Aware that this is the biggest move he’s made in years.
Not because it’s Mercedes. Not because it’s leaving Red Bull.
Because of her.
Ana.
Toto’s daughter.
Toto, who has no idea that the man he’s about to sign to a multi-year deal has been in love with his daughter for the better part of a decade.
That he’s been in her bed, in the soft, hidden parts of her life. That every time Toto says “family,” Max has to keep a straight face and pretend he doesn’t already know exactly how Ana takes her coffee.
He signs the first page. Then another. Page five. Page thirteen. Final clause.
Somewhere between legal binding obligation and power unit commitment, he thinks about the ring.
It’s in a little velvet box buried deep in his Monaco apartment. Tucked behind a trophy shelf he hasn’t dusted in a year.
He bought the ring four years ago. Platinum band. No frills. Elegant. Strong. Her .
He’s never opened the box since.
Not because he doubted her. But because Ana Wolff is a fortress. All steel edges and fireproof walls. She’d built a life out of keeping people out, of never needing anyone enough to be left disappointed.
And Max?
Max has spent the last decade quietly waiting at the gates.
There were moments—long nights in hotel rooms, kisses that felt too much like promises, silences that said more than either of them could bear to speak—where he thought maybe. Maybe she’d let him in. Maybe she’d admit what he already knew:
She loved him. Just didn’t know how to live in it yet.
Now he was signing with her team. With her family . He’s crossing that line between personal and professional with a full sprint.
He was not afraid.
Max picked up the pen. Signed the contract.
Bold stroke. No hesitation.
Toto leans forward to shake his hand, businesslike and solid. Max meets his eyes and wonders what he’d say—what he’d do —if he knew.
It’s done. It’s real. He’s a Mercedes driver.
Her driver , now.
And maybe—just maybe—someday soon, he’ll open that ring box again.
And this time, she won’t run.
***
Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Dr. Anastasia “Ana” Wolff
Max:
I signed.
Ana:
…
Max:
That’s all I get?
Three dots?
Ana:
I’m processing.
Max:
You already knew it was happening.
Ana:
Yes, well. Seeing it on paper is somehow different from knowing it’s real.
Max:
It is real.
I’m coming.
Silver arrows and all.
Ana:
I know.
Max:
Nastya.
Ana:
You’ve just set fire to everything you built at Red Bull.
For a team that might not be ready.
For a power unit we haven’t fully tested under live conditions.
For a political environment that eats drivers alive.
Max:
Did you miss the part where I did it for
you
, too?
Ana:
Max—
Max:
I’m not asking for a speech.
Or a parade.
But I thought maybe you’d say
something.
Ana:
I don’t know what to say.
Max:
Try: “I’m glad you’re coming.”
Or: “I want you here.”
Or even: “I’m terrified but I’ll be in your garage every weekend anyway.”
Ana:
I’m not good at this.
Max:
I know.
But I’m still coming.
Ana:
Congratulations, Max.
***
The Townhouse, Brackley, England - 22 July 2025
The stars usually helped.
Ana’s always loved this part of the house—the quiet little patch of garden tucked behind the hedges, the one with the bench she built because she needed something real to hammer together when simulation results stopped making sense. She was sitting on that bench now, knees drawn up under one of Max’s old hoodies, staring at the sky like it might offer answers.
It didn’t.
It never did. But most nights, it at least quiets the noise.
Not tonight.
Max signed the contract.
Max —the man she’s spent a decade pretending not to be in love with, the one she’s kissed behind closed doors and argued with in half-whispers and mapped telemetry for like it was a second language. The man she’s always kept at a safe enough distance that nobody, not even herself, could accuse her of wanting too much.
And now he’s going to be a Mercedes driver.
Her driver.
She should be thrilled. Proud, even. He was the best on the grid—statistically, intuitively, ruthlessly brilliant. He’ll win races. He’ll push the team. He’ll sharpen the entire programme just by being there.
And she’ll have to watch him walk into that garage every weekend, wearing silver, with her father’s name on his jacket.
She digs her fingers into the sleeve of the hoodie. Her breath catches in her throat.
Because it’s not just that Max is coming.
It’s that he’s coming for her.
He didn’t need to leave Red Bull. He didn’t need to blow up everything stable just to come stand beside her in the pit lane.
But he did.
And now Ana didn’t know who she was without the distance.
She stared up at the stars, trying to count them. She always did that when her mind spiralled. One. Two. Fourteen. Twenty-seven. But the numbers get blurry because her chest is tight and her heart won’t settle.
How was she supposed to stay objective? How was she supposed to lead engine integration meetings and strategy briefings and power unit development reviews when Max was in the room—smiling at her like she’s home?
She pressed her forehead to her knees.
He signed the contract.
He was really coming.
And for the first time in years, the stars didn’t calm her.
They feel too close.
Too bright.
Like someone’s rearranged the entire sky—and all she could do was watch it fall.
Chapter 18: Chapter 16: Francorchamps
Chapter Text
Text Messages: Toto Wolff & Dr. Anastasia Wolff
Toto:
As promised — keeping you updated.
Max signed. Press release will go out later today.
We’ll manage the timing so it doesn’t overshadow Spa media day entirely.
Ana:
Thank you for letting me know.
Toto:
It’s a courtesy.
And a promise.
Ana:
Still. I appreciate it.
***
Wolff Residence, Monaco - 23 July 2025
The next morning, Susie sat in their kitchen, scrolling through her phone with the kind of detached precision that masked the fact she wasn’t really reading anything.
She was still furious.
She’d kept her calm when Valtteri had confirmed it—when he’d written, with that maddening understatement of his, I think it’s flirting. But the calm was a veneer. Beneath it, she was still simmering.
Susie could play it off well—thirty years in motorsport taught you how to smile with clenched teeth—but the memory of Valtteri’s text exchange was still raw under her skin.
George Russell.
George bloody Russell, with his polite PR smile and corporate-safe manners, deciding that what Ana needed was to be more likeable . “Warmer.” “More human.”
As though she hadn’t already been balancing an entire car programme, two drivers’ worth of egos, and an engineering department twice the size of some small villages.
As though she hadn’t coded Altair herself to fit Kimi’s driving style with surgical precision—only for it to actively spit telemetry errors when George sat in it.
The audacity of it.
The sheer, blithe arrogance it took to look at Ana—Ana, who had spent her entire life learning to exist on her own terms—and decide she needed “softening.” That she needed to be more likeable , as if her worth could be measured in how many people felt comfortable in her presence.
Ana didn’t need George Russell’s guidance on how to be more likeable. She didn’t need anyone’s guidance on that. People either understood her or they didn’t. If they didn’t, that was on them, not her.
What George didn’t understand—and what infuriated Susie—was that Ana already bent herself into uncomfortable shapes just to survive in the paddock. She had learned, over years, to smooth her sharper edges, to mask the sensory strain, to calculate her words so she didn’t come off as too blunt or too cold. That she managed all of this without ever compromising her work was nothing short of remarkable. And yet, people still wanted her to smile more. Speak softer. Take up less space.
And still—still—people wanted to make her “more approachable.”
Susie knew exactly how that brand of “advice” worked. Death by a thousand paper cuts. Smile more. Speak less sharply. Be easier.
It was the kind of thing Ana had heard her whole life from people who dressed it up as concern but meant control.
Susie would be the first to admit she was biased, but she thought her daughter deserved better.
Her daughter.
Not biologically—Ana had come into her life already half-grown, wary and watchful like a stray cat that didn’t trust easily. But Susie had taken one look at those steel edges and thought, Good. The world was sharp. Better to meet it with armour.
Susie had been there for enough milestones and scars to know exactly whose Ana was. She was theirs .
Susie’s as much as Toto’s.
Biology was irrelevant in Susie’s mind. She hadn’t been there for Ana’s first steps or first words, but she’d been there for almost everything that mattered since Ana was 13. Graduation. First degree. Doctorate. First time she saw Ana light up over her own project instead of someone else’s.
Ana wasn’t Susie’s on paper, but she was hers in every way that counted.
Susie had never had a daughter by blood. But somewhere along the way — between awkward teenage dinners, sleepless exam nights, the fierce arguments and fiercer silences — Ana had become hers. Not in a way that erased history, but in a way that rewrote the future.
Ana was hers every bit as much as Jack was. Her blood didn’t matter.
The way she looked at Ana, the way she worried about her, the way she found herself half-ready to fight anyone who made her feel small—that was motherhood, whatever the genetics said.
And some people had made her feel very, very small.
Stephanie, with her backhanded compliments and well-timed silences, who had never had any interest in treating Ana like a part of her family.
There was a part of Susie that loathed her husband’s first wife just because of how she had treated Ana through the years.
Ana’s existence was best treated as a flaw to be ignored in Stephanie’s mind, and it made Susie furious.
Then there were Rosa and Benedict. Yes, they’d grown up under Stephanie’s influence, which might explain their childhood indifference. But adulthood was a choice, and they had chosen to remain politely distant, as though Ana were an occasional guest rather than their sister.
They’d had the choice to be something to Ana. They hadn’t.
The way they could sit at a table and act as though Ana was nothing more than furniture still made Susie’s jaw tighten.
All of them had taught Ana — intentionally or not — that she was too much and not enough all at once.
Susie had spent years trying to undo that damage in small, quiet ways. A seat at the table that was hers by right. Invitations without conditions. Pride stated plainly.
She didn’t like to think of herself as someone who held grudges, but some things were worth holding on to.
And yet, Ana never complained. She just… adapted. Built her own scaffolding out of work and precision and independence, until the neglect barely showed from the outside.
Susie had kept her mouth shut for years. Watched Ana navigate those relationships with surgical precision, cutting ties where necessary, tolerating the rest with that icy politeness she’d perfected.
She didn’t need Susie to fight her battles. But that didn’t stop Susie from wanting to.
And then— then —there was her .
Ana’s biological mother.
God, how Susie hated that woman.
It wasn’t the cool, distanced dislike Susie had for Stephanie—the kind born from years of watching someone chip away at Ana with polite disregard.
No.
With Ana’s biological mother, it was a bone-deep, primal hatred.
Susie hated her in a way she hated very few people.
Susie still remembered the first time she’d heard the story.
Ana had been eight years old when her mother had sent her to a father she didn’t know, to a country whose language she didn’t speak, and left her at Toto’s doorstep like unwanted luggage.
No explanation. No transition. No effort to make sure Ana was safe, secure, or understood what was happening.
Just gone.
How anyone could do that to a child—how anyone could take a little girl’s world, shatter it, and then walk away without looking back—was something Susie would never comprehend.
Or forgive.
How could you walk away from your own child like that? Not because you couldn’t feed her. Not because you couldn’t keep her safe. But because you simply didn’t want to anymore . Because you’d decided she was too much trouble.
After that, Ana’s mother hadn’t tried. There were birthday cards for a while, stilted phone calls that were more awkward than affectionate. Then even those stopped. She’d vanished into new marriages, new cities, new lives—always chasing something else, never her daughter.
Toto never stopped keeping tabs on her—quietly, through a private investigator he trusted implicitly. The reports came in every few months, clean and factual. Where she was, what she was doing, on which number of husband she was on now…
It wasn’t paranoia—it was protection. He never admitted it outright, but Susie had seen the reports, read between the lines.
Ana didn’t know. Or if she did, she’d never acknowledged it.
Susie suspected that was one of the places where she and Toto were in perfect agreement: neither of them wanted that woman anywhere near Ana ever again.
Not since her mother had stopped even pretending Ana existed. After even the birthday cards had stopped.
Toto protected with structures, strategies, contingencies. Susie? She protected with presence. With making sure Ana knew someone was in her corner without trying to change her into something more palatable.
Toto couldn’t know yet. Not before Belgium. Not before Max signed and the entire sport shifted under their feet.
Susie might not have given birth to Ana Wolff. But she’d be damned if she didn’t protect her like she had.
Belgium first, she reminded herself.
Handle George later. And if that woman ever tried to step back in?
Susie would handle that too. Permanently.
***
PRIVATE CHAT — Secure channel
Andromeda 🛰️ is online
JadeQueen 👑 is online
Andromeda:
Max signed.
JadeQueen:
…as in
the
contract?
Silver paint, black overalls, your father’s new headache?
Andromeda:
Yes.
It’s official.
JadeQueen:
And you’re freaking out.
Andromeda:
I’m not
freaking out
.
I’m… aware.
JadeQueen:
You texted me. That’s your version of hyperventilating into a paper bag.
Andromeda:
I just—
It’s different, X.
When it was hypothetical, it was easy to compartmentalise.
Now it’s real. He’s going to be here. Every weekend. In my orbit. In my
family’s
orbit.
JadeQueen:
And?
Andromeda:
And I don’t know what that changes.
I don’t know if I’m ready for whatever that means.
JadeQueen:
Annie. He’s been in your orbit for a decade.
The only thing changing is that now you won’t have to hide behind hotel corridors and conveniently “bumping into each other” at airports.
Andromeda:
That’s exactly what worries me.
I’m not good at the rest of it.
I don’t… function the way people expect.
What if I ruin it?
JadeQueen:
You’re looking for reasons to bolt.
Andromeda:
I’m being realistic.
JadeQueen:
No, you’re running again.
And one day, you’re going to turn around and find he’s not behind you anymore.
Andromeda:
…
JadeQueen:
He’s waited for you longer than most people would. But he’s still human.
And if you keep making him wait, Ana, the day might come where you’re ready and he’s
gone
.
Andromeda:
You think I don’t know that?
JadeQueen:
I think you know it and it terrifies you. Which is why you need to decide if you’re going to keep living behind that fortress of yours…
Or actually let him in before the gates rust shut.
Andromeda 🛰️ is offline
Chat archived
***
Email Subject: Thank you
From: Max Verstappen <[email protected]>
To: All Red Bull Staff
Hi everyone,
I wanted to share this with you directly before you read it anywhere else.
At the end of the 2025 season, I will be leaving Oracle Red Bull Racing. This is not a decision I made lightly. It has been the most difficult choice of my career, and I have thought about it for a long time.
For the past nine seasons, Red Bull has been my home. Together we’ve taken part in nearly 200 Grands Prix, fought through highs and lows, and achieved something incredible — four World Drivers’ Championships and two Constructors’ Championships. Those numbers will always be part of the record books, but what I will carry with me most are the people behind them.
From my first days in the garage as a teenager, you’ve believed in me. You’ve built cars that allowed me to fight at the front, and you’ve stood beside me through every battle. You’ve celebrated the wins and carried me through the hard weekends. More than that, you’ve made this a team I’ve been proud to call my family.
There are too many individuals to thank by name, but you all know who you are — the mechanics who gave me a car I could trust, the engineers who pushed the limits every season, the staff in Milton Keynes who worked tirelessly behind the scenes, and everyone who made sure we could go racing at the level we have.
I’m proud of what we’ve achieved together. I’m proud of the standard we set and the way we’ve pushed each other to be better, year after year. And I’m grateful – for the trust, the belief, and the hard work that made it all possible.
For the rest of 2025, my focus remains on delivering the best results possible for Red Bull. I want to finish this chapter as strongly as we can, together.
Thank you for nine incredible seasons.
Max
***
Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Gianpiero Lambiase
GP:
Well. That was quick.
Max:
…?
GP:
Your email’s been public for less than five minutes.
I’m already on gardening leave.
No official notice. No handover.
Just “don’t come back to the factory.”
Max:
You’re surprised?
GP:
No.
But I thought I might at least get to finish my coffee before they changed my access codes.
Max:
You’re free now. Think of it as an early holiday.
GP:
I hate holidays.
Max:
Then think of it as an early start at Mercedes.
So. Gardening leave. Any plans?
GP:
Buy a better coffee machine.
Sleep.
Pack.
And start planning how we’re going to win in silver.
Max:
That’s the spirit.
GP:
Just don’t make me sit through any “team bonding” exercises.
***
Email Subject: Announcement: Max Verstappen Joins Mercedes-AMG Petronas Formula One Team
From:
Toto Wolff <[email protected]>
To:
All Mercedes AMG PETRONAS F1 Staff
Dear All,
I am pleased to share some exciting news for our team’s future.
As of the 2026 season, Max Verstappen will be joining the Mercedes-AMG Petronas Formula One Team as one of our drivers.
Max’s record speaks for itself: a four-time Formula One World Champion, a competitor whose consistency, adaptability, and relentless drive have set new benchmarks in our industry and has amassed nearly a decade of experience in Formula One, competing in nearly 200 Grands Prix. His proven racecraft, relentless drive for excellence, and uncompromising commitment to performance make him a natural fit for the future we are building at Mercedes.
This is a significant moment for our team. We are entering a new regulatory era in 2026, and our goal remains unchanged: to compete at the very highest level, fight for race wins, and bring championships back to Brackley and Brixworth. This decision reflects not only our commitment to building a competitive and forward-looking programme, but also our confidence in pairing exceptional talent with the world-class capabilities of our team in Brackley and Brixworth.
I would like to thank everyone across our organisation for your continued hard work, passion, and belief in what we are building. This announcement is the product of not only months of planning, but also years of commitment from every one of you — both at the track and behind the scenes.
Please join me in welcoming Max to the Mercedes family. We will work closely with him through the remainder of this year to prepare for a smooth and successful transition.
I am confident that together, we will write an exciting new chapter in our team’s history.
Kind regards,
Toto Wolff
Team Principal & CEO
Mercedes-AMG Petronas Formula One Team
***
Slack Channel: #brackley-nerds
Private Channel. ~30 members.
jess.hr:
HAS EVERYONE CHECKED THEIR EMAIL
ellie.electronics:
WHAT EMAIL??
jess.hr:
THE ONE FROM TOTO
OPEN IT RIGHT NOW
zahra.aero:
omg
OMGGGGGGGG
jess.hr:
MAX. VERSTAPPEN. SIGNED.
WITH US.
THIS IS NOT A DRILL.
sam.transmission:
brb making popcorn before comms dept spontaneously combusts
jules.elec:
does this mean GP is coming too??
please say yes please say yes please say yes
ellie.electronics:
if GP comes, ana will finally have someone equally terrifying in her orbit
liam.eng-lead:
ngl that pairing might make the garage a protected UNESCO heritage site for strategic excellence
megan.sim:
can we talk about the fact that ana 100% knew before any of us and didn’t say a word
fatima.pr:
ana never says a word unless it’s to end you
james.brakes:
i’m just picturing kimi’s face right now
liv.strategy:
kimi is probably hiding under a desk thinking he’s getting sacked
kayleigh.powerunit:
lol nah
they’re gonna keep kimi and drop george
brackley has spoken
yas.enginecontrol:
meanwhile comms team:
[gif of someone screaming into a pillow]
lucy.comms:
wonder if max will survive media day with our press officer without swearing
sam.transmission:
no.
nicola.sim:
…ok but can we get him into the simulator asap
like i need to know what lap times look like
lorelai.pa:
calm down you thirsty data goblin
benjy.data:
are we allowed to drink champagne at 9:15am or is that frowned upon
james.brakes:
depends, are you sharing
kayleigh.powerunit:
ok but imagine GP on the pit wall here. my god.
sima.calibration:
also imagine altair + verstappen feedback loops. ana’s gonna lose her mind
flo.eng:
kimi and max as teammates is going to be the most beautiful era in team history
leo.mechanic:
seriously though… the pace data + that mindset?
this could be dangerous in the best way
jess.data:
also i’m calling it: brackley cafeteria is going to become a verstappen museum by february
zahra.aero:
someone warn catering to double the stroopwafel orders
flo.eng:
triple.
matt.merchandise:
does anyone know if george has seen this yet or do we start a betting pool
leo.mechanic:
betting pool obviously
***
Text Messages: Kimi Antonelli & Oliver Bearman
Kimi:
oh my god
i am gonna end up jobless
Ollie:
???
what happened
Kimi:
max verstappen signed with mercedes
Ollie:
WHAT???
no he didn’t
Kimi:
yes he did
it’s all over the staff email
he’s starting 2026
Ollie:
…holy shit
nobody tells me anything
Kimi:
ollie
do you understand
that means it’s gonna be me or george next year
Ollie:
nah mate
they’ll get rid of george
don’t worry
Kimi:
you say that like it’s easy
Ollie:
you’re literally ana wolff’s engineering child and half the factory is in love with you
you’re fine
Kimi:
that’s not a real metric for job security
Ollie:
it is at brackley
***
Press Release: MERCEDES-AMG PETRONAS FORMULA ONE TEAM ANNOUNCES SIGNING OF MAX VERSTAPPEN FOR 2026 SEASON
Brackley, UK – 23 July 2025 – The Mercedes-AMG Petronas Formula One Team is delighted to confirm that four-time FIA Formula One World Champion Max Verstappen will join the team from the 2026 season onwards.
With 60+ Grand Prix victories, 100+ podium finishes, and nine consecutive seasons at the top of the sport, Verstappen is recognised as one of the most accomplished drivers of his generation. His relentless pursuit of performance, exceptional racecraft, and adaptability across eras of Formula One make him a powerful addition to Mercedes as the sport enters a new chapter under the 2026 technical regulations.
Team Principal & CEO Toto Wolff said:
“Max is an extraordinary driver whose record speaks for itself. His speed, consistency, and fighting spirit make him a formidable competitor, and we believe he will be a perfect fit for our team’s ambitions. As we prepare for a new set of regulations in 2026, bringing together the right combination of talent and technical capability is essential. We are thrilled to welcome Max to Mercedes and look forward to building the next chapter of our success together.”
Max Verstappen commented:
“I’m excited to join Mercedes from 2026 and to begin this new chapter in my career. I have great respect for what the team has achieved in the sport, and I’m looking forward to working with everyone in Brackley and Brixworth to fight for championships together. Leaving my current team was not an easy decision, but I believe this is the right move for my future, and I can’t wait to get started.”
Further details of the team’s 2026 driver line-up will be confirmed in due course.
***
Group Chat: “WHO IS MAX VERSTAPPEN DATING”
(Members: Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, Carlos Sainz, Daniel Ricciardo, Alex Albon)
Lando:
WHAT THE ACTUAL—
Mercedes?!?
Oscar:
I just saw the press release.
I thought it was fake.
Carlos:
No es posible.
He just… leaves Red Bull like that?
Daniel:
Yeah, I knew.
Lando:
…excuse me???
Oscar:
What do you mean you
knew
?
Daniel:
He told me. It was a secret.
Carlos:
And you didn’t say anything?
Daniel:
What part of “secret” do you guys not understand?
Lando:
Bro, this group chat is literally called “WHO IS MAX VERSTAPPEN DATING,” not “BREAKING NEWS.”
Alex:
I’m more interested in whether George is about to get replaced.
Carlos:
George + Max? Or Kimi + Max?
Alex:
My money’s on George staying.
Lando:
No way.
They’re keeping Kimi.
Carlos:
Agree. They’ll pair Max with Kimi.
They already look like they get along.
Oscar:
They’re keeping Kimi for sure.
Carlos:
Max + Kimi is like the perfect lineup for them.
Lando:
Sorry Alex but… yeah, I think George is the one out.
Alex:
I’ll talk to George.
Oscar:
Why?
Alex:
Because he’s my friend.
Lando:
You mean “because you want to know the tea.”
Alex:
…also that.
***
Twitter Thread: Max to Mercedes
@/F1
: 🚨
BREAKING
🚨
Max Verstappen will leave Oracle Red Bull Racing at the end of the 2025 season and join Mercedes-AMG Petronas Formula One Team on a multi-year contract.
#F1 #MercedesAMGF1 #MaxVerstappen
📸 Attached graphic:
@/Turn1Drama: :
OH MY GOD THEY ACTUALLY DID IT
WE’RE GETTING MERCEDES MAX VERSTAPPEN ERA
@/PaddockTea:
Red Bull stans right now:
🫠🫠🫠
@/FerrariStrategist:
Max in a Mercedes is like watching your ex marry your mortal enemy.
@/KimiCam:
Mercedes PR dept rn: 🥂🍾💻🔥
Red Bull PR dept rn: 🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥
@/itsDR3baby:
Petition to livestream Jos Verstappen’s reaction in full HD.
@/RaceWeekendMeme:
BREAKING: The Silvers are coming for the Bulls.
@/GridLockF1:
Honestly? The F1 breaking news graphics need to come with a health warning. My heart rate was
not
prepared.
@/PitwallWhisperer:
9 seasons. 4 WDCs. Nearly 200 GPs. End of an era.
@/MotorsportNerd92:
My jaw is on the FLOOR. Verstappen to MERCEDES?!??!
@/CaffeineAndChicanes:
F1 Silly Season said “hold my beer” 🍺
@/piastrified:
They didn’t even give us time to digest the BREAKING NEWS before Mercedes hit us with the “Welcome to the team” 😭
@/f1graphicgeek:
F1’s breaking news graphics team is working OVERTIME today. The “Max Leaves Red Bull” one hit like a bomb, and now Mercedes drops the recruitment poster.
@/danielricciardosmile:
Red Bull comms rn: 🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥
@/kimination:
Me: “I wonder who will be Max’s teammate at Merc”
Also me: “lol it’s obviously Kimi Antonelli”
@/fernandoenthusiast:
MAX. MERCEDES. 2026.
HELLO???
@/pitwalltea:
Me at 9:00 — “quiet day in F1”
Me at 9:32 —
Verstappen to Mercedes confirmed
F1 never lets us rest.
@/yukisramen:
i opened twitter to see “BREAKING: Verstappen leaving Red Bull” and i swear my soul left my body
@/smoothoperator55:
Max + Kimi Antonelli in a Mercedes?? 2026 gonna be nuclear.
@/mercedesmains:
Imagine telling someone in 2021 that in five years Max Verstappen would LEAVE Red Bull to drive for Toto Wolff.
@/verstappenthusiast:
4 WDCs. 9 seasons. nearly 200 races. thank you, Max. Red Bull will never be the same. 💙
@/F1GossipHub:
The official F1 account dropping a “MAX VERSTAPPEN TO LEAVE RED BULL AT END OF 2025” post like it’s a driver market silly season meme when in fact… the sport just shifted.
@/LappedByLatifi:
We all thought 2026 regs were going to be the big shake-up.
Max Verstappen:
hold my Heineken
@/SoftTyreEnjoyer:
max verstappen leaving red bull after NINE YEARS and 4 titles is actually insane. the end of an era.
@/paddocktea:
Mercedes PR team working overtime to make silver arrows look like home.
Red Bull PR team working overtime to make it look like they’re totally fine.
Twitter working overtime to make memes.
@/PitwallWhispers:
Imagine being George Russell right now.
@/F1MemesDaily:
2024: “Max is loyal to Red Bull”
2025:
Mercedes posts “Welcome, Max” in 4k
@/FanOnTheApex:
max in silver 😭😭😭
i’m not ready for the photo shoots.
@/tyredegtruthers:
BRO??? I thought the breaking news graphic was a meme.
@/pitwallpanic:
Me, minding my business at work: 👀
F1: 🚨 BREAKING NEWS 🚨
Also me:
drops laptop
@/engineergirl44:
We’re really living in the “Max Verstappen to Mercedes” timeline??
What’s next, Fernando to Ferrari again?
@/softtyresonly:
the f1 “breaking news” graphic should come with a health warning because my heart STOPPED
@/rb19_era:
9 seasons. 4 WDCs. Nearly 200 GPs. Gone. Just like that. 😭
@/w14copium:
Max + Kimi 2026 is about to be chaos in the best way possible.
@/charleslecluck:
HELLO???
MAX???
MERCEDES???
IN THIS ECONOMY???
@/silverarrowsstan:
the F1 breaking news graphic team: finally… something worth using the template for
@/mercgaragecat:
somewhere in brackley right now: chaos, champagne, and at least 3 engineers screaming into the carpet
@/sainzysmooth55:
max in silver.
max in SILVER.
MAX. IN. SILVER.
@/paddocktea:
not to be dramatic but the world supply of silly season memes just doubled
@/alonsolegacy:
brb making popcorn for the 2026 netflix season
@/OversteerQueen:
max verstappen leaving red bull feels like watching the captain grab a lifeboat before the iceberg even finishes hitting 🚢💥
@/SlipstreamStan:
red bull rn = that one scene in titanic where the violinists keep playing while the ship sinks
max: yeahhh I’m not in the band bye ✌️
@/GrainingMyLife:
Max Verstappen walking into Brackley like Rose climbing onto that door. He will survive, kids.
@/WDCdreaming:
me watching the RB ship go down: 😬
me seeing max get a silver lifeboat: 😏
@/SoftsToHards:
everyone clowning but honestly… makes sense. Red Bull’s hull is cracked and Mercedes is building a battleship.
@/lap1chaos:
ngl I didn’t think I’d see the day Verstappen walks away from RB… but looking at the last 12 months? Yeah, it adds up.
@/pitwallpolitics:
Let’s be real: RB’s politics lately have been messy as hell. Internal fights, key staff leaving, Adrian’s future unclear… why
wouldn’t
he jump?
@/Verstappening:
Max watched the RB pit wall implode in strategy meetings for half this season and said “you know what, I’m done.”
@/kimiandcoffee:
It’s giving “Lewis to Merc in 2013” vibes. Everyone’s shocked now, but in two years they’ll call him a genius.
@/f1engineeranon:
The RB power unit project is behind schedule. A
lot
behind. No driver wants to start a new engine era in a car that isn’t ready.
@/longrunslander:
Max saw where the wind was blowing and moved before it became a hurricane.
@/rbr4life:
can’t lie… saw it coming. the car’s been sliding backwards for 2 years and internal politics are eating them alive.
@/silverarrowed:
Everyone acting shocked but Max is literally the most results-driven guy on the grid. RB’s losing pace, Newey’s gone, and Mercedes has a monster PU coming in ‘26. This is chess, not checkers.
@/pitwallgossip:
Remember when people said he’d retire at Red Bull? LMAO. They forgot this man only cares about winning.
@/kimisleftglove:
Red Bull went from “we have the best car in decades” to “please stop overheating in quali” in like 18 months 💀
@/v10nostalgia:
Honestly, the way RBR treated some of their own people recently… I get it. It’s not just performance, it’s culture.
@/girlonsofts:
Max & Kimi Antonelli in silver in 2026 is going to be terrifying and I can’t WAIT.
@/undercutmerchant:
Red Bull fan here. It hurts but I understand. They’re not the same team they were in ’22.
@/vettelicious:
no bc this is actually insane. like… we are LIVING in the silly season of silly seasons.
@/gperacebrain:
ngl, have you SEEN red bull lately??? the car’s been a tractor half the season, aero dev stalled, and the internal politics?? i get why max dipped.
@/kimiapproved:
Max really said “I’m not going down with this ship” 😭😭😭
@/itsjustchicanes:
you know it’s bad when the guy who
built
his career in that team just walks away.
@/bottaslatte:
honestly… red bull’s been getting slower every upgrade. the writing’s been on the wall since mid-2024.
@/gossipinthepaddock:
remember when they said “max will retire with us”???
yeah about that 💀
@/DR3sunshine:
people acting shocked but anyone paying attention could see red bull’s implosion coming. engine project delays, staff jumping ship, aero direction in the bin…
@/verstappened:
i just hope he gets a car worthy of him. rb clearly isn’t that anymore.
@/mercedesmami:
kinda poetic tho. max debuting in red, dominating in blue, and maybe finishing his career in silver.
***
Circuit de Spa-Francorchamps, Francorchamps, Belgium - 23 July 2025
Alex had seen drivers in denial before — hell, he’d been one — but George Russell on the Thursday morning of the Belgian Grand Prix was a masterclass in self-assurance.
They were standing near the paddock entrance, waiting for their respective PR minders to herd them to interviews. George was immaculate, as always: fresh haircut, pressed team kit, smile tuned for the cameras. He radiated calm. Confidence.
Delusion.
“Big day,” George said cheerfully, balancing his coffee like it was a prop in a lifestyle ad. “Media’s going to be all over Max signing, but obviously my seat’s solid. Two race winners in one team — that’s a statement.”
Alex tilted his head. “Right. Two race winners.”
George grinned, missing the dry edge completely. “Exactly. Mercedes know consistency matters. Sure, Kimi’s quick, but he’s still green. I’ve got experience. Wins. Podiums. The sponsors know my face.”
Alex hummed, thinking of the quiet efficiency of Altair — the bespoke project Ana Wolff had apparently built like a scalpel for Kimi Antonelli. A car that would respond to Kimi like muscle memory, alive under his hands. And that even George seemed to think hated him. Mercedes didn’t build something like that for a short-term junior experiment.
“You’ve seen Altair, right?” Alex asked.
George waved it off. “It’s just a name. PR flourish. The team know where the long-term value is.”
Alex resisted the urge to say, Yeah. It’s not with you.
They walked toward the media pen, George still talking. “And with Max coming in? That’s going to be huge for the team. I’ve got the perfect temperament to work alongside him. Keep things stable.”
Alex just so managed that his facial features didn’t immediately betray what he was actually feeling.
The perfect temperament?
George Russell? That same guy that not even a year before had said about Max: He can't deal with adversity. When things don't go his way he lashes out with unnecessary anger and borderline violence.
Then George, as if on cue, veered into familiar territory. “And Ana will come around, you know.”
Alex glanced at him sharply. “Come around to what?”
George smiled faintly, like it was obvious. “She’s… intense. A bit closed off. But I’ve been chipping away. I think she’d be perfect if she just relaxed more. Opened up. A softer image would do her a lot of good.”
It was said casually, but it made Alex’s skin crawl. Not just the arrogance of thinking he could ‘fix’ someone, but the fact George spoke about Ana Wolff — his team principal’s daughter, the woman who could write him out of a job in two keystrokes — like she was a project for him to complete.
“You’re talking about her like she’s an upgrade package,” Alex said.
George just shrugged. “I’m good with people. She’ll see that eventually.”
Alex didn’t reply.
If George thought his seat — or Ana — were “safe,” Alex decided, there was no point arguing. Reality was going to hit him soon enough.
And it was going to hit hard.
***
Circuit de Spa-Francorchamps, Francorchamps, Belgium - 23 July 2025
Kimi Antonelli was not prone to spirals.
Not usually.
But that morning, sitting in the corner of the Mercedes hospitality with a coffee he hadn’t touched, he could feel the edges of one starting to take shape.
Max Verstappen had signed. Officially.
Which meant… well. Which meant things were shifting.
Which meant one of them was going.
And he was still technically the new kid — no matter how many simulator hours he’d done, no matter how Altair fit him like a second skin, no matter how much Ana Wolff had built a package to sing for him.
Max Verstappen was a four-time world champion. George Russell was a race winner.
Kimi was… Kimi.
“I’m going to end up jobless,” he muttered, staring at the table.
Valtteri Bottas slid into the seat across from him, casual as if he hadn’t just been summoned by Bono with the words your kid is short-circuiting .
“You’re not going to be jobless,” Valtteri said, sipping his tea.
Kimi shook his head. “You don’t know that.”
Valtteri didn’t even blink. “You’re fine.”
Kimi stared at him. “How can you possibly know that?”
“Because I know Toto,” Valtteri said simply. “And I know George. And I’ve seen Altair.”
“Trust us. ” Bono appeared at his side, setting a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “ You and Max will be good for each other. He’ll push you. You’ll push him.”
Kimi glanced between them, suspicious. “How can you be so sure?”
“Because,” Valtteri said simply, “George is not as… popular… as he thinks he is. And you’re faster. The factory knows it. The engineers know it.”
Kimi stared at him. “That’s not enough—”
“It is,” Bono said. “Max respects you. The team sees potential. You’ve got pace we haven’t even unlocked yet. George is… George.”
Kimi’s brow furrowed. “What does that mean?”
Valtteri and Bono exchanged a look.
“It means,” Bono said diplomatically, “that Mercedes is looking forward, not sideways. You and Max are forward.”
“Max didn’t come here to babysit George Russell,” Valtteri said flatly.
Bono nodded. “And because I’ve been in enough of Toto’s meetings to know where the wind’s blowing. You’ve got nothing to worry about.”
Kimi wanted to believe them. He almost did. But he could still hear the little voice in his head — the one that had been there since karting days, reminding him that a bad weekend could ruin everything. That being the youngest meant he had the most to prove, every single time.
“What if I mess up?” he asked quietly.
Valtteri smiled faintly. “Then you learn from it and get better. That’s how this works. And trust me, Mercedes doesn’t invest in someone like you to throw it away in a year.”
Bono squeezed his shoulder again. “And Altair’s practically your best friend. You think Ana’s going to let us give her setup to someone else?”
That got a tiny, reluctant smile from Kimi. “…No.”
“Exactly,” Bono said, relieved. “Now finish your coffee before the media pen eats you alive.”
Valtteri stood, stretching. “And if George starts acting smug, just remember — there’s a reason Toto hasn’t told him anything yet.”
Kimi didn’t ask what that reason was.
He didn’t need to.
For the first time all morning, he felt a little steadier.
***
Circuit de Spa-Francorchamps, Francorchamps, Belgium - 23 July 2025
Bono found Valtteri still in the hospitality lounge, refilling his coffee like a man preparing for battle.
“So,” Bono said, “you think he believed us?”
Valtteri gave a low chuckle. “Not a chance. Kid’s wired to overthink.”
Bono leaned against the counter. “He’s fine. Toto knows it. We know it. George…” Bono trailed off.
Valtteri made a face. “George has… let’s call them interpersonal issues lately. Some people in the factory have started to notice. And not in a good way.”
Bono raised a brow. “You mean the thing with Ana?”
“Exactly,” Valtteri said, lowering his voice. “He’s… weird about her. Possessive. Like he’s entitled to her attention. Keeps giving her ‘advice’ on how to be more likable, which, coming from George, is—”
“Rich,” Bono finished.
Valtteri’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “She doesn’t even realize he’s flirting. But other people do. And trust me, they don’t like it.”
Bono sighed. “And then there’s Altair.” Bono leaned back against the counter. “She coded Altair to work perfectly for Kimi — it’s practically allergic to George’s inputs — and George still acts like he’s entitled to her attention. Like he could… change her or something.”
Valtteri’s mouth twisted in faint disgust. “I told Susie months ago, it’s not just advice he’s giving her. It’s… the kind of pushy behaviour that makes people shut doors permanently. If Toto ever puts two and two together, that’s it for him.”
Bono nodded. “Meanwhile, Kimi actually listens, learns, doesn’t piss off the team, and works with the tools we give him. That’s the guy you keep.”
Valtteri smiled faintly. “And Max will want him in the other car. He’s not going to tolerate someone who’s too busy making politics to drive properly.”
“Exactly.” Bono grabbed his own coffee, glancing toward the paddock. “Kimi’s safe. George just doesn’t know yet.”
Valtteri’s tone turned wry. “When he finds out, it’s going to be one hell of a media day.”
***
Circuit de Spa-Francorchamps, Francorchamps, Belgium - 23 July 2025
Max had done a lot of Thursdays in Formula One.
Media days were usually just background noise — a rhythm he’d lived in for nearly a decade. Cameras, microphones, a few carefully neutral soundbites, a walk back to the garage.
But this Thursday?
The Red Bull garage felt like a tomb.
No, not a tomb — that would imply reverence. This was colder. A mausoleum for something still alive but dying all the same.
Max could feel it in the air, in the way conversations cut off when he walked by, in the too-bright smiles from the PR staff who had clearly been told to “keep things civil.” Mechanics worked on the RB21 with the kind of efficiency that came from muscle memory, but their eyes slid away from him, their posture tight.
It wasn’t just quiet. It was hollow . Mechanics kept working, but there was no banter, no music, no soft undercurrent of jokes that usually ran through the morning. People either kept their heads down or glanced at him like they weren’t sure whether to say hello or spit in his coffee.
Some looked at him with quiet understanding — like they got it, even if they wouldn’t say it out loud. Others looked… betrayed. And more than a few looked downright pissed off.
Raymond noticed first. His manager had stationed himself just inside the garage, the perfect picture of polite, watchful disinterest, intercepting anyone who so much as started to walk toward Max with that look . The one that said: “I’m going to ask you why you’ve done this and I expect a satisfying answer.”
Jos was less subtle. He leant against the wall like he owned the place, a wall of crossed arms and narrowed eyes, daring anyone to approach.
Max wasn’t quite sure if his father was there to support him or to enjoy the chaos — probably both.
He’d almost made it to the end of the morning without incident when his phone buzzed.
Helmut.
Raymond clocked it first, stepping in just as Max’s hand twitched toward the device. “Give it to me,” Raymond said.
Max raised a brow. “You want to take the call?”
“Better me than you,” Raymond replied evenly, already answering. “Hello, Helmut.”
Max didn’t hear the words exactly — just the volume. Even across the garage, Helmut’s voice carried, a low roar of Austrian fury. Raymond listened for all of ten seconds before stepping neatly out of earshot, speaking in that measured, lawyerly tone that had probably saved Max from three lawsuits over the years.
Jos watched the whole thing with the faintest smirk, like it was a private joke. “He’s going to pop a vein,” he muttered in Dutch.
Max only hummed in reply, leaning back in his chair. He wasn’t in the mood to give anyone the satisfaction of seeing him rattled — though truthfully, there was something gnawing at him.
Ana.
He’d signed for Mercedes yesterday morning. She’d known it was coming. She’d predicted it, even. And yet… nothing. No message beyond a clipped “processing.” No hint of how she actually felt.
Processing, my ass.
He knew her well enough to know she was building walls faster than he could climb them. The trouble was, he’d just set fire to the life he’d built at Red Bull — and yes, he’d done it for himself, for his career — but he’d also done it for her.
And she couldn’t even say she wanted him there.
Across the garage, Laurent Mekies hovered by the timing screens, looking like he’d walked into the wrong room entirely. The new team principal had barely been in the job long enough to find the coffee machine, and now he was presiding over the implosion of the Verstappen–Red Bull era. His eyes darted between Max, the pit wall, and Raymond still murmuring to a furious Helmut like he wasn’t sure which fire to put out first.
Max almost felt sorry for him. Almost.
Because the truth was, this was the beginning of the end here. And everyone knew it.
***
Transcript: FIA Pre-Race Press Conference
Location: Circuit de Spa-Francorchamps, Francorchamps, Belgium
Date: 23 July 2025
Participants:
- Laurent Mekies (Team Principal, Oracle Red Bull Racing)
- Jonathan Wheatley (Team Principal, Kick Sauber)
- Ayao Komatsu (Team Principal, Haas)
Tom Clarkson:
Laurent, it’s been a big news day for Formula 1 — Mercedes have confirmed Max Verstappen will join them in 2026. You’re only a few months into your role as team principal at Red Bull. How are you dealing with that news, and the wider situation within the team?
Laurent Mekies:
“Well, first of all… yes, it’s been a…
full
morning for us. I think everyone in the paddock understands that losing a driver of Max’s calibre is significant. Nine seasons, four world championships, nearly 200 grands prix with the team — that’s a huge chapter for Red Bull.
When I came into this role, I knew there were challenges ahead — both on-track and off-track. What I perhaps didn’t expect was to be navigating this particular challenge quite so soon. But that’s part of the job.
We respect Max’s decision. He’s been very clear about his motivations, and while of course we would have liked him to continue with us, the team’s responsibility now is to focus on the future. That means building the strongest possible package — car, power unit, people — so that Red Bull remains at the front.
As for the, uh… ‘mess’ —” (half-smiles, slightly weary) “— I inherited a team in transition. Some things were always going to be difficult. This one just happens to be very visible to the outside world.”
Journalist (Sky Sports): Was there anything you could have done to keep him?
Laurent:
“I think when a driver of Max’s experience and success makes a decision like this, it’s rarely about one conversation or one race weekend. It’s the product of many factors, over time. We had constructive talks, but ultimately, his path took him elsewhere. My job now is not to dwell on that, but to make sure Red Bull is ready for what comes next.”
Journalist ( Motorsport.com ): Do you have a replacement in mind?
Laurent:
“We have options. We’ll take the time we need to make the right decision — for the car, for the team dynamic, and for our long-term objectives. It’s not just about filling a seat, it’s about finding the right fit for the future.”
***
Transcript: FIA Pre-Race Press Conference
Location: Circuit de Spa-Francorchamps, Francorchamps, Belgium
Date: 23 July 2025
Participants:
- Lewis Hamilton (Ferrari)
- Kimi Antonelli (Mercedes)
- Carlos Sainz (Williams)
Moderator:
"Good afternoon, everyone. We’ll open with questions from the floor. First question, please."
Journalist (Sky Sports):
"Kimi, this morning Mercedes announced that Max Verstappen will be joining the team next year. That obviously raises questions about the second seat. Have you had any conversations with Toto Wolff about your future with the team?"
Kimi:
(half a breath, clearly buying time)
"Well… obviously it’s big news for everyone. Max is one of the best drivers in the world, so for him to join Mercedes is a huge statement from the team.
Right now my focus is just on this weekend and doing my best in the car. I’ve had some talks with Toto, but nothing’s confirmed yet."
Moderator:
"Follow-up?"
Journalist (Sky Sports):
"Do you feel confident you’ll still be with Mercedes next year?"
Kimi: (smiles a bit too tightly) "I want to be. That’s the goal. But this is Formula 1, so… we’ll see."
Lewis:
(leaning into the mic, grinning) "If you need help with negotiations, I can give you a few tips on how to work Toto."
(laughter in the press room, Kimi smiles awkwardly)
Carlos:
(smirking) "This sounds like it comes from experience."
Lewis:
"Mate, I drove for him for a decade. I’ve got it down to a science. Or—"
(glances at Kimi, eyes twinkling)
"—you could just ask Ana to help you. That’s the real cheat code."
Kimi: (trying not to smile) "I think I’ll… keep that in mind."
Journalist (Motorsport.com): Lewis, you’ve raced Max for years. Were you surprised by his decision to leave Red Bull?
Lewis:
Surprised? Not really. Drivers make career moves for lots of reasons—sometimes it’s performance, sometimes it’s personal. I don’t know what his exact reasons are, but Mercedes is a great team with a huge history. It’ll be interesting for the sport.
I think it shows how competitive Mercedes want to be under the new regulations. Max is incredibly quick, obviously, and he’ll bring a lot of experience. But I think it also means there’s a big job ahead for the team—integrating new ideas, making sure everyone’s working towards the same goal. It’s not easy to bring in a driver who’s been with another organisation for so long. But I’m sure they’ve thought it through.
Journalist (F1TV): Carlos, you know Laurent Mekies from Ferrari. He’s inherited a difficult situation at Red Bull. How do you think he’ll handle it?
Carlos:
Laurent’s a really strong leader. At Ferrari, I always found him great to work with—clear communication, understands drivers well. He’s walking into a storm right now, but if anyone can calm things down, it’s him.
***
Twitter Thread: Papa’s Little Girl
@/f1gossipgirl:
Lewis Hamilton saying
"ask Ana to help you negotiate"
is sending me. Toto Wolff is 100% wrapped around her finger and we all know it. 💅🏽
@/downforceanddrama:
Kimi Antonelli being told to ask Ana for help with contract negotiations is like telling a peasant to petition the queen.
@/liftandcoast:
Toto Wolff: “We run a strict, logical, performance-based team.”
Also Toto Wolff when Ana blinks at him: “Yes dear, wind tunnel all yours.”
@/monacopitstop:
sooo after kimi’s answer in the press conference… are we thinking george is out??
@/KimiKartKid:
Kimi rn: frantically googling “how to politely ask Ana Wolff to save my F1 career”
@/blisteringlap:
if you watched it in context, lewis + carlos basically confirmed kimi is safe without confirming it. lewis offering to “help him negotiate” was peak “welcome to the team, kid” energy.
@/paddockcryptid:
you don’t WORK Toto Wolff, you
are
Toto Wolff’s daughter and therefore the laws of physics no longer apply.
@/apexandexit:
george meanwhile this morning was on sky sports talking like his seat is carved in stone. man’s in Narnia.
@/mercgirl44:
the fact that lewis said it so casually… like it’s
known lore
in brackley that ana can get whatever she wants from toto 😭😭😭
@/DRS_Delulu:
The way Lewis said “she’s better at it than me” with zero hesitation… this is not a drill.
@/downshiftdrama:
not kimi antonelli being told in a
press conference
to just “ask ana wolff” if he wants to keep his mercedes seat 😭😭😭
@/downbadforwolff:
[photo of toto looking at ana at the garage]
“how can i say no to my little girl” energy
@/gridgossip:
Lewis Hamilton knows two things:
- How to win in f1
- That Ana Wolff has her dad wrapped around her finger and will always get what she wants
@/KimiAntonelliStan:
This is Kimi’s villain origin story — Lewis just told him the cheat code for Brackley.
@/gripandgo:
after that kimi interview in spa i think we can all agree it’s george who’s done 💀
@/flatspotfever:
ngl the way kimi’s avoiding eye contact when asked about his
future
is making me nervous…
@/ItaliansForKimi: Kimi please… go ask her for help. I want to see Toto approve a lifetime contract just because Ana says so.
@/F1HotTea:
Lewis saying
"ask Ana to help you, she’s better at working Toto than I am"
might be the funniest thing I’ve heard all season 💀
@/GridGossip:
So basically Toto Wolff is not running Mercedes. Dr. Anastasia Wolff is. Glad we cleared that up.
@/ShutUpAndDrive:
Lewis Hamilton just casually telling a rookie to
get Ana to negotiate with Toto
is peak F1 chaos.
@/gppov:
kimi’s whole vibe in that interview was “trying not to freak out” and tbh same.
@/SectorThreeScreams:
Toto:
hard-nosed negotiator, ruthless operator, feared team principal
Ana:
says “Papa” once in the right tone
Toto: "You can have two wind tunnels and a pony."
@/ChicaneQueen:
She literally has him wrapped around her finger and we, as a society, support her rights
and
her wrongs.
@/slowpitstop:
the sheer concept of kimi being sent to ana wolff like “pls help me keep my job” is sitcom levels of comedy
@/DRSmerchant:
lewis didn’t even blink when he said that. like it’s a known paddock fact that ana has toto wrapped around her finger 😭
@/paddockmemes:
petition to mic up ana wolff in a meeting with toto because i need to hear the jedi mind tricks in action
@/frontwingfangirl
Max Verstappen just signed with Mercedes and somehow Twitter is now obsessed with the fact that Toto Wolff is wrapped around his daughter’s finger. Peak F1 content.
@/sector3stan:
everyone talking about ana wolff having toto wrapped around her finger reminded me of THAT drive to survive scene
↳@/apexandexit:
oh my god YES — the one where she’s in his office mid-season talking about some telemetry thing, and he’s mid-rant to the cameras about performance drops… then she walks in and suddenly he’s smiling and asking if she wants tea 💀💀💀
↳@/rearwingchaos:
^ and she straight up tells him “you’re overcomplicating it” and he just… agrees??? this is the same man who argued with an fia steward for forty minutes??
↳@/paddockprose:
the funniest part is when the producer asks him after if he always listens to her and he says “she’s usually right” like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
@/undercutcentral:
so after kimi’s press conference answer + lewis saying “ask ana to help you negotiate” … do we think george is out?? 👀
↳@/softtyre:
toto has been loyal to george for years, don’t count him out yet. kimi might get shuffled to a reserve role if merc can’t make room.
↳@/dtsedits:
if george goes i want the full netflix slow-mo edit of him finding out. dramatic violins. ana in the background refusing to make eye contact.
@/yellowflagchaos:
honestly the press conference today made it feel like everyone except george knows which way this is going
***
Transcript: Pre-Race Interview - Max Verstappen
Location: Circuit de Spa-Francorchamps, Francorchamps, Belgium
Date: 23 July 2025
Journalist: Max, the news is official now. You’re leaving Red Bull at the end of the season. Can you talk us through the decision?
Max: Yeah, obviously it’s a big change. I’ve been with Red Bull for… what is it, nine years now? Almost 200 races. We’ve achieved a lot together—four championships, a lot of wins. It’s been a huge part of my life. But I think as a driver you have to keep challenging yourself, and for me, the project at Mercedes was something I couldn’t ignore.
Journalist: How does it feel to finally have it out there?
Max: (short nod) It’s good to have it confirmed. These things… they get talked about a lot behind closed doors, and eventually the noise starts to build. Now everyone knows, and we can focus on the rest of the season.
Journalist: You’ve been with Red Bull nearly your entire Formula 1 career, nine seasons, four World Championships — that’s a huge part of your life. Was it an easy choice?
Max: No, definitely not. I’ve got a lot of respect for everyone at Red Bull, and I wouldn’t be where I am without them. But I also think you have to look at where the future is going. I believe Mercedes is building something very strong for the next regulation change, and I want to be part of that from the start.
Journalist: You’ve talked before about loyalty. Did that factor into staying as long as you did?
Max: Loyalty is important to me. I don’t walk away easily. But loyalty has to go both ways, and sometimes you have to make a decision for your own future, even if it’s not the easy one.
Journalist: People thought you’d finish your career at Red Bull. What changed?
Max: Formula 1 changes. Teams change. You can’t base your career on what was true five years ago. I still believe Red Bull can win races, but I felt like I needed a new challenge.
Journalist: Red Bull’s performance this year hasn’t been at the level we saw in previous seasons. Did that influence your decision?
Max: I’m not going to pretend the car’s not a factor. In the last couple of years we had something special. This year has been more difficult, and you have to look at the trends, not just one race or one season.
Journalist: You’ll be joining a very young driver in Kimi Antonelli—or potentially George Russell, depending on Mercedes’ decision. Have you been told who your teammate will be?
Max: (smiles) I’ve got a pretty good idea, but that’s up to Toto to confirm. Whoever it is, I’m looking forward to working with them.
Journalist: Was Toto Wolff a big factor in convincing you?
Max: Yeah, Toto’s very good at presenting a vision. But it wasn’t just him—it’s the whole team. The way they’re approaching the next era, the resources they’re putting in… it feels like the right place to be if you want to fight for championships in the next couple of years.
Journalist: What’s the rest of this season going to be like?
Max: (shrugs) I’m still a Red Bull driver until the end of the year. I know it’s going to be a bit strange, but I owe it to the team to finish strong. I’m here to race. That’s what I’ll do. I’ll give everything every weekend, like I always have. Whatever the situation is off-track, on-track my job stays the same.
***
Text Message: Max Verstappen & Daniel Ricciardo
Daniel:
Well, look at you, Silver Arrow.
Congrats, mate. Big move.
Max:
Thanks.
Daniel:
…That’s all I get?
I expected at least a smug emoji.
Max:
Not really in the mood.
Daniel:
What, because the internet is in meltdown?
Or because someone didn’t say what you wanted them to?
Max:
…
Daniel:
Ah. Bingo.
Ana didn’t say anything?
Max:
She said congratulations.
That’s it.
Daniel:
Ouch.
Daniel:
Maybe she’s processing?
Max:
Maybe.
Daniel:
Or maybe you’ve got competition.
Max:
…what?
Daniel:
A little birdie told me that George is very… interested in Ana.
Max:
Yeah, sure.
Daniel:
No, seriously.
She’s beautiful, she’s intelligent, she’s… not the kind of person George usually meets in a paddock hospitality queue.
Max:
And she has functioning taste.
Daniel:
Mmm. Just saying.
Keep an eye on your territory, mate.
***
Chapter 19: Chapter 17: Francorchamps
Chapter Text
The Townhouse, Brackley, England - 25 July 2025
Ana woke before her alarm.
Not because she’d slept well—her mind had been chewing itself raw all night—but because the silence in the house felt wrong. It was that pre-dawn kind of stillness that didn’t soothe her; it prickled.
She padded barefoot into the kitchen, made coffee, opened her laptop, and pulled up the latest telemetry batch. It was quiet work—sifting through simulation deltas, comparing Kimi’s runs with the baseline Altair integration. She could have done it from her office. She could have sent the notes through the secure server like always.
But the more she stared at the numbers, the more they blurred into the memory of Max’s message from two nights ago.
I’m still coming.
Her chest tightened.
Yesterday, the paddock had been in complete and utter chaos.
The news of Max Verstappen changing from Red Bull Navy to Mercedes Silver hat detonated like a bomb. And the blast radius had been the entire global media.
If Ana was smart, she would keep away from it as far as she could.
Sadly, Max Verstappen had the unfortunate habit of making Ana Wolff very, very dumb.
The email draft was already open when she realised she’d been staring at it for a solid ten minutes without typing a word.
Subject line:
PU Calibration Review – Spa GP
.
Body:
I’ll be onsite to review integration notes with power unit and chassis departments prior to FP1. Please confirm availability.
Ana read it back, lips pressing together.
Technically true. A review was always useful before first practice. Spa was the kind of circuit where integration quirks could expose themselves in the worst possible way, and she’d been planning to watch the telemetry anyway.
But she didn’t need to be there in person.
Not really.
The team could run the review over encrypted video call. Solomon could handle the early data analysis. She could stay here, keep working on the Hungary updates for Altair, and avoid… complications.
She pushed her chair back from the desk and stood, pacing once across the room. The city was still quiet—Brackley didn’t wake early unless it had to, and certainly not on a Friday. Outside, the light was still pale, the air cool. A morning that could have been peaceful if her head wasn’t a war zone.
She told herself she wanted to see how Max settled into the paddock chaos now that the announcement was out. She told herself it was important to gauge how the media circus might affect his head before Sunday. She told herself the in-person meeting would smooth interdepartmental cooperation.
All true.
Just not the truth.
She wanted to see him.
Plain and unvarnished.
Ana stopped pacing, went back to her desk, and without giving herself room to think, she opened the flight booking site. Early Friday meant decent seat selection, minimal weekend business travel. One click, two, three—confirmation email.
She exhaled, sat back, stared at the screen.
A logical decision, she told herself again. Strategic. Proactive. Good for the programme.
Not about him.
It wasn’t about Max.
It was about the car.
It was about the work.
Ana repeated that to herself as she closed her laptop. She repeated it as she went upstairs to pack. She repeated it until the words felt thin and unconvincing.
Because deep down—somewhere under the layers of Wolff discipline and engineer logic—she knew exactly why she was going.
And it had nothing to do with engine integration.
***
Circuit de Spa-Francorchamps, Francorchamps, Belgium - 25 July 2025
Toto had not expected to see his daughter before free practice.
Ana was not… spontaneous, at least not in the way the rest of the paddock understood it. She was measured, deliberate, always choosing her appearances based on what work actually demanded. And when work did require her presence at a race, she arrived quietly—often on his schedule, tucked into a seat on the Dassault Falcon with her noise-cancelling headphones on, eyes closed, filtering out the chaos of travel.
Today, however, there she was.
He spotted her just outside the motorhome, Mercedes pass already clipped to her jacket, hair still carrying the faint static of a rushed journey. And it had clearly been a commercial flight, not one of his—he’d been in Belgium since Wednesday, and she’d made no request to join.
Toto frowned.
Ana hated flying. Not in the way people used it as an excuse—she didn’t get nervous turbulence, she didn’t clutch armrests—it was the rest of it. The airport noise. The crowds. The fluorescent lighting and boarding chaos and strangers brushing past.
The security lines, the unpredictable boarding times, the constant drone of human noise that she could never quite escape. He knew she found it overwhelming. She’d once told him she could physically feel other people’s impatience in airport terminals, like static pressing against her skin.
Unless she was on his jet or a team-chartered flight with minimal disruption, she’d avoid it entirely.
Yet here she was, on time for pre-FP1 meetings, no sign of having been waylaid or rattled.
“I wasn’t expecting you,” Toto said, catching her eye as she approached.
Ana adjusted the strap of her laptop bag. “I thought it might be useful to sit in on the integration review in person. Spa can be tricky with deployment patterns.”
“You flew in this morning?”
She nodded. “Headphones. Tchaikovsky. Volume high enough to make airport announcements sound like distant artillery.”
Toto almost smiled. “And you managed the transfer from Brussels?”
“Car from there. Not exactly difficult.”
He couldn’t quite reconcile it. Out of all the races on the calendar, she’d chosen this one to show up for—immediately after the Max-to-Mercedes announcement, with the paddock buzzing like an anthill someone had just kicked. Every camera crew within fifty miles was crammed into the media centre, waiting for someone to slip, to say the wrong thing.
Even walking in from the car park, Toto had felt the buzz—reporters lurking, camera lenses flashing, the ripple effect of the biggest driver move in years.
And yet Ana, who usually avoided the spotlight at all costs, had walked right into it.
Part of him wondered if she was here for him. He’d been in the thick of it since the press release—meetings, interviews, sponsor reassurances. Ana had always been good at seeing the angles other people missed; maybe she’d decided she needed to watch the storm from inside the eye.
Or maybe for Kimi—she’d worked so closely on Altair’s integration for him, and she’d been quietly protective since day one.
Either way, she hadn’t told him she was coming.
“Good,” Toto said, motioning toward the garage entrance. “Come on, then. Let’s make the most of you being here.”
Ana followed, quiet and self-contained as always. If she had another reason for being here—one that had nothing to do with him, or Kimi—Toto had no idea.
But still—he couldn’t shake the question.
Why this weekend? Why now?
***
Twitter Thread: Anastasia Wolff at the Belgian Grand Prix
@F1TeaSpill
📸 Ana Wolff spotted in the Mercedes garage this morning 👀
She’s
actually
here for Spa weekend?? I swear she usually avoids race weekends unless someone drags her in, until it’s Monaco or Silverstone…
@altair_obsessed
Ana Wolff back in the garage = Mercedes has officially entered “no nonsense” mode. The woman does not fly out unless there’s something
serious
going on.
@gridgirlnotes
Not me immediately pausing the FP1 feed to zoom in on her outfit.
It’s literally: Mercedes team jacket, black trousers, loafers. That’s it.
And yet she looks like she walked out of a
Loro Piana
ad. HOW???
@pitlanecloset
Ana Wolff is
the
downlow fashion inspo of the paddock. Always in uniform. Always minimal. And yet the loafers? The coats? The trousers?? You can
never
find them because they’re like stealth high-end pieces from brands that don’t even have public webshops.
@wheresmybaguette
It’s the way she’ll wear one pair of black trousers for four seasons but they’re probably hand-tailored from some Italian atelier no one’s heard of.
@mercedesmermaid
Also can we talk about how she looks completely unfazed while the entire garage is buzzing about Max’s first weekend post-announcement?
Queen behaviour.
@paddockspy
confirmed: ana wolff spotted pre-FP1 in the Merc garage with her laptop open and three engineers around her. she’s in
work mode
.
@gridgossip
ok but Ana usually only comes to a handful of races a year and she picked THIS one? 👀 After the Verstappen news? interesting.
@silverarrowed
ngl Ana Wolff is my absolute favourite kind of paddock presence. never in the media pen, always in team kit, but you just
know
she’s doing galaxy-brain things in those spreadsheets.
@gplife
I think Ana’s wardrobe strategy is “be invisible until someone tries to replicate your outfit and realises you’re playing 4D chess.”
@paddocktea
Why is nobody talking about the fact Ana Wolff NEVER shows up for media-heavy weekends and yet she’s here the day after the Verstappen-to-Mercedes announcement??? 🤨
***
Circuit de Spa-Francorchamps, Francorchamps, Belgium - 25 July 2025
Max didn’t expect to see her.
He’d spent the whole morning in the Red Bull garage pretending not to notice the way it felt like a tomb—every conversation sharp-edged, every glance in his direction loaded. The absence of GP was like a missing gear in an engine; the whole thing still turned, but wrong, jerky, inefficient. The replacement engineer was competent but not his —and it showed.
Free Practice 1 had been a disaster. Nothing catastrophic, just… nothing that worked. Wrong balance. Wrong tyres at the wrong time. Too much traffic in the runs that were supposed to be clean. Then FP2 wasn’t better—data all over the place, every change they made feeling like a guess instead of a plan.
By the time he stepped out of the car after FP2, the air in the garage felt heavy, like everyone was just waiting for him to explode.
And then he caught sight of her.
Across the paddock, through the crowd of Mercedes kit and silver hospitality umbrellas—Ana Wolff, head bent over a tablet, hair in a low bun, the oversized team jacket making her look smaller than she was. She was standing just inside the Mercedes garage, talking to one of the engineers, completely oblivious to the fact that his chest had just gone tight.
He hadn’t known she was coming.
She hadn’t told him.
Of course she hadn’t told him.
His jaw clenched. The last time they’d spoken—if you could call it that—had been over text, right after he signed the Mercedes contract. She’d said congratulations like it was an obligatory courtesy, not the single biggest decision of his career. She hadn’t said I’m glad you’re coming . She hadn’t said I want you here . She hadn’t said anything that mattered .
Radio silence except for a perfunctory “Congratulations” that had landed with all the warmth of a weather report.
And then Daniel had texted him yesterday, right after the announcement went public.
He’d ignored the last message, but it was still there in the back of his head, wedged somewhere between the understeer from FP1 and the fact that half the Red Bull garage wouldn’t look him in the eye.
Now he was looking at her—Mercedes jacket, Mercedes garage, Mercedes badge on her lanyard—and all he could think about was how she hadn’t said a damn thing that made him believe she wanted him there at all.
An engineer asked him something about brake migration. Max answered on autopilot.
Because all he could think about was Ana in that garage, cool and untouchable, working like he wasn’t twenty metres away and slowly losing his mind.
And the worst part?
She probably came for some technical reason, some project, something to do with Kimi or a power unit calibration—anything but him.
Max turned away before she could see him watching.
Back to his own garage.
Back to the team he’d just detonated.
It was going to be a long weekend.
***
PRIVATE CHAT — Secure channel
Andromeda 🛰️ is online
JadeQueen 👑 is online
Andromeda:
I am in Belgium. He’s here.
Obviously
.
And I still haven’t… said anything.
JadeQueen:
You mean besides the world’s most lukewarm “congratulations” when he signed?
Andromeda:
Yes. That.
It’s… awkward. I don’t know how to make it
not
awkward.
JadeQueen:
It’s only awkward because you’re making it awkward.
Andromeda:
Thanks, that helps so much.
JadeQueen:
Annie. You want him at Mercedes. You
do
. You just don’t know how to say it in a way that doesn’t make you feel exposed.
Andromeda:
It’s not just that. It’s…
He’s going to be in my workspace. My meetings. My… life. And he did this partly for me.
That’s a lot of pressure to acknowledge.
JadeQueen:
So don’t acknowledge the pressure. Show him something smaller.
Do something that says “I’m glad you’re coming” without you actually saying it.
Andromeda:
Like give him a gift?
JadeQueen:
A gesture.
Andromeda:
They have his favourite cupcakes here.
JadeQueen:
Buy one. Give it to him. Tell him it’s for signing.
It’s not a speech, it’s not a declaration—it’s a gesture.
Andromeda:
That feels… manageable.
JadeQueen:
Exactly. Baby steps. You don’t have to storm the fortress gates, just open a window.
Besides, food is universal. Even Max Verstappen understands “I got you cake.”
Andromeda:
Fine.
I’ll stop by the bakery before I leave.
JadeQueen:
Good girl. Now go before you overthink it and talk yourself out of it.
Andromeda 🛰️ is offline
Chat archived
***
Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Dr. Anastasia “Ana” Wolff
Ana:
What’s your room number?
Max:
Why?
Ana:
I have something for you.
Max:
…
Ana:
It’s work-related.
Mostly.
Max:
327.
Ana:
Thanks.
Max:
Yeah.
Ana:
I’ll be there in ten.
Max:
Fine.
Max sat back on the hotel bed, phone still in his hand. Four words. One number. And she didn’t even clock it.
No pause, no
is something wrong?
, no shift in tone—just straight to logistics.
Ana Wolff could reverse-engineer an entire hybrid system from scratch, but apparently couldn’t tell when he was pissed off even if he all but underlined it.
***
Max Verstappen’s Hotel Room, Francorchamps, Belgium - 25 July 2025
Max heard the faintest knock—two sharp taps, nothing more. He didn’t even need to check the peephole. Nobody else knocked like that.
By the time he opened the door, Ana was already slipping inside like she’d been born to evade hotel security. She’d done it for years—side entrances, service corridors, casual detours through the wrong lobby to avoid cameras. She was a professional at not existing where she wasn’t supposed to.
And yeah, fine, his brain went straight to sex.
That was usually what these late-night drop-ins meant. Not always , but often enough that muscle memory kicked in—closing the door, locking it, watching her cross the room in that smooth, controlled way like she’d planned every step.
Only he didn’t move toward her. Not this time.
He stayed by the door.
“You could have texted when you got here,” he said, voice low.
“I didn’t want anyone to see.” She set her bag on the desk. “You have… less privacy than usual right now.”
“Yeah, no shit.” He folded his arms, let his eyes track her without softening. “So what’s this? Distraction sex to celebrate me signing?”
That got her head snapping up. “What?”
“You heard me.”
Her mouth tightened. “That’s not why I’m here.”
“Isn’t it?” His eyes locked on hers. “You’ve been running hot and cold with me for years, Ana. You keep me close enough to want more but far enough I can never have it. And I’m done with it. You want me enough to pull me into hotel rooms, but never enough to let me actually in. ”
“That’s not fair.”
“No,” Max said, stepping closer, “what’s not fair is you acting like this doesn’t mean anything, like I didn’t just burn down the last nine years of my career for a future that has you in it.”
She flinched at that, but before she could answer, the frustration that had been gnawing at him all day slipped out unfiltered.
“Why are you here, Ana?” He pushed off the door, the heat in his chest already climbing. “Because it sure as hell wasn’t to say you’re happy for me. You didn’t even react when I told you. Just three dots and a ‘congratulations.’ Like I’d told you I bought a new blender.”
She blinked, genuinely thrown. “I didn’t think you needed—”
“I needed something ,” he cut in. “Anything to show you cared. Instead I get silence, and then Daniel in my messages telling me George Russell has apparently been flirting with you!”
Ana stared at him for a beat—and then laughed. A sharp, incredulous sound. “Are you insane ? He is not flirting with me.”
Max laughed, humourless. “He is. And you don’t want to see. And maybe you don’t care because you’ve made it perfectly clear for years that I’m just the convenient option you can sneak into a hotel room when it suits you.”
“That’s—God, Max, that’s not even remotely true. And if you think I’d ever—”
Max laughed, humourless. “Or maybe you do see it and you like it—because it means you don’t have to deal with me actually wanting something real.”
Her cheeks flushed, whether from anger or shock he couldn’t tell. “Max, this isn’t—”
“I want more, Ana.” He cut her off. “And if you’re not going to give it to me, just say so. Stop making me guess. Stop making me wait.”
Silence stretched, thick and brittle. Her mouth opened, closed again. She wasn’t ready for this conversation—he could see it in the way her shoulders curled, like she was bracing for impact.
“I don’t know what to think,” he said, quieter now but no less raw. “Because I want something more from you, Ana. And you keep showing me just enough to hope, and then shutting the door again. You are keeping me at arm’s length, and then show up like nothing’s wrong. I’ve been waiting for you to let me in for ten years, Ana. I can’t keep doing this.”
Her shoulders went rigid. “I’m not having this conversation now.”
“Of course you’re not,” he said bitterly. “You never do.”
Something flickered in her face—hurt, maybe, but gone too fast to pin down. She reached into her bag, set a small white box on the desk.
The silence between them stretched taut.
“I got you this,” she said, voice tight. “To celebrate signing. It’s a chocolate cupcake. You like those. I thought it might be easier than… words.”
It was almost absurd, the way the box sat there between them like a peace offering in a war neither of them had planned to start.
Before he could answer, she was already at the door.
And just like she’d come in, she slipped out—silent, invisible, gone.
Max stared at the box for a long time before finally sitting down, the weight in his chest heavier than it had been all week.
***
PRIVATE CHAT — Secure channel
Andromeda 🛰️ is online
JadeQueen 👑 is online
Andromeda:
I did what you said.
Went to his room.
Brought the cupcake.
JadeQueen:
…And?
Andromeda:
And it was a disaster.
No, worse than a disaster.
It was like stepping on a landmine I didn’t know was there.
Andromeda:
And he thinks I only show up for sex.
That I don’t want him enough to actually let him in. When I said I wasn’t, he accused me of keeping him at arm’s length forever, using him when I feel like it.
Then he brought up George.
JadeQueen:
George?
Andromeda:
Apparently Daniel Ricciardo told him George has been flirting with me. Does Daniel Ricciardo have spies at Brackley? How does he even know?! WHY DOES HE EVEN CARE?!
JadeQueen:
…Sweetie, George
has
been flirting with you.
Andromeda:
He has
not
. Don’t be ridiculous.
JadeQueen:
Ana—he has. In a very terrible, very mysogynistic way. And apparently it’s very obvious when Daniel Ricciardo knows about it, even though he hasn’t had a seat in F1 for nearly a year.
Andromeda:
I’m not having this conversation.
JadeQueen:
…Oh, you’re doing the thing.
Andromeda:
What thing.
JadeQueen:
The thing where you hit emotional overload and start shutting every door in the building.
Ana, talk to me. What happened
after
George-gate?
Andromeda:
I don’t want to talk about it.
JadeQueen:
Annie—
Andromeda:
No. I went there to do something small, something manageable, and it blew up in my face. And it just—He was angry, and I didn’t know how to fix it, and now I just—That’s it.
I’m done.
JadeQueen:
You’re not done. You’re scared.
Andromeda:
I’m tired. And I have work in the morning. I am
not
doing this.
Not with you. Not with him. Not with anyone.
JadeQueen:
I’m not blaming you, Annie—
Andromeda:
I said I’m not doing this.
JadeQueen:
…You’re shutting down.
Andromeda:
Correct.
I am compartmentalising.
I am going to focus on my work and not think about cupcakes or contracts or… anything else.
JadeQueen:
That’s not healthy.
Andromeda:
It’s functional. That’s all that matters right now.
Andromeda 🛰️ is offline
Chat archived
***
Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Victoria Verstappen
Max:
Just had a fight with Ana.
Victoria:
…like an actual fight-fight?
Not your usual “we bicker about tyre strategy and then make out” thing?
Max:
Fight-fight.
She came to my hotel room. Thought it was for sex.
It wasn’t.
Victoria:
Maximilian. 🙄
Max:
Don’t start.
She barely reacted when I told her I signed with Mercedes.
Three dots. “Congratulations.” That’s it.
She shows up here, gives me a cupcake like we’re colleagues celebrating a promotion, and somehow I’m the bad guy for being pissed off.
Victoria:
What did you actually say?
Max:
That she keeps me close enough to want more but never lets me have it.
That I’m done with her hot/cold routine.
And… I might have brought up that George Russell’s apparently been flirting with her.
Victoria:
Oh my god.
Max:
Daniel told me!
Victoria:
Still. Timing, Max.
You basically accused her of not caring, then threw in the George thing like a grenade.
Max:
She
doesn’t
care. Or she won’t admit she does.
Ten years, Vic. I’ve been waiting for her to let me in for ten years.
She’s here, and it still feels like she’s a thousand miles away.
Victoria:
Or maybe she’s terrified.
And you yelling “let me in” when she’s already halfway to shutting down doesn’t exactly help.
Max:
So what, I just keep waiting forever?
Victoria:
I’m saying—figure out if you want to win the argument or keep her.
Because from what you’ve just told me, you’re on track to lose both.
Max:
…
Victoria:
And don’t text her tonight. Give her space.
Eat the damn cupcake.
***
Circuit de Spa-Francorchamps, Francorchamps, Belgium - 26 July 2025
The garage was too loud.
Not in decibels—her noise-cancelling headphones could take the edge off of that—but in the way everything pressed against her from all sides. Mechanics in quick-step choreography around the car bays. Power unit diagnostics scrolling across the central monitor wall. A camera crew stationed just outside the garage shutters, the white LED of a live feed blinking in her peripheral vision.
Ana stood behind the workbench, hands wrapped around a tablet that had been in sleep mode for the last fifteen minutes. She was meant to be reviewing heat mapping from Sprint Qualifying, cross-referencing it against cooling models she’d finished two weeks ago. Instead, her eyes kept snagging on meaningless numbers while her brain played back last night in loops she couldn’t stop.
The hotel door closing.
His voice—angry, clipped, almost foreign to her.
The cupcake box on the desk like a stupid, fragile peace treaty.
She’d gone back to her own room after, dropped her bag on the chair, and opened her laptop because work was the only thing that still behaved the way she expected. She’d made it through eight hours without closing it—cycling between simulations, telemetry archives, and CAD diagrams until sunrise, when she finally noticed her hands were trembling from too much caffeine and not enough sleep.
Now she was here, in the garage, running on three espressos and pure muscle memory.
Someone called her name—Tom from the PU team, voice coming through the left ear of her headset. She blinked, answered automatically. “Yes—module four needs another pass through the stress cycle at race temp before we sign it off. Run it at eighty-five percent of max load, twenty minutes.”
She knew her tone was flat. Too flat.
Usually, she could make herself sound… if not warm, then at least present. Today, there was no bandwidth for it.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw silver over black at the edge of the garage—Kimi stepping in, helmet in hand, offering her a short nod as he passed. Then Bono a minute later, Valterri falling into step beside him. Ana gave them both a faint greeting, just enough to keep them from asking questions.
She did not look toward the Red Bull garage.
Not once.
She told herself it was because she didn’t care.
She didn’t look because she was afraid that if she saw him—helmet off, jaw tight, eyes cutting toward her the way they always had—she’d give herself away.
So she kept her head down, stylus tapping against the tablet screen like it mattered, and let the garage swallow her whole.
***
Circuit de Spa-Francorchamps, Francorchamps, Belgium - 26 July 2025
Kimi spotted it before he even made it through the doorway of the hospitality suite.
George. Leaning against the high counter like he was auditioning for a really bad cologne advert. Ana, across from him, tablet in hand, very obviously mid-work and very obviously not inviting conversation.
Kimi didn’t know her that well yet, but in the months since he’d joined the team, he’d picked up the basics: Ana Wolff didn’t do chit-chat in the middle of a race weekend, and she sure as hell didn’t appreciate someone blocking her caffeine supply chain.
George, apparently, had missed that memo entirely.
“Well,” George said, tilting forward just enough to enter personal space territory , “you’re looking… surprisingly put-together for someone who’s been in this chaos all morning.”
Kimi paused in the doorway. That wasn’t a compliment. Not the way George said it—like he was astonished she’d managed to get dressed without supervision.
Ana’s reply was flat. “I’m working, George.”
Kimi frowned. She wasn’t being dry or sarcastic—that would’ve been normal. This was… muted. Off. Like someone had dialled her volume down and left it there.
George didn’t seem to notice, because he grinned and kept going. “Just saying—you could give some of the hospitality girls a run for their money.”
That was it. Kimi didn’t even think about it—he just strolled in, sliding into the space between them like he’d been invited.
“Ana, Toto’s looking for you,” he said, completely deadpan. “Needs you in the garage before the systems check.”
She blinked, clearly thrown. “Now?”
“Yeah. Urgent.” Then, turning to George: “Sorry, mate. Don’t want to interrupt your… whatever this is .”
George put on his best diplomatic smile. “Of course. Wouldn’t want to get in the way.”
Kimi gave him a deliberately sweet smile—the kind that wasn’t sweet at all—and shepherded Ana toward the side exit.
They didn’t speak until they’d put some distance between themselves and the lounge.
“You okay?” Kimi asked.
“I’m fine,” she said, which was exactly what people said when they weren’t fine.
“You’re quieter than usual.”
“I’m always quiet.”
“Yeah, but this is like… muted Zoom mic quiet ,” Kimi said. “Battery’s low. Looks like you need a recharge.”
She gave a faint shrug. “Didn’t sleep much.”
Kimi narrowed his eyes, but didn’t push. He’d only known her a few months, but he knew enough to clock when she wasn’t in the mood to be poked at.
Still, as they walked toward the garage, he glanced back at the hospitality area, imagining George trying another one of those half-compliment, half-something else lines.
If Kimi was going to lose this seat anyway, he might as well make it his mission to make George’s life inconvenient until then.
***
Text Messages: Kimi Antonelli & Oliver Bearman
Kimi
:
George was once again hitting on Ana Wolff
Ollie
:
💀💀💀 you’re lying
Kimi
:
I WISH i was
Kimi
:
like full lean-on-the-counter voice drop “you’re looking surprisingly put together”
Ollie
:
oh my god
is he insane???
Kimi
:
YES
Kimi
:
and Ana was giving him the “i’d rather die than be in this conversation” face
so i pulled a tactical extraction
Ollie
:
tactical extraction???
Kimi
:
I told her Toto needed her in the garage urgently
Ollie
:
did he??
Kimi
:
nah. Toto probably thinks I’m in sim right now.
Ollie
:
you’re insane
Kimi
:
I’m petty. If i’m getting yeeted out of this seat anyway, might as well use my remaining time to ruin george’s life.
I’m getting demoted to formula e or endurance gt3 or whatever in 2026
There are no rules anymore
***
Ana Wolff’s Hotel Room, Francorchamps, Belgium - 26 July 2025
The curtains were drawn, the lights low. The hum of the minibar was the only sound in the room.
Ana sat cross-legged on the edge of the bed, laptop open but forgotten, the code on her screen blurring into nonsense. She hadn’t eaten since lunch. She couldn’t remember what lunch even was.
She’d told herself she was going to review overnight engine data. That was the reason she’d retreated to the hotel straight after the final meeting. But the truth was, she couldn’t stand being in the garage anymore—not with the noise, not with the press, not with the static in her head.
But the fight with Max kept replaying.
The way his voice had sharpened.
The way he’d said I’ve been waiting for you to let me in for ten years.
Max’s voice kept replaying in her head, looping over and over until she couldn’t tell where anger ended and something else—hurt, maybe—began.
Her chest tightened—sharp, small, the same way it used to when she was a child, standing in a hallway in front of an apartment in Vienna and staring at a man she had never met who claimed to be her father.
Her mother had kissed her forehead, promised it would be fine, that she’d see her soon.
She never came back.
At first, Ana had written letters. Emails.
Then she’d stopped.
By fourteen, she understood that silence was its own answer.
And so she’d learned—painfully, meticulously—how to lock things away before they could be taken from her. To fold feelings up small and tuck them behind walls nobody could breach.
It had kept her alive. Functional.
Now, over a decade later, it still hit with the same cold weight.
The same lesson she’d never quite shaken: People leave. And the more you need them, the faster they go.
She pressed the heel of her hand to her sternum, as if she could push the feeling down.
She couldn’t afford this—not now. Not like this.
So she reached for the one thing she knew how to do.
She started locking it away.
One by one, she took the pieces—the sting of his words, the guilt for not saying what he wanted to hear, the old hollow ache of a mother-shaped absence—and shoved them into the mental vault she’d built over years of necessity.
Shut it. Seal it. Weld it shut.
Focus on what you can control.
Her fingers found the noise-cancelling headphones on the nightstand. She slid them on, thumbed through her phone until Tchaikovsky’s Chanson Triste filled the world—loud enough that it drowned out her own thoughts.
The data on the laptop swam back into focus.
Numbers. Systems. Variables she could quantify.
Everything else could stay in the dark, where it belonged.
***
Circuit de Spa-Francorchamps, Francorchamps, Belgium - 27 July 2025
Max could have done without the drivers’ parade today.
Sadly, now he was stuck waving at fans on the back of a flatbed truck while every single driver in a fifty-metre radius seemed to want to dissect his career choices like they were splitting an atom.
“Big change, mate,” Lando said over the engine noise, grinning like Max had just signed to be the face of McDonald’s. Carlos had followed, asking what it was like to blow up an entire career in one press release. Even Hulkenberg had wandered over with a raised brow and a “So… silver suits you, ja?”
Charles followed it up with, “Guess we’re going to have to get used to seeing you in silver.”
And Oscar, ever the quiet one, simply offered, “Bold move.”
Max gave them all the same clipped nod, the same non-committal hm , because the only thing that had been circling in his head all morning was the fact that Ana still hadn’t messaged him. Not a single word since she walked out of his hotel room Friday night.
He’d spent the sprint race avoiding her line of sight—easy enough when she was buried in telemetry in the Mercedes garage and he was fighting an RB21 that refused to do what he wanted without GP there to translate. But avoidance didn’t stop the frustration from clawing at him, or the memory of her voice—quiet, careful, shutting him down.
And now, two days later, the silence between them felt like a wall he couldn’t even see over.
He half-tuned out Pierre talking about track conditions, eyes drifting toward the back of the truck where the rookies were clustered—Kimi, Ollie, and a couple of others, heads bent together in that way young drivers did when they thought nobody was listening.
“…seriously, George is insane,” Kimi was saying, half-turned toward Ollie Bearman and the rest of the rookies. “It’s like… horrible flirting. Like, he thinks he’s charming but it’s just—no.”
Gabi laughed. “With who?”
“Ana Wolff,” Kimi replied, tone as if that alone proved the insanity. “Keeps making these… comments. Not even good ones. Like backhanded compliments in the middle of her trying to work. She barely says two words to him, and he’s still trying.”
Max’s fingers curled tight around the railing before he could stop them.
He forced himself to keep facing forward, but his ears stayed locked on the conversation.
“Mate,” Isack said, “that’s asking for trouble. Doesn’t she work on engine integration or something?”
“She runs the system integration,” Kimi said flatly. “And she’s Toto’s daughter. I wouldn’t even think about—”
Max didn’t hear the rest. He was too busy biting back the urge to turn around and demand exactly what George had said, when, and how quickly Max could find him after the parade ended.
Daniel had joked about George. But hearing it from Kimi—who had no reason to make it up—lit something raw and ugly in his chest.
He could picture it too easily: George leaning on some countertop in Mercedes hospitality, talking down to her in that smooth, grating tone of his. Ana putting up with it because she put up with too much, because she didn’t want to make a scene, because she still didn’t seem to realise when someone was crossing a line.
The truck jolted over a bump. Max’s grip on the railing didn’t loosen.
The idea of George— George , of all people—trying to play charming with Ana while Max was standing over in the Red Bull garage made something ugly and hot curl low in his stomach.
He didn’t care if the whole thing was pathetic, or if it made him sound jealous. He was jealous. And pissed. And still raw from Friday night.
***
Transcript: Sky Sports Coverage of the Belgian Grand Prix, Rain Delay
[CAMERA cuts to Nico Rosberg striding into the Mercedes garage with his trademark grin, microphone in hand, rain pattering on the tarmac outside.]
Nico Rosberg: (cheerfully into camera) Well, the rain has given us plenty of time to… uh, wander into places we’re normally not allowed. So obviously, I came straight here to Mercedes. And—look at this—I’ve found Toto Wolff. (turns to Toto] Hello, Toto.
Toto Wolff: (dryly) Hello, Nico. You are already causing trouble, I can tell.
Nico: That’s my job! Now, let’s get straight to it. Max Verstappen. Mercedes. 2026. This is the biggest news in Formula 1 right now. The paddock is going crazy, the fans are going crazy… you’re going to be dealing with all of that. What’s the mood inside the team?
Toto: (measured, professional) Obviously we are looking forward to working with Max when the time comes. He is one of the most talented drivers of his generation, a multiple world champion, and he will push us forward. But right now, our focus remains on our current driver lineup and the race in front of us—whenever the weather allows it.
Nico: (grinning wider) Okay, so you’re giving me the PR answer, which is fine. But come on, Toto—was this a long courtship? Did you have to wine and dine him? Was there a secret yacht summit involved?
Toto: (deadpan) We had conversations. The decision came down to shared goals for the future of the team.
Nico: Uh-huh. Totally believable.
[CAMERA shifts slightly—viewers can now see, in the background at a side table, Dr. Anastasia “Ana” Wolff in Mercedes team gear, sitting cross-legged on a padded bench with Valtteri Bottas and Kimi Antonelli. The three are playing cards. Kimi is staring very intently at his hand. Ana looks utterly relaxed, holding her cards in one hand and a coffee in the other.]
Nico: (glancing over Toto’s shoulder, breaking into a grin) Wait a second. Is that…? (waves) Ana!
[Ana looks up briefly, gives a small wave, then goes straight back to arranging her cards.]
Nico: This is incredible. I am trying to do a Very Serious Interview with Toto here, and you’re just… playing cards?
Ana: (without looking up) Kimi’s nervous. This helps.
Kimi: (muttering without lifting his eyes] I’m fine.
Valtteri: (deadpan) He’s not fine.
Nico: (laughing into the mic) This is peak Mercedes right here. Rain delay? No problem—just break out a poker game in the garage.
Toto: (trying to redirect) We use the time to keep everyone focused and calm.
Nico: Focused? She’s not even looking at us.
Ana: I’m winning.
Valtteri: You’re not winning.
Kimi: She’s winning.
[Nico turns back to the camera, mock-conspiratorial.]
Nico: Ladies and gentlemen, there you have it. Mercedes: keeping their power unit integration lead, a race-winning driver, and a rookie all occupied with… cards. And somehow, Ana is apparently winning.
Toto: Nico—do you have an actual question?
Nico: (grinning again) Yes, yes, of course. Final question—if it keeps raining, will we get a rematch here?
Ana: No. I’m retiring undefeated.
[Nico laughs, signs off.]
Nico: Well, there you go. Mercedes are calm, collected, and apparently better at poker than they are at giving away team secrets. Back to you.
[CAMERA cuts back to main broadcast.]
***
Twitter Thread: Rain Delay
@/f1shitposting:
nico rosberg has clearly decided his life’s purpose is to personally annoy toto wolff for sport and i, for one, support it
@/mercedesgirlie:
not me wheezing because toto is being all serious about max signing and in the background you can SEE ana wolff playing cards with kimi antonelli like she’s babysitting him 💀💀💀
@/f1memedepartment:
toto’s nightmare:
- nico rosberg with a live mic
- ana in frame during nico rosberg with a live mic
@/SilverArrowStan:
Toto looked like he wanted to throw Nico into the gravel for interrupting, meanwhile Ana was just like: “I will destroy you at cards next, Rosberg.”
@/F1GossipMill:
Kinda love that Nico tried to bait her and she gave him
nothing.
Girl has walls made of titanium.
@/RosbergFanClub:
Say what you want about Nico, but him being one of the only people who will publicly tease Ana is hilarious. Everyone else treats her like she’s some unapproachable boss character.
@/NotThatGeorge:
Ana really is the quiet queen of the paddock. She doesn’t do interviews, she doesn’t do soft-focus WAG content, she just shows up in the garage, runs half the telemetry, and wins card games during rain delays. #Goals
@/KimiNation88:
Kimi looked like he was at a high-stakes poker table in Monaco, not waiting out rain in Spa 😭
Also, Ana didn’t even flinch when Nico started chirping at her. Stone cold.
@/F1HotTakes:
nico rosberg terrorising the pitlane during a rain delay is already funny, but him zeroing in on toto like a shark??? priceless.
@/mercgirlie: the way nico asked toto about max like it was a casual brunch chat while ana wolff was just… in the background playing cards with kimi and valtteri 😭
@/safewithkimi:
kimi looking like ana was his emotional support human during that whole rain delay 😭 he wasn’t even pretending to watch the interview
@/PaddockGossip:
why does max verstappen look like he’s plotting someone’s downfall during this rain delay 💀
@/chaosandchicanes:
someone tell max he’s not starting a coup, it’s just a weather delay
@/softtyres:
rain delay bingo:
☑️ nico rosberg being annoying
☑️ kimi looking 12 years old
☑️ ana wolff being unbothered
☑️ max verstappen visibly pissed about SOMETHING
@/slipstreamqueen:
idk what’s happening but max looks like he’s about to throw a space hopper at someone and i’m here for it
@/verstappenstans:
this is not the face of a man stuck in a rain delay
this is the face of a man stuck in a rain delay
and
in his feelings
@/slowpitstop:
can confirm max hasn’t moved in 12 minutes
zero blinking
we are witnessing the birth of a new paddock conspiracy theory in real time
@/overtakequeen:
he’s either thinking about tyre strategy
or thinking about homicide
and honestly it’s a coin toss
***
Toto Wolff’s plane, somewhere above Belgium - 27 July 2025
The hum of the engines had always been something Toto found steadying—low, constant, predictable. Tonight, it only seemed to underline the tension sitting two seats to his left.
Anastasia had claimed her usual window seat when they boarded, her noise-cancelling headphones already in place before the crew had even closed the door. Normally, by now, she’d have shed her meticulous work posture for a looser sprawl with a book in hand or her laptop open, half working, half bantering with him about something she’d read.
Tonight, she hadn’t said more than a handful of words since takeoff.
Her coat was still on. She sat angled toward the window, hood half-pulled up, knees drawn in close. Not sleeping—he could see the small, restless movements of her fingers on the armrest—but not working either. Just… turned inward.
Toto closed the last page of a report he wasn’t really reading, letting the papers rest on his knee as he watched her.
Anastasia didn’t look angry. Not exactly. But there was a distance in her face, the kind that made him think of the first months after she’d come to live with him—before she’d found her footing in Brackley, when silence had been her armour.
“Long weekend,” he said finally, careful with the tone—light, open-ended.
She didn’t look at him. “Yeah.”
“Are you feeling unwell?”
A slight shake of her head. “No.”
The headphones stayed on, but he noticed the music wasn’t playing—no faint percussion leaking out, no telltale change in her expression when a favourite passage came on. Just silence.
Toto’s hand tightened slightly on the armrest. He had seen her like this before—retreating, pulling the shutters closed. And he’d learned long ago that pressing too hard would only make her retreat further.
Still, it pulled at him.
He thought of the way she’d been all weekend—present, yes, working, yes, but without the quiet undercurrent of wry humour she usually carried. Even during the rain delay, when she’d been playing cards with Kimi and Valtteri, her smiles had been smaller, fleeting.
“You know,” he said after a beat, “I can usually tell when something’s wrong.”
That got him a glance—brief, guarded. “And?”
“And I’m not going to ask for the whole story now.” He held her gaze just long enough to make sure she understood. “But I want you to know I’m here when you want to tell it.”
Her expression shifted—fractionally, but enough for him to see something flicker behind her eyes. Then Anastasia looked back out at the dark beyond the window, hands tucked under her sleeves.
“Okay,” she said finally.
It wasn’t much. But it was something.
Toto leaned back in his seat, letting her have the space she needed, even as the quiet between them stretched on. He didn’t know what had happened yet—but he knew enough to see that whatever it was, it had settled deep.
And he wasn’t about to let it stay there forever.
***
Text Messages: Toto Wolff & Susie Wolff
Susie:
I know you’ve got meetings at Brackley tomorrow morning, but we need to talk when you come home, please.
Toto:
About what?
Susie:
Ana.
Toto:
What about her?
Susie:
Just… trust me. We’ll talk tomorrow.
Toto:
Susie—
Susie:
Tomorrow, Toto.
Don’t overthink it on the flight.
Toto:
Too late for that.
***
Chapter 20: Chapter 18: Brackley
Notes:
Warning for Sexual Assault on this chapter. It's not really *graphic* but I'll rather warn anyway.
(also no further update until Sunday-ish, because I am going on vacation, yay!)
Chapter Text
Mercedes F1 HQ, Brackley, England - 28 July 2025
The world was easier in the simulation suite.
Easier when it was numbers and telemetry and clean graphs—when Ana could just adjust parameters until they made sense and bury herself in the comfort of algorithms.
After Belgium, after the fight with Max and the endless churn of gossip that had haunted the paddock all weekend, work was the only thing that still made sense.
Code didn’t lie.
Either it worked or it didn’t.
So she had been at work at 5, one of the earliest starters, like she was always prone to be doing.
Her father preferred to take no meetings before 10 AM but Ana was the exact opposite. Ana adored Brackley when the halls were still half empty, when it was quiet.
It was easier than thinking about Friday night. Easier than replaying Max’s voice in her head—raw, furious, asking for things she didn’t know how to give.
The code didn’t need her to explain herself.
The telemetry didn’t need her to be brave.
The data didn’t get hurt when she shut it out.
Ana had gotten through a good 4 hours of work with absolutely no interruptions, but was sadly running out of caffeine, which was the only reason why she was even on the way back to her office.
She turned down the corridor toward the elevators—only to see him .
George Russell, leaning against the wall like he owned the place, phone in hand, smile already curling when he spotted her.
“Ana,” he said, straightening. “Perfect. I thought maybe we could talk
She stopped short, frowning. “I’m working.”
“Come on.” He stepped closer, too close. “I thought we should talk,” he said. “About next year. About… us.”
Her spine stiffened.
What the fuck was he talking about?!
“There is no us ,” she said sharply, shifting sideways, angling toward the elevator. “I have to go.”
But he moved with her, blocking her path.
George didn’t listen. He never really listened. That was the problem in the first place.
“I just think maybe now—with Max coming, and everything changing—it might be the right time. You and I could—” his hand shot out, fingers brushing her arm—not rough, but unwanted all the same. “Start something.”
Her mouth went dry.
“I think we’ve been dancing around something for a while,” George said, voice lower now. “And I don’t think you’d mind if I just…”
Ana realised too late what he meant .
She flinched back the second his hand reached out—just a light touch to her hip, but it sent her straight into panic.
And then he kissed her.
Not softly. Not gently. Not with permission.
Her whole body revolted.
No, no, no, no, no.
She shoved against him, hard. “Don’t—”
He didn’t let go.
“Come on,” he murmured. “You don’t have to pretend with me.”
She wasn’t pretending. She was panicking.
Her whole body revolted.
The contact was wrong —her brain screamed it. Too close, too much. Her skin crawled, sensory alarms firing all at once like glass shattering in her chest.
It wasn’t like her brain stopped working. It was worse than that.
It screamed .
Panic roared through her chest, acid and wildfire. She tried to wrench back, but his grip held.
She wasn’t a fighter. She wasn’t violent.
But her body had already made the decision.
Ana’s fist came up—instinct, desperation, rage—and she slammed it into his jaw.
Hard.
Pain exploded up her arm. Not in his face. In her hand .
Her knuckles cracked wrong. Something shifted. Something broke .
George stumbled back, stunned. “Jesus—”
She didn’t hear the rest. She didn’t stay to watch his expression.
She turned, clutching her wrist to her chest, and bolted.
Past the simulator. Down the hall. Around the corner to the executive wing, where her father’s office door stood half-open.
Straight through the corridor, past curious glances, past the control room and the boardroom and the entire façade she’d spent twenty years building. She didn’t stop until she reached the corner office with the frosted glass.
Toto looked up from his desk the moment the door slammed open.
"Ana?"
And she broke.
Hot, fast tears spilling down her cheeks, her shoulders shaking like she’d been hit.
“Papa,” she gasped.
Toto was up in an instant, around the desk and pulling her into his arms before she could even wipe her face. “Anastasia, what happened? What’s wrong?”
She clung to him like she was eight years old again and the world had just upended itself.
***
Mercedes F1 HQ, Brackley, England - 28 July 2025
Toto hadn’t seen Anastasia cry like this in years.
Not since she was fourteen and her mother hadn’t called her on her birthday. Hadn’t even sent a postcard. And even then, she hadn’t cried like this .
Now she was folded into him, breath stuttering, fists clenched in the back of his jacket like she was trying to hold herself together with muscle memory alone.
“Anastasia,” he said again, voice rougher this time, one hand braced between her shoulder blades, the other cradling the back of her head. “You have to tell me what happened.”
She just shook her head. Again and again. Trembling like something had broken loose in her chest and wouldn’t stop echoing.
“Okay,” he said quietly, trying not to panic, though his heart was already galloping. “You don’t have to speak. Just sit down.”
She cradled her wrist to her chest like it was the only thing holding her together. Her breathing was erratic, shallow, like she couldn't get enough air in or out, and then the sob burst from her lips.
“I didn’t mean to—I didn’t mean to hit him, I just—I told him no—he didn’t let go—my wrist— fuck, Papa, it hurts —”
“Okay, okay, Sternchen,” he murmured, switching to German without even thinking, soft and rapid. “Breathe, Anastasia. I’m here. You’re safe. You’re safe , do you hear me?”
She was sobbing now. Full-bodied, raw, and silent between the gasps—like her entire body had short-circuited.
He’d seen her cry maybe twice in her adult life. Not like this.
And her wrist—
He pulled back enough to inspect it.
Swollen. Already starting to bruise. Her knuckles looked wrong. Misshapen.
“God,” he muttered. “You broke it.”
“I think I punched him too hard,” Ana whispered, voice trembling.
“Who?”
Silence.
Her lip trembled.
And then, finally, like it shattered something inside her—
“George.”
The name was spit out like acid. Her entire face contorted with it.
Toto’s blood went ice-cold.
George Russell.
One of his drivers. One of the men he was supposed to lead. One of the men he had a meeting with in less than four hours .
And in that meeting, he’d been planning to tell George that his contract would not be renewed for 2026.
That Mercedes had signed Max Verstappen to partner Kimi Antonelli.
Toto had imagined George might take it badly. Maybe defensive. Maybe even cold. But this?
“George Russell ?”
Ana nodded, then buried her face in his shoulder again like she couldn’t stand to see the expression forming on his face.
And Toto wasn’t sure what expression it was. Rage? Horror? Regret?
He had to lock it down. For her.
But his mind was already a storm.
George. One of his drivers. One of the boys he was supposed to protect, but—
No. No. This was Ana.
This was his daughter.
And she was sobbing in his arms with a broken wrist because someone wouldn’t take no for an answer.
“ I didn’t want him to. I told him no—after—but he just—he just did it, and—” her breath hitched, voice breaking completely, “—and I couldn’t even move—”
She pressed her fist to her mouth, like she could somehow shove the sobs back in. Like showing this much hurt was something she needed to apologize for.
And Toto—who had spent a lifetime commanding teams, negotiating deals, and facing the most ruthless men in motorsport—felt something in his chest shatter.
Toto had to force himself to inhale. Count to three. Exhale.
Not now. He couldn’t lose it now. Not while she was still folded in his arms, coming apart in pieces.
Then stood.
Ana let out a panicked noise. “Don’t go. Don’t—don’t yell at him. I don’t want this to be— Papa— ”
He knelt back down. “I’m not yelling. I’m not doing anything. You are safe. Do you understand me?”
She nodded, jaw trembling.
“I will deal with it. I will . But I need to know… how far did he go?”
Ana shook her head immediately. “He just—kissed me. I punched him.”
Relief. Sick, sharp, short-lived.
Toto nodded slowly. “Okay. Thank you for telling me. We’ll get you to the hospital. Okay?”
“But—” she hiccuped, dragging the sleeve of her jumper across her cheek. “I still have cooling revisions—”
“ No, ” he said, as gently as he could. “No revisions. No work. Just you. You’ve done more than enough today.”
He helped her up. Gently. Slowly. Her face was streaked with tears, her whole frame trembling, but she didn’t resist when he pressed his hand to the small of her back.
As they walked past his assistant, he didn’t even slow down.
“Cancel my one o’clock with Russell,” Toto said, his voice so controlled it was almost dangerous. “Cancel my two o’clock with Kimi. Call Susie—tell her to meet us at the hospital. And then call HR. We’re going to have a very long conversation about George Russell.”
He didn’t care if the whole floor heard.
He wasn’t Team Principal right now.
He was a father .
And someone had hurt his daughter.
***
Slack Channel: #brackley-nerds
Private Channel. ~30 members.
amelie.procurement:
uhhh… anyone know why Toto just stormed out with Ana?? she looked… bad. like
really
bad.
james.brakes:
Bad how??
amelie.procurement:
Like she’d been crying.
benjy.data:
crying?!
amelie.procurement:
yeah, like
shaking
.
lucy.comms:
Toto
slammed
his door. I was in reception. Whole floor went silent.
benjy.data:
what happened?
zahra.aero:
She was holding her wrist like it was broken.
james.brakes:
WHAT.
jules.elec:
Wait—broken as in broken??
matt.merchandise:
Guys, I’m in the corridor outside the exec offices. She came in from the simulator wing at speed. George was down there earlier.
lucy.comms:
…are we connecting those dots?
flo.eng:
I’m connecting those dots.
nicola.sim:
I
saw
it.
I saw him block her by the elevators.
nicola.sim:
And then before I could even say anything, he leaned in and kissed her. She punched him and bolted.
amelie.procurement:
WHAT.
james.brakes:
Ohhhh he’s
dead
.
ian.security:
I’m pulling the hallway security footage right now.
flo.eng:
forward it to Jess in HR. Immediately.
zahra.aero:
Oh my god.
lucy.comms:
This is going to HR. Today.
Yas.enginecontrol:
Why does he think
that’s
okay?! Ana barely tolerates people
shaking her hand
unless she knows them.
jess.hr:
👋 Okay, since this is already circulating — if
anyone
has had issues with George Russell,
now
is the time to voice them. My inbox is open. My office door is open. You will be heard and it will be confidential.
lorelai.pa:
You know what? I’m done being polite. He’s been pulling this shit for months. Negging her in the break room, calling her “cold” like it’s flirting, making “jokes” about how she’d be prettier if she smiled. He even told her to “dress less like an engineer” once.
lucy.comms:
You mean
other
than “he’s a creep”?
nicola.sim:
Or the way he “compliments” women by implying they’re lucky to be here? 🙄
ian.security:
security cam footage sent to HR.
zahra.aero:
Or that time in hospitality in Monaco when he wouldn’t stop talking to Ana even though she was clearly trying to leave?
flo.eng:
Good. I’ve had it with him.
yas.enginecontrol:
Same. The way he talks to her in engineering briefings is gross. “You know, Ana, you might get farther if you softened your tone a bit. You come across a little… intimidating in meetings.” WHO SAYS THAT?!
james.brakes:
He once told her she should “let him take her shopping so she could look the part of a Mercedes engineer.” Like what the fuck does that even mean?
jules.elec:
Or the way he always “just happens” to need something from whoever’s working next to her desk?
liv.strategy
:
or when he said she’d be “even prettier if she smiled more” and she just stared at him until he backed off??
david.aero:
he told me once he was “just breaking through her ice queen act” 🙄
benjy.data:
wow. that’s…
yas.enginecontrol:
Or when he stood
inches
behind her at Silverstone in the garage? I thought she was going to jump out of her skin.
jess.hr:
All noted. Please DM me specifics, dates, and any witnesses.
flo.eng:
So… Toto’s cancelling meetings and walking out with Ana. George is rattled. Kimi’s four o’clock was cancelled. What does that
sound
like to you?
benjy.data:
It sounds like George isn’t going to be here much longer.
jules.elec:
Good. He’s been making Ana uncomfortable for
months
. I’m done watching it happen.
zahra.aero:
Same.
And for the record — if anyone tries to spin this as “misunderstood” or “bad timing,” I’ll personally set the wind tunnel to 300kph and see how long they last inside.
***
Wolff Residence, Monaco - 28 July 2025
The call came while she was in the middle of a sponsor meeting.
Toto’s secretary never called her directly unless it was urgent.
“Mrs. Wolff—” The voice was clipped, low, the kind of tone you use when you don’t want the whole office to hear. “You need to come to Horton General Hospital. It’s Ana.”
Susie’s pen froze mid-signature. “What happened?”
“I don’t know the full story. She came into Toto’s office—her wrist is broken, and she was… crying. He’s with her now. He said to call you immediately.” A breath, too careful. “It’s about George Russell.”
Susie didn’t ask another question. She was already on her feet, snapping for her bag. The flight from Nice to Luton blurred into muscle memory—driver, private jet, driver again—her mind a loop of worst-case scenarios.
The flight to Luton was a blur—just the drone of engines, the burn of adrenaline, and the steady, suffocating loop in her head: Valtteri warned me.
She should have said something before Spa. To Hell with Max Verstappen signing with Mercedes.
No Driver contract could ever be worth more than her daughter.
Men like George Russell didn’t take no for an answer.
Susie should have fucking seen it coming .
And now Ana was in a hospital bed, and Susie was wondering if she’d made the worst misjudgment of her life.
***
Horton General Hospital, Banbury, England - 28 July 2025
Toto had never liked hospitals.
Too white, too sharp, too clean in a way that made you notice every smudge of fear clinging to the air. He could handle pit walls in chaos, a garage on fire—literally—but hospitals were something else entirely.
He stayed close to Ana as the admitting nurse asked questions, his hand resting lightly on her shoulder. She was still clutching her wrist, refusing to let anyone touch it until the X-rays. But what worried him wasn’t the wrist—it was the way she’d gone silent.
She had been spiraling since they’d arrived—every touch from the nurse, every question from the doctor setting her further on edge. She answered in short, clipped bursts until she stopped answering entirely.
When they’d tried to examine her wrist, she’d pulled back so violently the IV stand rattled.
“I don’t want—don’t—” Her voice had broken completely.
“Anastasia, it’s alright,” Toto had said, bracing her shoulder. “They just need to look.”
They were led to a curtained bay in the orthopaedics wing. Ana sat on the edge of the bed like it might collapse under her. Her shoulders were hunched, her eyes fixed somewhere far away.
When the doctor came in and started to examine her wrist, it was like something snapped.
“No—no, don’t touch me!”
It wasn’t loud. But it was sharp enough to cut the air in half. She scrambled back against the wall, the bed clattering beneath her.
“Anastasia…Sternchen—” Toto started, but she wasn’t hearing him.
Her breath was coming fast, too fast. She was shaking her head, over and over, as if that alone could erase the last hour. Her free hand fisted in the sheet, white-knuckled.
The doctor tried to calm her, explaining that they needed to see the injury, but every word seemed to make her retreat further.
Then the sobs came. Raw, choking, tearing out of her like she was breaking in real time.
And Toto—who had made a career of commanding people, solving impossible problems, holding entire teams steady—felt utterly powerless.
“It’s alright,” he said, moving between her and the doctor, crouching so she could see only him. “No one is going to hurt you. You’re safe.”
But she was barely breathing now, her eyes darting, unfocused, her body locked like it was bracing for another blow.
She’d been breathing too fast, too shallow—borderline hyperventilating. Eyes wide but unfocused. Her nails digging into her own arm like she was trying to anchor herself to the pain.
The attending doctor had murmured something about “acute distress response” and “safety sedation” and Toto had hated it.
Every word. Every implication that they needed to chemically quiet his daughter because she was drowning in something she couldn’t even name aloud.
But when Ana had gasped out “No—no—I can’t—please—” and then started to shake so violently he’d had to physically hold her up, he’d realized she was already slipping beyond the point where his voice could reach her.
The doctor’s voice was low, urgent. “She’s in acute distress. If we can’t get her to settle, we risk shock.”
Toto’s jaw tightened. “Do it.”
“A mild sedative will help her stabilise—”
“Do it,” he repeated, sharper this time.
They administered it quickly, an injection into her upper arm while Toto kept her attention, murmuring in German. She flinched, but by then her sobs had weakened into shuddering gasps.
Within minutes, her breathing began to slow. The rigid set of her shoulders loosened fractionally. Her eyes, still wet, began to lose that wild edge.
He didn’t move from her side until she finally slumped sideways, letting herself lean into him. The sedative had tipped her past the point of resistance.
“I’ve got you,” he said quietly, his hand steady against her back. “You don’t have to do anything else today. Nothing.”
She didn’t answer—already half under—but her fingers curled weakly into his jacket.
And Toto knew, with the kind of cold clarity he reserved for life-or-death calls, that George Russell would not see another race in a Mercedes.
Not after this.
The doctor spoke softly. “We’ll X-ray the wrist. It’s badly swollen—likely a fracture.”
Toto nodded once. His throat felt tight.
She looked so young like this.
Not the sharp, capable engineer who could stare down a room full of senior staff. Not the woman who could cut a man in half with a single precise sentence.
Just his daughter—small, pale, and hurt.
He studied her face. She looked younger like this. Not in a good way—more like the thin, defensive child he’d first met, dropped into his life without warning. The one who hadn’t really spoken to him for weeks.
It twisted something in his chest.
The doctor’s voice broke through his thoughts. “She’ll be groggy for the next few hours. The sedation was light—enough to get her through the acute phase. She may not remember much of this.”
Toto nodded. “That’s fine. Thank you.” His voice was flat, but his grip on Ana’s hand didn’t loosen.
When they were alone again, he sat back down, leaning forward so his forehead rested briefly against her temple.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured in German, so soft it was almost a thought instead of words. “I should have seen this coming. I should have—”
He didn’t finish.
There would be time for rage later. For HR, for legal, for ending George Russell’s contract in the most final way possible.
Right now, there was only Ana—sedated, small, and still gripping his fingers even in her half-conscious state.
And Toto Wolff was not letting go.
***
Mercedes F1 HQ, Brackley, England - 28 July 2025
Bono had come down to the simulator floor for one reason — to chase up some data.
It wasn’t supposed to be a long visit. A quick in-and-out, a word with one of the telemetry analysts, and then back upstairs.
But as he passed the open break room door, voices drifted out — younger voices, still in that slightly too-loud register of people who think they’re alone.
He wouldn’t have noticed them at all if one of them hadn’t said Ana’s name.
“…yeah, Jess from HR pulled me in this morning. Asked if I’d ever seen George talking to her like that.
Bono slowed.
“Like what?” someone else asked.
“You know. That… weird, backhanded thing he does? Telling her she should smile more, asking why she never comes to drinks, saying she’s ‘wasted’ just hiding behind a computer all the time.”
A muffled laugh, the kind you make when you’re uncomfortable.
“Yeah, he cornered her outside the wind tunnel last month—kept saying she’d be more ‘approachable’ if she wore her hair down. I thought she was going to take his head off.”
Another voice chimed in, lower now, almost guilty: “I saw what happened. Or at least part of it. He kissed her. She punched him—hard—and ran straight for Toto’s office. Looked… scared.”
“Scared?”
“Yeah. Proper scared. Clutching her hand like she’d hurt herself. And now George is nowhere to be seen, so—”
“Do you think—?”
They never finished the question.
“Enough.”
Bono’s voice cut through their little circle like a wire snapping.
Four heads turned, eyes going wide. The performance analyst holding the chocolate bar suddenly looked like he wanted to melt into the floor.
“This isn’t a gossip column,” Bono said, voice low but dangerous. “That’s your colleague you’re talking about. Someone who’s been here longer than any of you. Someone who’s earned more respect than this.”
They all shuffled uncomfortably. One muttered, “We didn’t mean—”
“I don’t care what you meant,” Bono said sharply. “If you saw something, you take it to HR. If you heard something, you keep it there. She doesn’t need this place turning her day into a bloody rumour mill on top of everything else.”
He didn’t wait for a reply.
Didn’t trust himself to stand there without saying more.
Because underneath the calm, his chest was tight with fury—the cold kind, the one that didn’t shout. The one that remembered every smile Ana had given him over the years, every late-night telemetry review she’d pulled, every time she’d made herself small to keep the peace.
Ana was Toto’s daughter, yes — but she was their Ana too. The one who stayed late in the sim for them, who fixed problems no one else could even find in thousands of lines of code.
And now George bloody Russell had—
Bono’s jaw tightened as he kept walking.
He’d wait for the HR email. He’d get the full story.
But in his head, one thing was already clear: if half of what he’d just overheard was true, George was lucky Toto was dealing with it before Bono got the chance.
***
Text Messages: Peter “Bono” Bonnington & Valtteri Bottas
Bono:
You heard what happened?
Valtteri:
No. What?
Bono:
George put his hands on Ana. After she told him no.
She broke her hand getting away from him.
She’s in hospital.
Valtteri:
…
Valtteri:
I told Susie months ago I didn’t like the way he looked at her.
Should have said it louder.
Bono:
Yeah. You should’ve.
Valtteri:
How bad?
Bono:
Bad enough HR has the footage. Bad enough Toto cancelled every meeting today.
Bad enough I want to find out where Georg Russell is just to have a word.
Valtteri:
Forget “a word.”
I can deal with him the Finnish way.
Bono:
Which is?
Valtteri:
Quiet.
Efficient.
Permanent.
Bono:
…
Tempting.
Valtteri:
Just say the word.
Bono:
Get in line.
***
Horton General Hospital, Banbury, England - 28 July 2025
Ana was asleep when Susie stepped into the hospital room.
Not the restless kind of sleep that came from exhaustion, but the heavy, sedative-dragged sleep of someone whose body had forced them to shut down. She was curled awkwardly on her side, wrist bandaged, hair half-fallen out of its tie.
Toto was in the chair beside her, jacket still on, eyes fixed on her face like he was trying to memorise every detail.
Susie didn’t say anything at first. She just crossed the room and rested her hand on his shoulder. He looked up, and that was when she saw it—fury, banked low but burning hot, threaded through the worry in his eyes.
“How bad?” she asked quietly.
“She punched George Russell,” Toto said, voice like gravel. “Broke her wrist. After he kissed her against her will.”
Susie’s stomach dropped. She looked at Ana again—at the way her fingers twitched slightly even in sleep. “God.”
“She’s going back to Monaco with you,” Toto said, standing, the decision final before she could argue. “Today. As soon as the doctors clear her. I have… things to take care of here.”
Susie knew what “things” meant.
Her throat tightened. This was the moment she should tell him. Get it out. Confess that she’d known something was off weeks ago. That Valtteri had noticed it too. That she’d let it slide.
She swallowed, then forced herself to say it. “Toto… I should have told you.”
His gaze sharpened. “Told me what ?”
“Valtteri mentioned something. Weeks ago. That George was…being….difficult to Ana. That he was…making comments. Trying to change her…make her more…palatable. I didn’t want to cause a problem before Spa. I was going to tell you tonight. Once Max’s signing was public. I didn’t want to throw this on your plate when you already had—”
The air between them went glacial.
“You knew,” Toto said slowly, “and you did not tell me .”
“I didn’t think it was—”
“Not important?” His voice cut like ice. “Not urgent? He kissed my daughter against her will today. She’s in a hospital bed with a broken wrist, Susie. And you knew there was something wrong.”
Her jaw tightened, shame prickling hot under her skin. “I thought I had time to talk to you—”
“You didn’t,” he snapped, so sharp it startled even her. “You never have time when it comes to this. I would have pulled him from the seat before Spa.”
Susie’s own anger flared, fast and defensive. “And I would have, too, if I’d thought it was serious. Don’t you dare act like I don’t care about her safety. I’m furious with myself for not seeing it clearly.”
The tension was a knife between them, heavy and cutting.
“I was going to tell you,” she repeated. “After Spa. Once Max’s signing was public. I didn’t want to throw this on your plate when you already had—”
His chair scraped back sharply. “You didn’t want to throw it on my plate? Susie, that man kissed my daughter against her will in my own factory. And you knew there was a problem.”
She’d seen him angry before—on pit walls, in boardrooms—but never like this. This was personal. This was rage .
“I didn’t think he’d be that stupid.”
“Well, he was.”
He looked back at Ana, jaw tight. “Take her home. Keep her with you in Monaco. I’ll deal with Russell, and I’ll deal with the board. She is not setting foot in Brackley until I’ve burned this out to the roots.”
And Susie, for the first time in a long time, was almost afraid of what “deal with” might mean.
They stood there for a long moment, the sound of Ana’s breathing the only thing breaking the silence.
Finally, Toto glanced at his watch. “The car will take you both to Luton. My pilot’s waiting.”
She understood the unspoken part. He wasn’t going with them. Not yet.
Because George Russell still had a Mercedes contract.
And Toto was about to make sure that wasn’t true by morning.
Susie nodded, turning back to Ana. She tucked the blanket around her, careful of the splint.
If Toto was going to war with George Russell, she’d make sure Ana never had to set foot anywhere near the battlefield.
***
Mercedes F1 HQ, Brackley, England - 28 July 2025
Kimi Antonelli had been half-convinced he was getting fired.
Nobody scheduled a last-minute one-on-one with Toto Wolff and called it “important” unless something was wrong.
He’d been rehearsing possible reasons all morning — maybe he’d said the wrong thing in an interview, maybe someone had taken a joke out of context, maybe Mercedes had decided to put a more experienced driver alongside Max in 2026.
By the time he walked down the corridor toward the executive offices, he’d worked himself into a low-grade dread.
But the door to Toto’s office was closed.
The lights inside were off.
Instead, Bono was leaning against the wall across from it, arms folded.
“Kimi,” Bono said.
“Hi,” Kimi replied cautiously. “Where’s Toto?”
“Meeting’s cancelled,” Bono said. “He’s at the hospital with Ana.”
Kimi blinked. “Is she sick?”
Bono’s mouth tightened. “No. She’s hurt.”
Something in his tone made Kimi’s stomach sink. “What happened?”
Bono hesitated for a second — just long enough to glance around and make sure the hallway was empty — then said, low and clipped:
“George happened.”
Kimi frowned. “George…?”
“He cornered her this morning. Ignored her telling him no. Put his hands on her. She punched him to get away. Broke her hand doing it.”
For a moment, Kimi just stared.
Then: “He
what
?”
Bono’s voice was ice. “HR has the footage. He’s on leave, pending investigation. Toto’s… not in the mood to be calm about it. None of us are. Valtteri is in the second seat now.”
Kimi’s brain was already jumping — from the rain delay in Spa when Ana had been playing cards next to him, to the little ways she always kept a careful distance from people she didn’t trust, to the fact that George had been just a bit too smug around her lately.
And now—
Kimi exhaled slowly through his nose. “Good. He should be gone.”
Bono gave a short nod. “Get used to working with Max next year. That was the other thing Toto was going to tell you today.”
Kimi blinked. “Oh.”
Bono’s mouth twitched, but there was no humour in it. “Not the way I thought you’d hear the news, but here we are.”
***
Mercedes F1 HQ, Brackley, England - 28 July 2025
Toto Wolff sat with his hands steepled in front of him, elbows planted on the table.
He hadn’t said much yet.
Just walked in, nodded once, and closed the door behind him with a soft click .
Three senior HR representatives—Jessica, Caroline, and Michael—were already there. They weren’t new. They knew him. They knew the particular stillness he carried when he was angry.
Really angry. The kind that didn’t shout. The kind that settled in his bones like steel waiting to snap.
Jessica was the one who finally broke the silence. She didn’t bother with pleasantries.
“The security footage corroborates what your daughter—what Ana reported,” Jessica began, her voice careful.
“She didn’t report it,” Toto said, voice quiet. Flat. “She came into my office crying with a fractured wrist after trying to escape someone she told no .”
“We’ve compiled the statements,” Caroline said, sliding a folder across the table. “From staff who saw the incident. From those who’ve interacted with George in the last year. From people who’ve overheard things.”
Toto didn’t open it yet. “Tell me.”
Jess exchanged a glance with Caroline, then said it plainly.
“The kiss wasn’t an isolated thing.”
The air in the room went still.
“He’s been… pushing , for months,” Jess continued. “Making comments about her appearance—telling her she’d be ‘prettier if she smiled more,’ that she should ‘dress less like an engineer.’ Joking that she’s ‘too cold’ for anyone to date, then calling it flirting. He’s been telling people he was going to get her to ‘loosen up’.”
Toto’s jaw tightened.
“Multiple witnesses say he’s waited for her in common areas. Break room, corridors near her office, outside the simulator suite. A couple of times, he followed her when she tried to walk away. Lorelai—her PA—says Ana started avoiding the kitchen entirely because he’d corner her there.”
Michael added, uneasily, “We also have him on record from a hospitality suite in Silverstone telling another staffer that Ana just needed the ‘right man to get her out of her shell.’”
Toto still hadn’t moved. His fingers pressed tighter together, knuckles whitening.
Jess opened the folder for him and slid over a printed still from the hallway security footage—George stepping in front of Ana, her trying to move past, his hand catching her arm.
“This is the moment before the kiss,” Jess said quietly. “The rest is worse.”
Toto looked at it for exactly one second before pushing it back across the table.
“I don’t need to watch my daughter get assaulted on company property,” he said, clipped. “I know what she told me. I believe her.”
Caroline cleared her throat. “We’ve taken his statement. He admits to the kiss, says he ‘misread signals.’ He claims he didn’t realise she was distressed until she struck him.”
“She punched him,” Toto said. “She fought her way out of a situation she did not consent to. She broke her wrist doing it.”
He sat back, eyes sharp. “Anastasia is one of the brightest engineers in this company. She’s not just my daughter. She’s a department lead. She builds the engines that keep us competitive. She deserves safety in this workplace. She deserves respect.”
“She has both,” Caroline said gently.
“Does she?” he asked, sharp now. “Because she didn’t even want to come to me. Do you understand how broken something has to be for your daughter to show up with a broken wrist and not want to say why ?”
No one answered.
Toto’s voice stayed level, but it was the kind of level that shook mountains.
“I want formal documentation. A report filed. I want every detail entered into the system. No brushing this aside. No protecting him because of his title. George Russell is still our race driver—for now—but if you think that protects him from consequences, you are mistaken.”
Michael shifted uncomfortably. “We were waiting for legal consultation before—”
“You have my directive,” Toto snapped. “Proceed. Full investigation. And I want him nowhere near Ana, her department, or any engineering spaces until it’s complete.”
Jess didn’t flinch under his glare. “Understood. And, for the record, Toto—this isn’t going away quietly. Too many people saw it.”
“Good,” Toto said. “Let it be loud. Let everyone see what happens when you cross that line here.”
Another beat of silence.
“I’m not asking for special treatment for my daughter,” he added. “I’m asking for the bare minimum owed to any woman in this company.”
He stood.
Straightened his suit jacket.
Paused.
“What do we need to do to make sure this never happens again?” he asked.
Caroline didn’t hesitate. ““Mandatory consent and conduct training for all staff, including drivers. Review of driver integration protocols, given the power imbalance. A dedicated reporting channel outside normal hierarchy. And we’ll speak with Ana—let her set the terms for what comes next.”
Toto nodded once. “Good. Do it.”
He stood, but paused at the door. “And Caroline?”
“Yes?”
“I don’t want a sanitized version of this on the record. I want truth. Transparency. And I want him gone if the investigation confirms what we already know.”
“You have my word.”
He left the room.
And for the first time in a long time, the man who ran Mercedes didn’t feel like the one in control.
***
Email Subject: Important: Workplace Conduct Update
From:
Jessica Palmer <[email protected]>
To:
All Mercedes AMG PETRONAS F1 Staff
Dear All,
This is to inform you that, effective immediately, George Russell will be on leave from all team duties pending the outcome of an internal investigation into a workplace conduct matter. He will be replaced by Valtteri Bottas for the Hungarian Grand Prix.
We understand that situations like this may generate questions or speculation. Please be aware that, in line with our commitment to confidentiality and due process, we will not be sharing details beyond what is necessary to ensure the safety and integrity of our workplace.
During this period:
- Mr. Russell will have no access to team facilities except as expressly authorized by HR and senior management.
- All matters related to this investigation should be referred directly to the HR department.
- If you have information relevant to this matter and have not yet spoken to HR, please reach out via the dedicated reporting channel: [email protected] or directly to myself, Caroline Hughes, or Michael Patel. This channel is open to all staff, and any reports will be treated with the utmost seriousness and confidentiality.
We take the safety, dignity, and wellbeing of our staff extremely seriously. The Mercedes-AMG Petronas Formula One Team is committed to ensuring that our workplace remains respectful, inclusive, and free from harassment.
Thank you for your cooperation and understanding.
Kind regards,
Jessica Palmer
Human Resources
Mercedes-AMG Petronas Formula One Team
***
Text Messages: Valtteri Bottas & Lewis Hamilton
Valtteri
:
You busy?
Lewis
:
In the gym. Why?
Valtteri
:
You need to know what George did.
Not gossip. Not rumours. Real.
At Brackley.
Lewis
:
…Go on.
Valtteri
:
He cornered Ana. Kissed her without consent. She told him no.
She punched him to get away. Broke her hand.
Lewis
:
What the actual
fuck
.
Valtteri
:
HR has the security footage. Other people in the factory had complaints before too… Just like we heard. Negging. Trying to “make her more sociable.” That kind of shit.
Lewis :
No. No no no. I’m gonna lose my fucking mind .
Valtteri
:
I already offered to deal with it the Finnish way.
Lewis
:
Valtteri, I swear to God—
She’s like family to me. And if he’s walking around the paddock smiling like nothing happened?
Valtteri
:
He’s on leave now. Pending investigation.
Toto’s furious. Brackley’s furious.
Lewis
:
Good. Because if I see him before this is dealt with, it’s not going to be an HR problem anymore.
***
Wolff Residence, Monaco - 28 July 2025
Ana wasn’t sleeping — not really. She was drifting in and out, eyelids fluttering under the hazy drag of sedatives and painkillers, her head heavy against Susie’s shoulder.
She barely stirred when the car pulled up outside the Wolffs’ place in Monaco, moving like a zombie. The late-afternoon sun painted everything gold, but Susie felt none of it.
Inside, she guided Ana straight to the guest room — the one with the pale curtains and the quilt Susie’s mother had made — easing her down to sit before slipping her shoes off and tucking the blanket over her legs.
“Home,” Susie said gently, even though she wasn’t sure Ana could process it.
Ana made a soft sound in response — not quite a word, not quite a sigh. Then, slowly, she blinked her way back to some fragile awareness… and started to speak.
It wasn’t English.
It wasn’t German.
Susie stilled. Russian.
She’d only ever heard Ana speak it twice before — once when she was sick with the flu, and once in her sleep after too much champagne on New Year’s Eve.
The words tumbled out now, unsteady and slurred, like her mouth was chasing them faster than her brain could shape them.
Susie didn’t understand a syllable. But the tone — the raw, unguarded heartbreak in it — hit her all the same.
“Hey,” Susie murmured, crouching down so she was level with her. “It’s okay. You’re safe here.”
Ana shook her head, eyes glassy. “Нет,” she said — firm, like she was rejecting the idea outright — before stumbling into more Russian, her voice tightening, the edges fraying.
Then, just as abruptly, she switched to English.
“…and he hates me,” she whispered.
Susie blinked. “What?”
Ana’s mouth trembled. “I—he… I made him angry. Friday night. And now—”
Her voice crumpled. The next breath hitched, sharp, and then she was crying. Not loud, but deep, shuddering sobs that shook her narrow frame under the blanket.
Susie reached for her hand — careful of the splint — and smoothed the hair back from her damp cheeks.
“I’ve got you,” she murmured. “Whatever it is, we’ll sort it out.”
But Ana only shook her head, tears catching on her lashes. “I ruined it. I ruin everything. He—he hates me now.””
Susie stilled. She didn’t know who he was. Didn’t know if she wanted to know right now. But the rawness in Ana’s voice was enough to twist something in her chest.
“You didn’t ruin anything,” Susie said firmly.
Ana gave no sign she’d heard. She was already curling tighter under the blanket, her words slipping back into Russian, quieter now, almost like a lullaby she was whispering to herself.
Susie stayed until her breathing evened out again, until the trembling eased.
She stayed there, holding on, until the sedatives pulled Ana under again — her breathing evening out, her face still streaked with tears.
Then Susie sat back, brushing her thumb over the back of Ana’s good hand, already turning over the morning in her mind.
Already thinking that she should have said something sooner.
Already knowing she would never forgive George Russell for making Ana cry like this — or herself for not seeing it coming.
For now, she just kept her voice low and steady.
“You’re safe here,” she said again. And she hoped, one day, Ana would believe it.
Chapter 21: Chapter 19: Monaco
Chapter Text
Group Chat: “WHO IS MAX VERSTAPPEN DATING”
(Members: Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, Carlos Sainz, Daniel Ricciardo, Alex Albon)
Alex
:
Why is this group chat even called this??
Lando
:
because max has a girlfriend and literally NOBODY knows who she is 😤
Alex
:
…that’s the reason??
Alex
:
Wait. He has a girlfriend? Since when??
Lando
:
THAT’S WHAT WE WANT TO KNOW. Daniel knows and he won’t tell us.
Daniel
:
😊
Alex
:
So this entire chat exists just to stalk Verstappen’s love life?
Lando
:
It’s called INVESTIGATIVE JOURNALISM.
Alex
:
Or obsession.
Lando
:
Okay Sherlock Holmes, tell me you wouldn’t want to know who she is.
Carlos
:
I don’t care.
Oscar
:
I also don’t care.
Daniel
:
They’re lying. They care.
Carlos
:
Shut up, Daniel.
Alex
:
Wait wait wait. So
you
know, Dan?
Daniel
:
mhm.
Lando
:
AND HE REFUSES TO TELL US.
Oscar
:
That’s because it’s none of our business.
Lando
:
betrayal. treason. backstabbing.
Carlos
:
This is going to end badly.
Oscar
:
Definitely.
Daniel :
Max would kill you all if he knew about this chat 😂
Lando
:
worth it.
***
Text Messages: Lewis Hamilton & Nico Rosberg
Lewis:
I don’t usually text you, but I’m giving you a heads up.
Before you hear it through the press.
Nico:
Oh,
this
must be serious if you’re breaking the sacred vow of silence.
What, you finally retiring?
Lewis:
Cute. No.
It’s about Ana.
Nico:
…Ana?
What happened?
Lewis:
George crossed a line. Put his hands on her.
She fought him off, but she’s hurt.
HR are on it. Toto’s pulling strings, but it’s ugly.
Nico:
…
You’re joking. Tell me you’re joking.
Lewis:
Wish I was.
She ended up in hospital after the fallout.
Nico:
Fuck. I thought she was safe with Toto and Susie around.
Lewis:
She
should
have been.
None of us expected this.
Nico:
Does Toto know I’m going to break every bone in that guy’s body?
Lewis:
He’s handling it.
Trust me, he’s furious enough for all of us.
Nico:
Handling it isn’t enough.
She didn’t deserve this.
Lewis:
Agreed.
But you need to keep your cool. If this leaks from the wrong mouth, it’ll hurt her more.
Nico:
Fine. But don’t expect me to stay quiet if the FIA or Mercedes try to bury it.
Lewis:
I wouldn’t.
We’re on the same side.
***
Wolff Residence, Monaco - 28 July 2025
Jack came through the door with his usual schoolbag thump and the sound of sneakers on tile. His voice was bright, full of the chatter of playground politics.
“Mum? Why’s Ana here? I saw her shoes by the door!”
Susie glanced up from where she sat on the sofa, watching Ana sleep fitfully on the guest room couch, blanket tucked tight. Jack’s wide blue eyes looked expectant, curious, unguarded. He adored Ana, though he didn’t see her often—she was a rarity in Monaco, like a comet that blazed by, left him grinning at her quiet explanations of stars and machines.
“Yes, darling,” Susie said carefully, rising to meet him. “Ana’s here.”
Jack frowned, sensing the tension before she even said it. “She’s… sick?”
Susie crouched to his level. It was always the hardest part of motherhood—the choice between protecting his innocence and respecting his intelligence. He was eight. Old enough to know something was wrong. Too young for the full horror.
“She’s hurt,” Susie said gently. “Someone at work treated her very badly. Someone who didn’t listen when she said no.”
Jack blinked. Processing. “Like… bullied her?”
“Yes,” Susie said slowly. “But worse than that. He frightened her. And he grabbed her when she didn’t want him to. She got away, but she hurt her wrist.”
Jack’s face screwed up. Angry. Confused. “That’s not fair. You’re not supposed to touch someone if they don’t want it. Everyone knows that.”
“Exactly,” Susie whispered, brushing his hair back. “Everyone should know that. But this man didn’t listen.”
Jack hesitated, chewing his lip. “Who was it?”
Susie’s chest tightened. She’d hoped he wouldn’t ask—at least not yet. But his eyes were steady, and she couldn’t lie to him. He deserved truth, in a shape he could carry.
“It was George,” she said softly. “The one who drives for Papa.”
Jack froze. The name landed like a stone in water, rippling through his memory. “George?” he repeated, voice small. “But… he was always nice to me.”
“I know,” Susie said, pulling him close. “Sometimes people can seem nice, and still do very wrong things. That’s why it’s so important to listen when someone says no. George didn’t. And he hurt Ana. That’s why she’s here now.”
Jack buried his face against her shoulder, breathing hard. “I don’t like him anymore.”
“You don’t have to,” Susie murmured, holding him tight. “Papa doesn’t, either. And George won’t be coming back.”
Jack pulled back, eyes wet and angry. “Is he going to get in trouble?”
“Yes,” Susie said firmly. “He already is. And Papa is making very sure of it.”
Jack looked toward the guest room, voice small again. “Does Ana know she’s safe here?”
“She’ll know,” Susie promised. “Because we’ll show her. Quiet voices. Kindness. Giving her space when she needs it. You can help by being patient with her.”
Jack nodded, solemn. Then hesitated. “If she’s sad, can I… draw her something? Like when you get me to make cards for Papa?”
That nearly undid her. Susie kissed his forehead. “That’s a wonderful idea. I think it would mean the world to her.”
When he slipped off toward his room, already muttering about crayons, Susie stayed kneeling on the kitchen floor a moment longer, swallowing the lump in her throat. She hated that Jack had to learn so young that the world could be cruel—worse, that cruelty could come from someone he thought he knew.
But maybe, just maybe, this was how he would grow into a man who never let cruelty go unanswered.
***
Text Messages: Kimi Antonelli & Oliver Bearman
Kimi:
Good news: I won’t be jobless next year.
Bad news: George Russell is fucking insane.
Ollie:
…define insane?
Kimi:
He apparently kissed Ana Wolff against her will this morning. She broke her wrist punching him to get away.
Ollie:
WHAT THE FUCK.
Kimi:
Toto cancelled our meeting because HR and lawyers are all over it. Whole factory is like a morgue.
Ollie:
…mate, that’s not “bad news.” That’s a catastrophe.
Jesus Christ.
I don’t even know what to say.
holy shit.
Kimi:
I don’t get how someone thinks that’s okay.
like she’s just…
ours.
You know? She’s one of us. Part of the team. She’s brilliant.
I feel sick.
Ollie:
Do we send her something??
Flowers? Chocolate?
A flaming effigy of George Russell?
Kimi:
I feel like she’d hate all of those
but the thought is nice.
***
Wolff Residence, Monaco - 28 July 2025
The guest bedroom was dim, curtains drawn against the harsh Riviera sun. Susie had been working in the kitchen, answering emails on her laptop, when she heard the low, panicked sound of retching.
She was at Ana’s side in seconds.
Ana was half-curled on the bed, pale, trembling, a sheen of sweat across her forehead. The wastebasket Susie had left beside the bed that morning was clutched to her chest, her shoulders heaving as she retched again.
The sedatives the doctors had given her—necessary in the moment, but blunt instruments all the same—were fighting with her system. She gagged again, pale and trembling, and Susie quickly slid a hand beneath her shoulders, steadying her with practiced calm.
“There we go, darling,” Susie murmured, voice low and steady. “I’ve got you.”
Ana shuddered, tears pricking at her lashes. “I’m sorry,” she whispered hoarsely, voice breaking. “I—sorry.”
The word broke something sharp in Susie’s chest. She brushed damp hair back from Ana’s forehead, her tone fierce but gentle. “None of that,” Susie said firmly. “You don’t apologise for being unwell. Ever. Do you understand me?”
Ana blinked up at her, glassy-eyed, and Susie saw it—how thin the line was between exhaustion and despair.
Ana gave a tiny, miserable nod, but her eyes didn’t quite focus. She was still floating somewhere between the sedatives and the crash of adrenaline, lost in a fog that frightened Susie more than she let show.
Susie fetched a cool cloth and pressed it lightly to Ana’s skin, her movements steady and soothing even as her own worry grew. This wasn’t just exhaustion. This was her body in revolt.
When Ana finally sagged back against the pillows, spent, Susie stayed seated on the edge of the bed. She stroked her hair until her breathing evened out, watching every rise and fall of her chest like a hawk.
But inside, Susie’s decision had already crystallised.
She slipped out into the hall, pulled her phone from her pocket, and dialed a number.. Their family doctor picked up on the second ring.
“Hello, Dr. Laurent? It’s Susie Wolff. I’m sorry to trouble you, but I need a house call. As soon as possible.” She paused, glancing down at Ana, whose skin was far too pale. “Yes. It’s urgent.”
The doctor assured her he would come immediately.
Susie ended the call, leaning back against the wall for a moment, gathering herself. Then she went back into the room. Back to Ana. Because until the doctor arrived, she was not leaving her side.
Susie had dealt with countless crises—races gone wrong, media firestorms, even boardroom wars—but this was different. This was family.
And she wasn’t about to let Ana weather it alone.
***
Mercedes F1 HQ, Brackley, England - 28 July 2025
Brackley had never felt like this.
Andreas Steiner had walked those corridors for years—through triumph and through loss—and the heartbeat of the factory had always been there, even on the quietest Mondays. The shuffle of engineers carrying laptops between meetings, the low thrum of dyno tests behind heavy doors, the faint hum of printers spitting out design schematics. It was a place that breathed.
Now it felt like a tomb.
Now Andreas walked the corridors with a strange awareness that every conversation stopped when he approached, every whisper broke apart into nervous laughter. People were unsettled. Shaken. He was too.
He saw it in the way corridors emptied at the sound of approaching footsteps, in the glances exchanged between engineers who didn’t dare voice what they’d overheard. Rumor traveled fast in Formula One. Faster, sometimes, than the cars. But the truth—what George Russell had done to Ana Wolff—had outpaced even rumor.
But more than anything, he was furious.
Not just at what George Russell had done—though the knowledge of it made his jaw tighten until his molars ached—but at the ripple it had left in its wake. Ana was bright, meticulous, and brilliant, and now she was a ghost in her own workplace.
Now, walking through the hushed corridors of Brackley, Andreas thought of the drivers who were still technically the team’s pride and poster boys. And of Ana—sharp, brilliant Ana—who had only ever asked to be left alone to do her work.
And Toto…
Andreas had known Toto Wolff for nearly a decade. He had seen him furious at race control, at rivals, at regulations that made no sense. He had seen him lose his temper, slam doors, break headsets. That anger had always been sharp, loud, kinetic.
This wasn’t that.
This was worse.
Toto was too still. Too quiet. When Andreas had stood in his office earlier that morning, Toto hadn’t raised his voice once. He hadn’t needed to. The words were calm, clipped, but edged with a fury that felt colder than ice. The kind of fury that waited. That sharpened itself on silence. That didn’t flare up and burn out—it stayed, and stayed, and stayed.
Andreas knew what it meant when Toto got like that. It meant there would be no mistakes. No rash decisions. Everything would be methodical. Documented. Relentless.
The conference room was packed, but no one leaned back in their chairs the way they usually did. No crossed arms, no idle scrolling through laptops. Everyone sat straight, eyes forward.
Because Toto Wolff was at the head of the table, and every line of his body told them this was not a meeting they could afford to half-listen to.
Andreas slid into his seat and laid his pen across the notes he wouldn’t need.
Toto didn’t bother with a preamble.
“You all know why we are here.”
Not a question. A statement.
Andreas felt the room flinch.
“My daughter was assaulted in this building. By one of our own drivers. By someone who thought his position excused him from respecting the people who keep this team alive.”
The words landed like hammer blows. No euphemisms. No hedging. Toto had stripped the language bare.
He leaned forward, bracing his hands on the table. “This is not a PR problem. This is not a matter of image management. This is a matter of culture. Of what we allow. Of what we look away from.”
Caroline from HR shifted, lips parting, but Toto’s gaze cut across her before she could speak.
“We had warning signs,” he said flatly. “Staff heard comments. They saw behavior. No one acted. And now we are here.”
Andreas caught his reflection in the polished table—grim, tight-mouthed. He knew Toto was right. People had whispered. People had laughed it off.
Toto’s voice dropped lower. “There will be no more whispers. There will be no more looking the other way. If you hear something, you act. If you see something, you report. If you fail—if you allow this to happen again—you will not be sitting in this room.”
Silence. Heavy. Absolute.
Andreas noticed the way even the senior engineers, men and women who’d stared down FIA tribunals and political firestorms, wouldn’t meet Toto’s eyes.
“George Russell is on leave,” he said, voice level, but carrying that deep resonance that made the air feel heavy. “Pending the conclusion of HR’s investigation. ”
A few heads nodded. No one spoke.
He leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table. “So here is what we are going to do. Not discuss. Not weigh. Not park until the next quarter. Do.”
Toto raised a hand, ticking off items like a knife against stone.
“Effective immediately: every employee in Brackley and Brixworth will undergo mandatory conduct and consent training. External facilitators, no exceptions. Senior staff included.”
“Effective immediately: HR has my authorization to escalate any report of harassment or misconduct directly to me. No filters. No delays. If someone is afraid to speak to me, they will have a direct line to Jessica, and I will treat it as if they had.”
“Effective immediately: drivers are no longer exempt from internal codes of conduct. They will be briefed, monitored, and held accountable as staff members. The same standards apply to them as apply to engineers, mechanics, and interns.”
Andreas caught the quick glance exchanged by a pair of senior engineers. Drivers had always been a category apart—untouchable, protected by PR, contracts, and points on the board. Not anymore.
“And finally,” Toto said, voice softening in a way that only made it more dangerous, “we will rebuild trust. Not by words. By action. Anastasia is one of our best. She should never have doubted that she was safe here. None of our people should. If you think this is about shielding reputations, you are in the wrong team. If you think performance excuses behavior, you are in the wrong team. If you think silence is protection, you are in the wrong team.”
He let the silence stretch. Heavy. Final.
Andreas watched the room—the tight jaws, the lowered eyes, the weight of the realization that Mercedes had not just lost control of a situation but had failed someone they all respected.
“Questions?” Toto asked at last.
No one spoke.
“Good.”
He stood. “Then get to work.
Brackley had been a tomb. But now, Andreas thought, it felt more like a battlefield waiting for the next command.
***
PRIVATE CHAT — Secure channel
JadeQueen 👑 is online
JadeQueen:
You alive? Haven’t heard from you since yesterday.
Don’t make me come to Brackley and drag you out myself.
JadeQueen 👑 is offline
JadeQueen 👑 is online
JadeQueen:
Ana. Answer me.
JadeQueen 👑 is offline
***
Wolff Residence, Monaco - 28 July 2025
The house was quiet when Toto let himself in. Too quiet for a summer evening in Monaco, where the cicadas usually hummed through the shutters and Jack was usually a whirlwind of chatter. He set his keys down, his movements unusually tentative, listening.
From the living room, he heard low voices. Not Susie’s—another, older man’s, clipped and professional. The doctor.
Toto’s chest tightened as he stepped through the doorway.
Dr. Laurent was bent over his bag, packing away instruments with precise efficiency. On the sofa, Ana lay under a light blanket, her frame curled inward as if she was trying to fold herself into invisibility. Jack sat cross-legged beside her, a coloring book balanced awkwardly on his lap, one hand hovering protectively near her arm. His little brow was furrowed in concentration, as though keeping her company was the most serious job in the world.
Susie was perched in the armchair, watching both of them like a sentry. Her gaze flicked up when Toto entered, relief softening her features for just a second before the exhaustion returned.
“Toto,” she said quietly. “The doctor’s just finished.”
Dr. Laurent straightened, offering a brisk nod. “She’s stable, but her body didn’t tolerate the sedatives well. Severe nausea, dehydration, heightened anxiety response. I’ve given her fluids and adjusted the medication. What she needs most now is rest, hydration, and to feel safe.”
Safe. The word landed like a stone in Toto’s gut.
He looked at Anastasia—her lashes fluttering against pale cheeks, the faint tremor in her fingers where they clutched at the edge of the blanket. She didn’t stir when he stepped closer, only shifted faintly, as though even in sleep she sensed the weight of the room around her.
Jack glanced up at him, serious and solemn. “Papa. I’m keeping Ana company. She’s sad.”
Toto crouched down beside the sofa, reaching out to ruffle Jack’s hair, though his eyes never left Ana. “You’re doing a very good job, Jack. Thank you.”
Jack nodded firmly, like he’d just been given an assignment. He set the coloring book aside but stayed close, one small hand resting lightly near Ana’s elbow as if to guard her.
Toto’s throat tightened. He forced himself to focus on Dr. Laurent, his voice low and measured though his hands flexed restlessly at his sides. “She’ll recover?”
“With care,” the doctor said. “But recovery will not be only physical. This kind of trauma leaves marks. She’ll need time. Patience.” He glanced between them, then lowered his tone. “And protection.”
The implication hung in the air. Toto nodded once, sharply. Protection, she would have. On that, there was no negotiation.
Dr. Laurent finished packing, exchanged a few quiet instructions with Susie, then excused himself. The door clicked shut behind him, leaving silence again.
Toto eased onto the arm of the sofa, careful not to disturb Ana. For a long moment, he just sat there, taking in the fragile rise and fall of her breathing. His fingers itched with helplessness; he was a man used to fixing problems, strategizing solutions, bending chaos into order. But this—this was different.
Susie moved to stand beside him, her hand resting lightly on his shoulder. “She threw up half the morning,” she said softly. “Kept apologizing for it.” Her voice broke for a moment. “Like it was her fault.”
Toto closed his eyes, pressing a hand to his face. Anger surged hot and sharp through him, but he swallowed it down. Not here. Not now. He couldn’t let it touch Ana.
When he opened his eyes again, he looked at Jack—his son, still sitting watch like a small, loyal guard dog. “Jack, why don’t you go wash up for dinner? Mama and I will sit with Anastasia.”
Jack hesitated, reluctant to leave, but finally nodded. He leaned forward, whispering something inaudible to Ana, then padded off toward the kitchen.
Left in the quiet, Toto finally reached out, his hand hovering for a second before brushing against Ana’s wrist—light, careful, as if afraid she might break under his touch.
Her skin was cool. Her lashes flickered, but she didn’t wake.
“I’ve got you, Sternchen,” he murmured in German, too low for anyone but her to hear. “You’re safe. I promise.”
Beside him, Susie’s hand stayed on his shoulder, grounding him. For the first time all day, Toto let himself breathe.
The quiet stretched in the living room after Jack padded away, broken only by the steady hum of the air conditioning and the faint rustle of Ana shifting in restless half-sleep.
Toto sat rigid on the sofa’s arm, one hand still resting lightly near Ana’s wrist. His jaw was tight, eyes fixed on her pale face as though sheer willpower could keep her safe now.
His eyes stayed on Ana, but his mind was elsewhere—spinning, calculating, breaking apart the same problem in a thousand useless directions.
“The press release will be out soon?” Susie asked quietly.
Toto nodded. “Valtteri confirmed everything with Brackley this afternoon. He’ll drive in Hungary. It’s handled.” He exhaled, long and harsh through his nose.
His jaw was tight enough to ache.Frustration bristled sharp in his tone. “You should have told me. That he was—” Toto’s mouth twisted, distaste pulling at the words. “—flirting with her. Pushing at her. I should have known.”
Susie’s lips pressed into a thin line. “You’re right. I should have told you,” she admitted after a beat. “But I honestly didn’t think he would cross that line, Toto. I thought he was posturing. Trying to feel bigger than he is. I didn’t think he would cross the line like that. I didn’t think he was capable of…” She trailed off, shaking her head, fury flickering in her eyes.
Toto’s hand clenched around Ana’s hand. “You don’t not tell me something like that. I could have—” He broke off, raking a hand through his hair. “I could have stopped it before it got this far.”
Susie didn’t flinch. “Yes. And you’re right to be angry. I was going to tell you after Spa, but I should have told you before. I didn’t think it was…urgent. I miscalculated.”
She hesitated for a moment.
“Do you think that meeting you you had scheduled with George this afternoon played a part? He probably felt cornered. You’ve been questioning his seat for months. Ana was an opportunity to him. A way to leverage security. Maybe he thought—if he could get close to your daughter, it would protect him? That it would secure his place?”
The words landed like a blow. Toto felt something cave in behind his ribs, hollow and sickening. His thumb brushed Ana’s knuckles, almost unconsciously, but his throat closed up.
When he finally spoke, his voice was low and raw. “He used her. To get to me.” He said it like it poisoned him. He turned, meeting Susie’s gaze, stricken. “My influence—my name—was supposed to protect her. And instead it put a target on her back.”
Susie moved closer, laying a hand against his arm. “No, Toto. Don’t do that. The only person to blame here is George.”
But Toto shook his head, anguish flickering beneath the steel. His hand curled into a fist against his thigh. “What good is all my power if I cannot keep her safe?”
For a moment, Susie just looked at him. She saw it—the fury, the guilt, the helplessness eating at him in equal measure. She reached up, smoothing a hand against his cheek until his eyes finally, reluctantly, came back to hers.
“You are keeping her safe,” she said firmly. “She’s here. She’s protected. And you’ve made sure George will never come near her again. That is what your power is for.”
Toto closed his eyes, leaning into her touch for the barest moment before pulling her into an embrace, his jaw pressed against her hair. His arms were iron around her, as though holding her was the only thing tethering him.
Ana shifted faintly under her blanket, murmuring something half-formed in her sleep. Both their heads turned instantly, watching until her breathing steadied again.
Toto’s voice was quiet when he finally spoke. “I’ll never forgive him. Not for this. Not ever.”
And Susie, with her arms still around him, didn’t argue.
***
Mercedes-AMG PETRONAS Formula One Team Statement
The Mercedes-AMG PETRONAS Formula One Team confirms that Valtteri Bottas will drive for the team at the Hungarian Grand Prix.
Effective immediately, George Russell has been suspended from all team duties, pending the outcome of an internal HR investigation.
Out of respect for the ongoing process and the privacy of those involved, the team will not provide further details at this time.
Our focus remains on preparing for the Hungarian Grand Prix and ensuring that our team members are supported both professionally and personally.
—
Mercedes-AMG PETRONAS Formula One Team
***
Twitter Thread: What the heck is going on?
@/F1:
🚨 | Breaking: Mercedes confirm Valtteri Bottas will race for the team at the Hungarian Grand Prix.
George Russell suspended pending HR investigation.
@/formulafan19:
WHAT DO YOU MEAN HR INVESTIGATION??????
@/LandoGf420:
…suspended? Not “unwell” or “unavailable”? Suspended?? oh this is bad bad.
@/ValtteriStan44:
THE KING IS BACKKKKKK 🐐🐐🐐
@/paddocktea:
Mercedes using “HR investigation” publicly is basically corporate speak for “the house is on fire.”
@/carlossmooch:
Nah cause imagine being Toto Wolff right now. He had George lined up for years and suddenly… THIS.
@/danstan88:
Bottas back in silver at the Hungaroring was NOT on my 2025 bingo card.
@/susiewolffappreciation:
The fact they didn’t even try to spin it as “personal reasons”… Mercedes said ✨we’re done✨.
@/NorrisStan44
wait WAIT WHAT DO YOU MEAN GEORGE IS
SUSPENDED
AND VALTTERI IS BACK???
@/gridchaos:
F1 twitter rn:
50%: “omg Bottas is back 😭”
50%: “wtf did George do??”
@/paddocktea:
remember when ppl said George was Toto’s golden child? lmao that didn’t age well.
@/FerrariFan89:
this feels bigger than racing. Mercedes is being very deliberate with their wording.
@/chickensandf1:
HR investigation???? that’s corporate-speak for “something
really bad
went down.” what the hell did george do 😳
@/piastrified:
f1 twitter right now: 🕵️♀️🕵️♂️🕵️♀️ trying to figure out what george did
@/gp2enginepls:
conspiracy corner: this has NOTHING to do with driving. has to be something off-track.
@/hamforlife:
people making jokes… but if merc’s using
that
language, it means someone was hurt. hope whoever’s involved is safe.
@/NorrisNation:
VALTTERI??! in 2025?? this season just keeps getting wilder 💀
@/LaudaLegacy:
Valtteri Bottas back in a Merc?? 😭 We’re back in 2019!!
@/thepaddocktea:
You don’t suspend a driver mid-season unless the situation is unfixable.
HR investigation = workplace conduct.
Which means 👀
@/paddockfightclub:
What if George actually got into a fight? Like with Bono or something.
@/tinfolateam:
no guys listen. This isn’t about George. This is Mercedes throwing a bone to the FIA so they look clean before 2026 regs.
@/flat12fantasies:
“HR investigation” = has to involve another employee. My money’s on someone in engineering. Maybe he screamed at a sim engineer?
@/downbadforf1:
George got suspended bc he kept calling Toto “mate” one too many times.
@/sillyseasonburner:
HR investigation = cover story. This is about contracts. Mercedes wanted to ditch George for Antonelli, but they needed an excuse. Easy fix: suspend him.
@/brakebias69:
george russell suspended for crimes against fashion finally caught up to him
@/gridgirlhotline:
“HR investigation” is so vague it could mean anything — harassment? contract breach? workplace fight?? I NEED ANSWERS.
@/bottasbabe77:
No way Mercedes throws around “HR” unless it’s serious serious. Like legal department serious.
@/paddockdramaqueen:
No one panic but this smells like a scandal. And not a small one.
@/anonmclaren:
Suspended pending HR?? What could George have done?? I’m scared to even guess.
@/paddocktea:
Mercedes could’ve said “personal reasons” or “unforeseen circumstances.”
They chose
“suspended, HR investigation.”
Do you know how catastrophic that wording is??
@/bwoahpodcast:
I cannot stress enough: teams
never
make HR issues public. If they had to, it means lawyers made them.
@/claireautosport:
The fact that NO JOURNALIST has an answer yet is making it worse. Everyone is just guessing and it’s terrifying.
@/oscarpiastrifangirl:
Imagine being a rookie right now watching this all unfold. chaos.
@/yukiwhisperer:
My brain is screaming “what if another driver is involved somehow” and I hate that thought but also 👀
@/f1burner69:
The way every single fan is trying to crack paddock tea like it’s a murder mystery 😭
@/backmarkerbabe:
Mercedes really just destroyed this man’s PR image in 2 sentences flat. like. the choice to announce “HR investigation” instead of hiding it behind “personal reasons” is brutal.
@/sillyseasonanon:
hear me out. what if george thought being Toto’s golden boy made him untouchable and then did something dumb.
@/spicywheelnut: if Mercedes didn’t cover it up with “personal reasons” then whatever happened is not salvageable for PR.
@/mercedesarmy: could this be related to that weird tension on the drivers’ parade in Spa? Max looked like he was ready to fight someone 👀
@/f1anxiety:
I’m genuinely scared to find out what this is about.
@/chaoticf1gf:
HR?? HR??? Like workplace HR?? Are we talking toxic workplace stuff? harassment? WHAT
@/charlesgirly:
There’s literally no version of “HR investigation” that sounds good. My stomach dropped.
@/valtterihotwife:
conspiracy corner: did george piss off toto? is this about contracts and Max signing??
@/ChrisMedlandF1:
Mercedes suspending George Russell on the eve of Hungary is
extraordinary
. Officially it’s “pending an internal HR investigation.” No one in the paddock seems to know what that relates to.
@/NateSaundersF1:
Spoke to multiple sources in Brackley and at Spa — everyone is tight-lipped. Some don’t know anything, others say they
can’t
say anything.
Mercedes playing this
very
close to their chest.
@/Julien_FEB:
F1 journalists rarely all admit at once that we have no idea what’s going on. Today is one of those days.
@/craigslatersky:
Worth emphasizing: Mercedes’ statement does not suggest this is racing-related. This appears to be a workplace matter. And right now, nobody on record will touch it.
@/tgruener:
Can confirm: Nobody in the media room has the faintest idea what’s going on.
Not performance related, not a simple “team choice.” Something bigger. Very unusual atmosphere.
@/EddStrawF1:
Lots of speculation out there, but the reality is we don’t know.
Every journalist in the paddock is asking the same question: what on earth happened at Mercedes after Spa?
***
Group Chat: WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?!
(Members: Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, Max Verstappen, Yuki Tsunoda, Liam Lawson, Isack Hadjar, Oliver Bearman, Esteban Ocon, Gabriel Bortoleto, Nico Hulkenberg, Kimi Antonelli, Valtteri Bottas, Pierre Gasly, Franco Colapinto, Charles Leclerc, Lewis Hamilton, Alex Albon, Carlos Sainz, Lance Stroll, Fernando Alonso)
Lando:
WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?!?!
Oscar:
I thought you knew?
Lando:
BRO THE STATEMENT JUST DROPPED I KNOW NOTHING
Pierre:
Same. Absolutely nothing. This is insane.
Yuki:
Someone tell me now.
Liam:
Is George… like… injured??
Isack:
It literally says “HR investigation.” That’s not an injury.
Gabriel:
Do HR investigations usually bench you from a GP???
Oliver:
No way. No chance.
Liam:
wait what happened did he crash a simulator or something
Isack:
suspension = not a sim crash lol
Oliver:
they literally said HR investigation. that’s not racing stuff. that’s serious.
Valtteri:
yes.
Pierre:
“yes.” what does that mean. you’re back in F1 or yes George is suspended for ???
Valtteri:
both.
Franco:
can we get DETAILS.
Nico:
Not even journalists know. This is insane.
Alex:
Even my engineers don’t know. It’s completely locked down.
Carlos:
…so what happened?
Kimi:
Not mine to tell.
Lando:
OH COME ON. YOU KNOW SOMETHING.
Kimi:
Not mine to tell.
Pierre:
Oh come on—
Esteban:
So it’s true then. It’s not about the car. It’s something he DID.
Charles:
Why am I here.
Lance:
Same.
Fernando:
Because chaos.
Yuki:
KIMI COME ON
Isack:
You can’t just say that and then nothing.
Lewis:
Fine. I’ll say it. George tried to kiss Ana against her will.
Oscar:
WHAT
Liam:
…oh my god
Carlos:
… what??
Lando:
Oh my god.
Fernando:
Are you serious?
Valtteri:
Yes. Serious. That’s why I’m driving Hungary.
Max:
HE DID
WHAT
?!
Max:
He WHAT?!
Max:
I’ll kill him.
Lewis:
He’s already suspended.
Max:
That’s not enough.
Charles:
Oh god. I don’t wanna be caught in the middle of whatever weird thing you two have again.
Max:
Shut. Up.
Charles:
Excuse me?! You tried to punch the living daylights out of me because I went on ONE date with her!
Alex:
Wait wait wait. YOU went on a date with Ana Wolff??
Lando:
WAIT. WHAT?!
Oscar:
Max and Ana??
Pierre:
Hold on hold on hold on.
Lando:
MAX.
Lewis
:
Max.
Franco:
WHAT.
Liam: 😳
Gabriel:
BRO??
Yuki:
OHHHHH.
Isack:
It all makes sense.
Pierre:
Max nearly punched Charles??
Franco:
WHAT IS THIS CHAT.
Carlos:
Hold on. Is Max dating Ana??
Oscar:
WAIT. WHAT?!
Gabriel:
Max and Ana?? Since when??
Pierre:
…this is so much better than Drive to Survive.
Lando:
THIS IS THE REAL STORY HERE
Max: This is none of your business.
Ollie: …wait, so you and Ana???
Charles: I told you, I don’t want to be involved in this.
Lando: YOU ARE INVOLVED.
Oscar: This is insane.
Lando: …so who’s starting the betting pool on how long before Toto murders George himself?
Lewis:
Too late mate. Susie will get there first.
Pierre:
So Mercedes suspends George, Valtteri is back, Ana is involved with Max, Lewis is ready to commit homicide, and Charles went on a date with her once??
Alex:
That about sums it up.
Fernando:
Best group chat ever.
***
Group Chat: Who is Max Verstappen Dating?
Lando:
DANIEL.
IS MAX DATING ANA WOLFF?!??!
Daniel:
…how did you idiots figure that out?
Lando:
SO IT’S TRUE???
Oscar:
DANIEL.
Carlos:
YOU KNEW?!
Alex:
you knew and didn’t TELL us???
Daniel:
I didn’t confirm anything! I just asked a question!
Lando:
No, that’s suspicious.
Carlos:
Too suspicious.
Oscar:
Daniel. Out with it.
Daniel:
…fine. I might’ve known for a while.
Daniel:
look—
it’s not my story to tell.
Lando:
Broooooo. SO MAX IS DATING HIS BOSS’ DAUGHTER??
Oscar:
Unbelievable.
Carlos:
tell us everything.
Alex:
no, don’t. we already know enough.
Daniel:
wait. what do you know.
Lando:
that george tried to kiss her. against her will.
Oscar:
that’s why merc suspended him.
Alex:
and max LOST IT when he found out.
Daniel:
…
jesus.
Alex:
No, sorry, I don’t care about Max right now. GEORGE. I can’t believe he did that to her.
Lando:
Yeah. I thought he was our friend…
Alex:
He was. Was. Not anymore. That’s disgusting. He crossed every line.
Oscar:
Yeah, that’s not something you come back from.
Oscar:
he’s finished.
Daniel:
max is going to kill him.
Lando: okay but also: MAX AND ANA??? That’s like… Toto Wolff’s actual worst nightmare.
Oscar: You’re not wrong.
Carlos: Imagine Toto finding out.
***
Text Messages: Daniel Ricciardo & Max Verstappen
Daniel:
Mate.
Don’t. Do. Anything. Stupid.
Max:
Define stupid.
Daniel:
Punching George.
Running George over.
Launching George into the Danube.
…any of the above.
Max:
He deserves worse.
Daniel:
I know. Trust me, I
know
.
But you can’t. Not now. Not when the entire world is already staring at you.
Max:
He put his hands on her.
He thought he could.
Daniel:
And Mercedes took him out of the seat. HR’s on it. Toto’s on it. He’s done.
You
don’t
need to be the executioner here.
George’s career is hanging by a thread.
You don’t need to add your fists to it.
I mean it, mate. Don’t give anyone the satisfaction of saying
you
lost control.
***
Wolff Residence, Monaco - 28 July 2025
Toto sat in the low armchair beside the guest bed, his frame hunched forward, hands clasped loosely between his knees. He hadn’t moved in over an hour except to adjust the blanket or press a glass of water to Anastasia’s lips when she stirred.
The room was dim, just the soft lamp glowing on the dresser. Outside, the Riviera sang its usual summer chorus — distant traffic, the muffled bass of some yacht party across the harbor — but in here, the world had shrunk to the sound of Ana’s shallow breaths.
She shifted, murmuring something unintelligible, her head rolling against the pillow. Then her breath hitched. A sharp, wounded sound broke from her throat.
Toto straightened immediately. “Anastasia?”
Her eyelids fluttered, but she wasn’t really awake. Her lips moved, words tumbling out in a half-whisper, broken by sobs.
“I’m sorry,” she mumbled, her voice hoarse. “I always ruin everything… I didn’t mean to… I’m sorry.”
The words speared him clean through. He reached for her hand — small, fragile in his broad palm — and squeezed it gently. “No, Sternchen. You’ve ruined nothing. You’ve done nothing wrong.”
But she didn’t hear him. Her breath quickened, and tears slid hot and fast down her cheeks. She turned her face into the pillow, still whispering.
“He’s angry… I didn’t mean it… I just wanted—” Her voice cracked. “Why can’t I ever just be normal?”
Toto froze.
Normal.
The word landed like a stone in his stomach. She said it with such quiet devastation, like it was the single truth of her existence. Like every fight, every fracture, every loss in her life came down to this one failing she believed was hers alone.
He had no idea what she was dreaming, what argument she was reliving in her head — but the pain in her voice was real.
Her hand trembled in his, and he tightened his grip, grounding her as best he could. “Anastasia, listen to me,” he said softly, leaning close. “You are exactly who you are meant to be. There is nothing wrong with you. Never.”
But she didn’t stop crying. She muttered another apology, half-hysterical now, like she was begging him to forgive her for a crime he didn’t even understand.
Toto’s chest constricted. He had navigated boardrooms, power struggles, the collapse of empires — but nothing in his life had prepared him for the sight of his daughter unraveling in front of him, trapped in nightmares he couldn’t chase away.
He stroked her hair back, the way Susie did with Jack after a nightmare. “Shh, it’s alright. I’m here. You’re safe.” His accent thickened, his voice rougher than he meant it to be. “You’ve done nothing wrong, Ana. Nothing.”
But she only turned her face away, shoulders trembling, and whispered again, “I’m sorry.”
Toto sat there, helpless, his thumb brushing over the back of her hand. He had no idea what ghosts haunted her, no idea why she thought she was such a burden.
And as he listened to her half-pleas, half-apologies, one truth burned hotter than the rest.
He had no idea what was really happening in her head. And that terrified him more than anything else.
***
Murphy Sheep Farm, Harlestone, England - 28 July 2025
The statement hit her screen like a gunshot. Mercedes announces George Russell suspended pending HR investigation. Valtteri Bottas to race in Hungary.
Xia blinked at it once. Twice.
Her stomach knotted.
She opened her chat with Ana — unanswered messages stacked up like gravestones. The silence pressed in on her. Ana didn’t go silent. Not with her.
Which meant something had happened.
Xia’s pulse spiked into something clinical, electric. She didn’t wait for clarification. She didn’t care for Mercedes’ polished PR. If Ana was hurt, she’d find out.
And God help her, she should have seen it coming.
She knew Ana. Knew every crack in her voice, every shadow in her eyes. Fourteen years old, two misfit girls at a boarding school — and they’d never let each other go.
They’d built their own language out of late-night calls and shared dorm spaces, a friendship stitched together through universities and jobs and heartbreaks.
And Xia had missed it.
She should have known. Should have seen the way Ana skirted around George’s name when they spoke, should have caught the edge in her voice, the hesitation, the unease. Ana didn’t do unease.
George had been circling for months probably. Xia brushed it off, told herself Ana could handle him.
And now—this.
Xia didn’t need the FIA, or Mercedes PR, or the media vultures. She had her own ways. Fingers moving with ruthless efficiency, she pulled strings in the digital dark.
George’s lawyer had locked everything down — or thought he had. Layers of encryption, sloppy but self-assured, like someone convinced no one would dare peek.
Idiot.
No — she was the idiot. For waiting. For assuming Ana’s sharpness, her intelligence, her silence, were shields enough.
Her fingers moved faster than her thoughts—keyboard shortcuts, encrypted tunnels, bypasses stacked on bypasses.
George’s lawyer was exactly as arrogant as she expected: careless cloud storage, unpatched server vulnerabilities, weak two-factor. She shredded through the protections like paper until a folder blinked onto her screen:
INCIDENT – RUSSELL/WOLFF.
Her pulse thundered. She already knew what she’d find. But knowing wasn’t enough. She needed to see. She needed proof of her own failure.
She clicked.
The video loaded in cruel silence. Ana, cornered. George leaning in. That hand, grabbing, forcing. Ana’s body jerking away. Her fist connecting, desperate, fracturing bone in her own wrist.
Xia watched it once. Twice. By the third replay her nails had gouged crescents into her palms.
Her whole body shook. Fury rose like a tidal wave, flooding her veins until she could barely breathe. Not the hot kind of rage — the cold, calculated one. The kind that narrowed her vision and sharpened it into something lethal.
She slammed the laptop closed, chest heaving, and pressed her hands hard against her eyes. Images still seared there, burned into her brain.
Ana’s face. Ana’s fear.
The silence in their chat thread mocked her.
Xia whispered in Mandarin, a promise to no one but herself:
I will destroy him.
And she meant it.
George Russell was finished. She would see to it personally.
But first—Ana.
Xia opend their private chatroom again, fingers hovering over the keyboard. For once, she didn’t type threats or sarcasm. Just:
I know. I saw. I’m here. Answer me when you can.
The screen stayed blank. Ana’s silence felt louder than any scream.
***
Max Verstappen’s Apartment, Monaco - 28 July 2025
Max’s apartment in Monaco was silent. Too silent.
Usually, he didn’t notice the quiet. He liked it. He liked the hum of his aquarium, the faint sound of city traffic on the cliffs, the way his cats moved from room to room like soft shadows. Silence was peace.
But tonight, silence pressed down on him like a weight.
He sat at the edge of the sofa, elbows braced to his knees, phone turned screen-down on the table. It had buzzed itself into near-death the last few hours—messages from Daniel, from Lando, from people he didn’t even want to think about—but he hadn’t touched it.
Not since he heard.
George.
George and Ana.
The words didn’t settle into sense, not even now. He’d heard them, he knew them, but his brain kept rejecting the shape of it. Like it wasn’t possible. Like it didn’t fit into the world as he understood it.
And underneath that disbelief was a fury so sharp it frightened even him.
Because George Russell—polished, careful, golden boy George—had put his hands on Ana. Had frightened her.
Ana, who barely let anyone close. Ana, who lived her life in equations and silence and carefully chosen people. Ana, who trusted so few.
Max gripped the edge of his knees hard enough his knuckles ached. He wanted—no, needed—to do something. His body thrummed with it, like the revs of a car held too long at the limiter. Every instinct screamed at him to move, to act, to protect.
But she wasn’t here.
She was in Monaco, yes, but with her family. With Susie, with Toto. Probably curled on a sofa under too many blankets, hiding from the world.
Max dragged a hand down his face, forcing his breathing even. In through his nose. Out through his mouth. Just like in the car, when fury could only cost him time.
He stared at the phone again. At Daniel’s last message— Don’t do anything stupid.
He hadn’t replied. Because the truth was, he wanted to. He wanted to find George and end this whole thing with his fists. Wanted to tear the smug, controlled façade apart and make him feel even a fraction of the fear he had put into Ana.
He had thought he’d known what anger was before. He’d thought it was the white-hot fury of a bad strategy call, the searing frustration of a race slipping away. But this—this was different. This was rage that lived in his chest like broken glass, cutting him every time he tried to breathe.
Max leaned back into the sofa, tilting his head against the cushions, staring at the ceiling like the plaster could offer answers. His chest hurt. A steady, bruising ache right under his sternum.
He closed his eyes, knuckles pressed to his temples, and saw Ana’s face—pale, exhausted. The thought of her frightened, cornered, touched against her will—Max’s fists curled so tight his nails bit into his palms.
He wanted to break something. He wanted to break George.
But worse than that was the weight in his stomach. The part of him that couldn’t stop replaying Spa.
That fight. That stupid, pointless fight.
He had been sharp with her, colder than he ever should’ve been, —about control, about pride, about the never-ending tension between the things he could fix and the things he couldn’t. She’d looked at him like he’d hurt her, and he’d thought he was justified. Thought he was protecting himself.
And he’d let her walk away angry, let himself believe there would be time to fix it later.
Later.
What a fucking idiot.
And now?
Now none of it mattered. The only thing that mattered was her safety. Her trust. And he’d wasted time, wasted space between them that he could have spent reminding her she was not alone in this world.
He dragged both hands down his face, swearing under his breath. Dutch, English, it all bled together until it was just sound.
His chest hurt with it.
He hated George Russell with every fibre of his being, but he hated himself, too—for not being there. For not protecting her.
For letting the last memory between them be raised voices.
Max stood abruptly, pacing the length of the living room. He caught sight of the medals on the shelf, the trophies gleaming in the shadows. They looked obscene. Useless. He would have traded every single one if it meant rolling back the clock, being there to stop it before it happened.
Instead, Ana was hurt. Ana was scared. And he wasn’t by her side.
He stopped at the window, bracing both hands on the frame, staring out at the glittering Monaco harbour. He’d spent his life fighting battles on asphalt, wheel-to-wheel at 300 kph.
But this? This was war of another kind. One that felt far more personal.
He pressed his palms to his face and dragged them down, feeling the rasp of his unshaven jaw. His chest felt tight, like someone was cinching a belt around his ribs. He couldn’t sit here, not when Ana was just across the harbor, not when she was with Susie and Toto and probably looking smaller than he’d ever seen her.
He couldn’t just sit here while the person he loved most in the world tried to put herself back together.
Max stood abruptly, the legs of the sofa groaning against the tile. He grabbed his keys from the counter, his jacket from the back of a chair.
If Toto wanted to slam the door in his face, fine. If Susie glared at him for showing up uninvited, fine. If Ana didn’t want to see him — he’d take that too.
But he had to go.
Because nothing else mattered anymore.
And so, without another thought, Max locked the door of his apartment and headed out into the Monaco night — toward Toto’s building, toward Ana.
Chapter 22: Chapter 20: Monaco
Chapter Text
Group Chat: “TEAM 33”
(Members: Max Verstappen, Jos Verstappen, Raymond Vermeulen)
Jos
:
What the hell is going on with Russell?
HR investigation, suspension…
I don’t like it.
Raymond
:
I’ve seen the statement. Very vague.
No one in the paddock seems to know specifics yet.
Jos
:
Vague = bad.
What did he do, Max? You must’ve heard something.
Max
:
…
Raymond
:
Max?
You okay?
Jos
:
Don’t tell me he pulled something with
you
.
Because I swear if that’s the case—
Max
:
It’s not about me.
Raymond
:
But you know more than we do.
Jos
:
So? Spit it out.
Max
:
Not my story to tell.
Jos
:
Bloody hell, Max. That’s not an answer.
Raymond
:
If it affects you or anyone close to you, we
need
to know.
This isn’t just paddock gossip. This is serious.
Max
:
…
I’ll handle it.
Jos
:
“Handle it”? What the hell does that mean?
Raymond
:
Max. Please. If this involves someone you care about, you don’t have to do it alone.
We can help. But we need to know
what’s happened
.
Max
:
Not now.
Jos
:
Max—
Max
:
Drop it.
Jos
:
What the fuck was that?
Raymond
:
…That sounded personal.
Very personal.
Jos
:
If he thinks he’s going to keep this from us—
Raymond
:
Calm down.
Let’s give him space. He’ll tell us when he’s ready.
But whatever Russell did… it clearly hit close to home.
***
Text Messages: Kimi Antonelli & Oliver Bearman
Ollie
:
Bro.
BRO.
Tell me I didn’t just read that right.
Kimi
:
You read it right.
Max Verstappen.
And Ana.
Ollie
:
I feel like I need to sit down.
This is… WHAT??
Kimi
:
I’m literally shaking.
Neither of them ever said A WORD.
Ollie
:
I thought she didn’t even like people 😭😭
Turns out she just likes
Max Verstappen
???
Kimi
:
I swear my brain just shut down.
…
Okay no.
I’m texting Max.
Ollie
:
WAIT. WHAT. NO.
What are you gonna say??
Kimi
:
I’m gonna tell him not to hurt her.
Ollie
:
KIMI.
He’s a FOUR TIME WORLD CHAMPION.
You can’t just threaten Verstappen over text like he’s some kid at school.
Kimi
:
Watch me.
He can win all the titles he wants.
That’s
Ana
.
Ollie
:
…
Okay but actually I respect it.
Please screenshot it for me when you do.
Kimi
:
Fine. But if I disappear it’s because Max Verstappen killed me.
Ollie
:
Worth it. For Ana.
***
Text Messages: Kimi Antonelli & Max Verstappen
Kimi
:
Listen to me very carefully Verstappen.
If you hurt her
If you make her cry
If you EVER make her feel like she’s not enough
Kimi
:
I don’t care how many world championships you have.
I don’t care how many cats you own.
I don’t care if you could crush me like a Red Bull can.
Kimi
:
I will find you.
And I will make you regret it.
***
Wolff Residence, Monaco - 28 July 2025
Toto Wolff was not in the mood for visitors.
His phone buzzed, screen lighting with the doorman’s number.
He frowned, already running on fumes from the day, his mind heavy with Ana, the storm circling Mercedes.
“Yes?” he answered, clipped.
“Mr. Wolff…there’s someone here. He’s asking to be let up. Says you’ll want to see him.” A pause. “Max Verstappen.”
For a beat, Toto thought he’d misheard.
“What?”
“Mr. Verstappen is in the lobby. He insists on speaking with you. Says it’s urgent.”
Toto stared at the wall. Verstappen? Here? The fury that had been simmering since George’s suspension twisted sharp. This was the last complication he needed.
He hung up without answering, already striding toward the sitting room. “He’s here,” Toto said flatly. “Downstairs.”
Susie looked up from the guest room door, where she’d been keeping half an ear out for Ana. Her brows knit. “Who?”
“Max Verstappen.”
For once, even Susie looked thrown. She blinked, then tilted her head, calculation sparking behind her eyes. “And what does he want?”
“He insists on speaking to me. Says it’s urgent.”
Susie exhaled slowly, and then — maddeningly calm — said, “Let him up.”
Toto turned on her, incredulous. “ Was? ”
“I want to see what this is about,” she said evenly, though her gaze flicked toward the guest room again. “I think Ana may not have told us everything.”
Toto’s stomach sank.
Five minutes later, Max Verstappen stood on their doorstep. No cameras, no entourage, no arrogance — just a young man taut with fury and exhaustion, his hands flexing at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them.
“I need to see Ana,” Max said without preamble. His voice was low, raw. “Please.”
There were five things Toto wanted to say, most of them involving the words absolutely not, over my dead body, and what the fuck is happening?!
Toto’s brows shot up. “ Entschuldigung? ”
Max’s eyes flicked past him toward the hall, toward where Ana laid resting. His throat worked, and then the words spilled, fast, as if he couldn’t keep them in any longer.
“We’ve been together for almost ten years.”
Silence.
Utter, crashing, brain-flattening silence.
Toto blinked. Once. Slowly.
He felt the blood rush to his head, the floor tilt beneath him. Ten years ? His mind spat the math back at him — twenty, nineteen, eighteen — and rage hit him like a physical blow.
“You want to repeat that?” he said, dangerously calm.
Max didn’t back away. “I’m not lying.”
“You’re telling me,” Toto said, his voice rising, “that you have been sleeping with my daughter for a decade , and you never thought that might be relevant information?”
Max didn’t even flinch. “She didn’t want anyone to know.”
Toto stared at him. “ You didn’t want me to know.”
“She asked me not to tell you.”
“And you didn’t think that maybe, at some point, morally , you should have grown a spine and told me anyway?!”
Max bristled. “She’s not a secret. She’s never been a secret. Just private.”
“ Private?! ” Toto snapped. “You’ve been in my home. At my table. You’ve looked me in the eye while I talked about our future. You— Jesus , Max, you—*”
He had to stop. Had to breathe , because otherwise he was going to slam a fist into the stone wall behind him.
Max swallowed. “I didn’t want to lie to you.”
“ But you did. You arrogant little—”
“Toto.” Susie’s voice cut sharp through the air. She’d stepped forward, her expression ice. But her fury wasn’t for him. She was glaring at Max like she might physically shove him back through the door.
“You think you can just show up here,” she said, her voice deadly soft, “after hiding this from us for ten years, and demand to see our daughter? After what she’s been through?”
“I love her,” Max said hoarsely. “And I need to know she’s okay.”
Toto didn’t speak. Didn’t move.
Max looked between them—calm, but tight with something fragile. “It started off—casual. It stopped being that a long time ago. I didn’t say anything because she didn’t want anyone to know. Not even you. She didn’t want this to affect your relationship,” Max said. “Or mine with you. Or the team. Or anything. ”
“And you thought that was healthy? ” Susie snapped. “You thought letting her suffer in silence while hiding the one person she trusts was a good idea?”
“I never made her hide,” Max bit back. “She asked me to. I would have shouted it from the rooftops. I would have married her the second she said yes.”
The silence shattered into pieces.
“You—” Toto started, voice gone hoarse. “You what? ”
“She didn’t want anyone to know,” Max repeated. “Not the media. Not the teams. Not you. We were careful. But I’ve been in love with her since I was twenty. And she—” He faltered. “She loves me too. Even if she doesn’t say it.”
“ Careful ?” Susie snapped, stepping closer. “You call hiding a decade-long relationship from her parents being careful?”
“We didn’t want it to become a scandal. We didn’t want you to think—”
“To think what?” Toto cut in, voice low and dangerous. “That you were sleeping with your rival’s daughter behind closed doors? That you were sneaking around the grid like a bloody teenager? That my daughter has spent ten years shouldering that secrecy while building the most advanced power unit in the world? Is that what I wasn’t supposed to think, Max?”
Shock and fury coiled together, molten in his chest. His daughter. His daughter. Ten years, and Max Verstappen had the audacity to stand in his doorway and only admit it now ?
“I didn’t come to argue,” Max said, jaw clenched. “I came because I love her.”
Then: “You didn’t think to mention this before you signed a multi-year contract with the team I run? Before you showed up at my family home asking after my daughter like a worried boyfriend?”
Max opened his mouth. Closed it again. “We kept it quiet. It wasn’t about the job. We didn’t want it to get messy.”
Toto laughed. Once. Cold. “Oh good, Max. Because this isn’t messy at all.”
Max stood his ground. “You have every right to be angry. But I’m not here to justify it. I’m here because she’s hurt and I love her.”
Toto barked a humorless laugh. “Oh, you love her ? You love her and yet I had to find out after a decade because you decided to show up at my door like a goddamn romcom cliché?”
Max’s mouth tightened.
“You know what I’ve been dealing with today?” Toto snapped. “My daughter’s trauma. Her broken wrist. HR investigations. Legal reviews. George Russell being walked out of Brackley in disgrace—and now this ?”
“I didn’t come to pick a fight,” Max said, quieter now. “I just came to check on her. I’ve been losing my mind. I thought I could wait, but I can’t. Not when I know what happened. Not when I know she’s hurting.”
Toto studied him.
Measured him.
Then stepped back from the door.
“Leave your shoes by the mat,” he said.
Max blinked.
“You get five minutes,” Toto added. “And if Anastasia doesn’t want to see you, you leave. No questions. Understood?”
Max nodded, already toeing off his sneakers.
“Verstappen.”
Max paused.
“If you ever hurt her—if you lie, or manipulate, or make her feel small for even one second—there won’t be a team, a contract, or a paddock in the world that will protect you from what I will do next.”
Susie shut the door with a sharp click. “One wrong move,” she said evenly, “and you’ll regret stepping foot in this apartment.”
Max didn’t argue. He didn’t even glance at her. His eyes locked on the closed hallway door at the far end — the one leading to Anastasia’s room.
Toto stepped deliberately into his path. “She’s sedated. She needs rest. I will not have you agitating her further.”
Max swallowed, his voice rougher than Toto had ever heard it. “I don’t want to agitate her. I just… I need to see her. Please.”
The “please” nearly undid Toto’s resolve — not because it softened him, but because it rang with desperation he didn’t expect from the man across from him.
For the first time that night, Toto looked properly at him. Not the rival, not the four-time world champion, not the stubborn thorn in Mercedes’ side. Just a man who looked like he was fighting to stay upright.
Susie touched Toto’s arm. “Let him. If Ana truly has been with him all these years, then she’ll want him near. Keeping them apart might do more damage than good.”
Toto didn’t like it. He didn’t trust it. But he stepped aside.
Max moved down the hallway, every stride taut with urgency but careful, measured. He paused at Ana’s door, knocked softly — once, twice — before slipping inside.
Toto followed far enough to stand in the doorway. He couldn’t help himself.
Ana was half-curled in the bed, pale against the sheets, her wrist immobilized, her lashes damp from earlier tears. She stirred faintly at the sound of footsteps, brow furrowing in half-conscious recognition.
Max stopped just short of the bed. His jaw clenched; his hands flexed uselessly at his sides. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper:
“Fuck, Ana.”
Anastasia stirred. Her brow furrowed, lips moving. The half-dreaming words that spilled out made Toto’s chest cave in.
“I’m sorry… I always ruin everything… I’m sorry…”
Toto reached forward instinctively, but Max was already there. He dropped to his knees by the bed, hand hovering above hers but not daring to touch. His voice broke, urgent and soft.
“No, Nastya. No. You didn’t ruin anything. Not this. Not us.”
Toto froze. Us.
He didn’t know what the hell this was. How long it had been going on, what Ana had been carrying, why she hadn’t told them. But as he watched his daughter finally relax, her trembling easing as Verstappen sat there whispering, something else settled in too.
Max wasn’t leaving. Not tonight. Not while Ana needed him.
And Toto hated that a part of him — the father part, not the team principal — was relieved for it.
***
Text Messages: Valtteri Bottas & Lewis Hamilton
Valtteri
:
Well.
That explains a lot.
Lewis
:
You can say that again.
I thought Max just hated George for racing reasons.
Valtteri
:
No. Clearly not.
He sounded like he was ready to fly to Brackley and strangle him.
Lewis
:
And honestly? I’d hold him down for it.
George crossed a line that can’t ever be uncrossed.
Valtteri
:
Agreed.
But now there’s another problem.
Lewis
:
What.
Valtteri
:
Toto.
Max + Ana = a storm.
And I don’t know if Toto’s anger will be more about George or about Max being in her life for ten years without him knowing.
Lewis
:
You’re not wrong.
You know Toto.
Control is everything for him.
Finding out his daughter’s been with Verstappen of all people, behind his back? That’s dynamite.
Valtteri
:
And Susie.
If she didn’t know either, she’ll be even more furious.
Lewis
:
Yeah.
And Ana… poor Ana.
She doesn’t need this mess. She’s already been through hell this week.
Valtteri
:
I should’ve warned Toto sooner. About George.
I had the signs. Just didn’t think he’d cross that line.
I won’t forgive myself for that.
Lewis
:
Stop.
You’re not the one who crossed it. George is.
You’re here now. That’s what matters.
Valtteri
:
…you sound like Susie.
Lewis
:
She’s usually right.
Don’t tell her I said that.
Valtteri
:
😂
Your secret is safe.
Lewis
:
Not joking though.
If Max hurts her—
I’ll end him.
Valtteri
:
Get in line.
I’m Finnish. We know how to make people disappear.
Lewis
:
That’s the first reassuring thing I’ve heard all day.
***
Text Messages: Nico Rosberg & Lewis Hamilton
Lewis
:
I don’t want you blindsided.
Nico
:
This already sounds bad.
What is it.
Lewis
:
Ana.
She’s been seeing Max.
For years, apparently.
Nico
:
…
EXCUSE ME?!
Lewis
:
Yeah.
Found out about it tonight.
Nico
:
HE TERRORISED ME IN 2016.
THE CHAIR INCIDENT.
THE SPA INCIDENT.
THE BRAZIL DIVEBOMB.
Lewis
:
I remember, Nico. I was there.
Nico
:
And now he’s with Ana???
Ana WOLFF???
Do you know what that means??
Lewis
:
That Toto’s blood pressure is about to hit new records?
Nico
:
I don’t blame him!
Of all the people on the planet, Max Verstappen??
Does Ana even know what she’s doing?
Lewis
:
Careful.
Ana’s been through enough. She doesn’t need you judging her on top of it.
Nico
:
I’m not judging
her
!
I’m judging HIM.
Max Verstappen.
Oh god.
He’s practically family now.
Lewis
:
Welcome to my week.
Nico
:
…you know what?
For once in my life, I actually feel sorry for Toto.
Lewis
:
Yeah.
Same.
***
Wolff Residence, Monaco - 28 July 2025
Max knelt at her bedside, fingers locked around her smaller, bandaged hand. He thought he’d burned through every reserve of anger — at George, at himself, at the world that had let this happen. But nothing prepared him for Ana like this.
Her lashes trembled against her cheeks, skin pale and clammy from sedation. She looked breakable in a way he had never seen. Then, suddenly, her weak grip closed around his hand, the panic slicing through even the fog of the drugs.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, voice cracked and ragged. “Spa—I’m sorry, Max, I didn’t mean it, I didn’t—”
His name. Their fight. The words landed like knives, straight through him.
“Ana,” he breathed, leaning closer, desperate. “You don’t need to—”
But she shook her head frantically, tears spilling into the pillow, raw panic etched into every line of her face. “No—you don’t understand. I ruin everything. I push you away and I ruin it, and you hate me for it, I know you do. I should’ve been better. I should’ve—”
Max’s chest caved in. He wanted to pull her out of the fog, drag her into clarity, make her see. He had waited ten years to hear her say she wanted him, needed him. He had begged in silence for scraps of this honesty.
And now here it was, spilling out of her in half-hysterical sobs. Not clarity. Not choice. Just a wound torn open.
Max brushed trembling fingers across her damp cheek, forcing his voice steady. “Nastya. Stop. You didn’t ruin anything. Do you hear me? Nothing. That fight didn’t matter. None of it matters.” His voice broke, but he pressed on. “I could never hate you.”
Her eyes cracked open, glazed but locked on him, desperate. “You’ll leave. Everyone leaves.”
Max’s heart clenched so hard it nearly split his ribs. He bent until his forehead pressed against hers, whispering like a vow: “Not me. Never me. I should’ve told you that in Spa. I should’ve told you every day. I’m here, Nastya. I’m not leaving.”
Her breathing hitched, shuddering, like she couldn’t quite believe him. Still, her hand twitched in his, the faintest tightening of fingers.
Max shut his eyes, torn apart. He had what he’d always wanted: her truth. But it was hollow, poisoned by trauma and sedatives, dragged out in front of her parents standing in the doorway. Not freely given. Not whole.
It gutted him more than silence ever had.
Still, he stayed bent over her, repeating it into her skin like a prayer: I’m here. I’m not leaving. Not now. Not ever.
But she didn’t seem to hear him. Her eyes drifted unfocused, tears slipping sideways into her hair. “You deserve someone normal,” she whispered. “Not me. Never me.”
Max’s throat burned. He pressed his forehead against her hand, clutching it like an anchor. “Don’t you dare,” he rasped, voice splintering. “Don’t you dare say that. You’re everything. You’ve always been everything. I don’t care about Spa, I don’t care about fights, I don’t care about normal. I only care about you.”
Her fingers twitched again, the smallest flicker of strength, as though she was trying to hold on.
Max swallowed hard. It should have been everything — honesty, walls torn down, the love she never spoke aloud. But not like this. Not wrung out of her under sedation, not soaked in fear.
And still, he couldn’t let go of her hand. Not even if Toto Wolff himself tried to tear him away.
From the corner, he could feel Toto’s eyes boring into him, Susie’s presence sharp as glass. He didn’t look. He couldn’t.
All he could see was Ana.
It should have been everything. Instead, it felt like being gutted alive.
***
Text Messages: Valtteri Bottas & Peter “Bono” Bonnington
Valtteri
:
You heard yet?
Bono
:
Heard what?
About George being suspended? Yeah. Still can’t believe it.
Valtteri
:
Not that.
About Ana.
Bono
:
What about Ana?
She’s resting, isn’t she? She’s back in Monaco. With Susie?
Valtteri
:
She’s with Verstappen.
Bono
:
…sorry?
Valtteri
:
Together. Couple. Apparently.
Bono
:
You’re joking.
Please tell me you’re joking.
Valtteri
:
Not joking. Came out in the drivers’ chat.
Max admitted it himself.
Bono
:
Bloody hell.
So all these years, all the whispers, all the times she vanished in Monaco—
It was
him
?
Valtteri
:
Yes.
Bono
:
Toto must be climbing the walls.
And Susie… god, Susie must be ready to wring his neck.
Bono
:
I don’t even know what to say. Max Verstappen and Ana Wolff… that’s—
I mean, it
makes sense
in a terrifying way, but…
Bloody hell.
Valtteri
:
Exactly.
Bloody hell.
***
Wolff Residence, Monaco - 28 July 2025
Susie had weathered plenty of shocks in her life — boardroom coups, PR crises, sponsor ultimatums delivered over champagne flutes. She thought she had a stomach for it.
But this?
Her daughter drugged and feverish, whispering apologies into the dark. And Max Verstappen — Max bloody Verstappen — on his knees at her bedside, looking like he’d been stripped down to bone and sinew, clutching Ana’s hand like it was the only thing tethering him to the earth.
Susie’s arms folded tightly across her chest. She wanted to drag him out by the collar, throw him into the hallway, demand to know what gave him the right to appear here with this kind of intimacy.
And yet—
She couldn’t look away.
He wasn’t performing. There was no arrogance, no posturing, none of the bite he carried in press conferences. Just raw, desperate tenderness. She’d known Max since he was a teenager, a cocky little flame-thrower in a Red Bull suit, but she had never seen this.
Not until now.
Susie glanced sideways at Toto. His jaw was rigid, shoulders drawn tight, hands flexing at his sides. Rage simmered off him in waves. But he wasn’t moving to throw Verstappen out either.
Because Ana had stopped thrashing. Because, for the first time that evening, she wasn’t crying.
Susie’s breath caught when she heard it: the little broken murmur — you deserve someone normal .
Max’s reaction was instantaneous, visceral. He bent over her hand, voice cracked raw. “Don’t you dare say that. You’ve always been everything.”
Susie’s pulse stumbled.
Ten years. Ten years of this, hidden under their noses. How? How had Ana — her Ana, quiet, stubborn, armoured with precision — managed to conceal something this vast, this consuming?
She’d known her daughter was private, guarded. She’d worried, in quiet moments, that Ana was lonely. But she’d believed that if someone mattered enough, if someone really reached her, Ana would let them in.
And she had.
Just not them.
Not her own parents.
Susie’s nails pressed into her palms. Shock and fury burned together, but beneath it — sharper, more dangerous — was curiosity. Because if Verstappen was telling the truth, if he and Ana had been twined together for nearly a decade, then what else didn’t they know? What nights, what fights, what stolen mornings had her daughter lived without them ever seeing?
She wanted answers. Every last one of them.
Her gaze flicked back to the bedside. Max was murmuring softly now, words too low to catch, his thumb brushing rhythmically across Ana’s palm. It was steady, grounding — the kind of instinctive gesture that came from years, not weeks.
And Ana, even in her haze, leaned infinitesimally toward him.
Susie exhaled, slow.
She wasn’t ready to forgive. She wasn’t ready to welcome him into their home, their family. But the strategist in her, the mother in her, couldn’t ignore what her eyes were telling her.
This wasn’t casual. This wasn’t opportunistic.
This was the kind of bond you couldn’t fake.
Her fingers tightened on her folded arms. She would find out everything — when it started, why they kept it secret, why Ana thought she had to carry this alone.
But for now, she let the silence stretch, eyes sharp and unblinking, as she watched Max Verstappen sit rooted at her daughter’s side like he had no intention of moving.
And Susie knew one thing with absolute clarity.
She’d get her answers.
Even if she had to drag them out of him one by one.
A few minutes later, the room had gone quiet, save for the hum of machines and Ana’s even, sedated breaths.
Susie sat rigid in the chair by the window, arms crossed, sharp eyes never leaving Max. Toto stood near the dresser, broad shoulders blocking half the lamplight, every inch of him taut with controlled fury.
Max stayed where he’d been since Ana drifted into sleep — on the edge of her bed, one hand still resting on the blanket near her wrist. He hadn’t moved once.
Susie finally broke the silence. Her voice was low, measured, but carried the same weight she used in boardrooms.
“Now you’re going to tell us everything, Max. Ten years of… this. No lies. No evasions. If you want to stay in this room, you owe us the truth.”
Max’s jaw tightened. For a moment, he looked like he might fight them — that familiar defiance flashing behind his eyes. But then his shoulders slumped, gaze dropping to Ana’s hand beneath his.
“Everything?” His voice was hoarse. “Fine. But you’re not going to like it.”
Toto’s reply was a rumble, clipped and dangerous. “Try me.”
Max exhaled slowly, staring at the floor as though the words might burn holes there.
“She never let me all the way in. Not really. She—” His throat worked. “Ana never said she loved me. Not once. And I knew that if I said it, she would run.”
Susie felt the admission hit like a stone in her chest.
Max pressed on, voice raw. “She doesn’t talk about the future. Doesn’t want to plan, doesn’t want to imagine. Every time I try, she shuts down. Keeps me at arm’s length like she’s… terrified.”
He rubbed his face hard with one hand, then let it fall.
“She thinks if she lets me in too far, I’ll leave. Just like her mother did.”
The words hung heavy in the room, dense enough to choke on.
Susie froze. The ache of it pierced her clean through — because she knew Ana’s abandonment by her birth mother had left scars, but hearing Max put it into words, stripped of Ana’s deflections and walls, left no room for doubt.
Toto shifted, the lines of his face tightening further. But behind the storm in his eyes was something else — recognition. A cold, dawning realization.
He looked at Max long and hard. “You said you met her in Monaco. 2016.”
Max blinked, wary. “Yeah. After the race.”
Toto’s jaw clenched.
Susie thought back — Ana, eighteen then, withdrawn, quieter than usual that summer. A shift she hadn’t been able to put his finger on.
The pieces slotted together with sickening clarity.
Toto’s voice came out like gravel. “You were her first.”
Max’s eyes flicked up, startled. He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.
Susie’s stomach turned.
Her daughter, still practically a child then. And Max — barely older, but older enough. Their worlds colliding in a way neither she nor Toto had ever imagined.
Toto’s fists curled at his sides. “Scheisse.” The word was almost a growl.
But Susie, ever the one to keep her composure when her husband’s temper flared, leaned forward, pinning Max with a stare sharp enough to cut glass.
“So you’ve been carrying this with her — all of it — for nearly a decade. Her silence. Her fears. Her walls. And you never once thought to come to us?”
Max swallowed hard. “She didn’t want you to know. She didn’t want anyone to know. It’s not about me hiding it. It’s about me respecting what she needed. Even when it killed me.”
Susie sat back slowly, her mind racing.
Max Verstappen, reckless on track, ruthless in the paddock — and yet here, admitting he’d let Ana hold him at bay for years because he loved her enough to wait.
It was everything she wanted for her daughter — someone who would stay, no matter how many walls Ana built.
And yet, the betrayal of not knowing, of being shut out, burned bitter in her chest.
She glanced at Toto. His fury was still banked hot, but she saw the same conflict in his eyes. Anger and shock, yes — but also the unmistakable truth: their daughter loved this man, even if she hadn’t said the words aloud.
And maybe — just maybe — he loved her enough to weather it.
****
Wolff Residence, Monaco - 28 July 2025
The apartment was silent save for the faint hum of the air conditioning and the occasional restless shift from Ana’s bed. She hadn’t stirred since finally slipping into deeper sleep. The sedatives had settled her trembling, though Toto still caught the flicker of her brows every so often, the ghosts that chased her even through unconsciousness.
Max hadn’t moved from his vigil on the edge of her bed. He sat hunched forward, Ana’s hand wrapped in both of his, thumb tracing idle, endless circles across her knuckles. He looked like a man carved from stone and grief — immovable, sleepless, burning himself down to embers just to keep her tethered.
Toto had thought he would throw him out. He still wasn’t sure why he hadn’t.
Beside him, Susie touched his arm gently. “You need sleep,” she murmured.
He opened his mouth to argue — but the words never came. His bones felt like lead. Rage, shock, heartbreak — it all pressed down on him like ballast. He hadn’t been this exhausted since the season he almost walked away from the sport altogether.
Susie kissed his shoulder lightly, then leaned closer. “Come,” she said quietly. “Let him stay. He’s not leaving her side tonight.”
Toto’s jaw clenched. He wanted to snarl that Verstappen had no right, that he’d forfeited every ounce of trust by keeping his and Ana’s relationship hidden for ten years. But when he looked — really looked — at the boy slouched in that chair, he saw something else.
Not the four-time world champion. Not the rival he’d battled across constructors’ tables and FIA meetings. Just a young man with bloodshot eyes, clutching his daughter’s hand like the world might end if he let go.
And for the first time, Toto wondered if maybe Ana hadn’t told them not out of malice, but because she knew they wouldn’t understand.
Susie pulled at his arm again, and this time, he let her lead him toward the door. He paused in the frame, turning back one last time.
“Verstappen.”
Max’s head lifted immediately, alert despite the hour.
Toto met his gaze, steady and unflinching. “If she wakes afraid, if she’s unsettled — you call me. Immediately. Verstanden ?”
Max nodded, voice rough but sure. “I understand.”
Toto lingered half a beat longer, then forced himself down the hall. Susie slid her arm around his waist, guiding him toward their room. The door shut behind them with a soft click, muffling the weight of what they’d left behind.
“You should lie down. You’ve done all you can,” Susie said quietly.
He shook his head, though he knew she was right. “She’s my daughter. I should—”
“She’s asleep,” Susie cut in gently. “And Max is sitting with her. He isn’t moving. I think you and I need to admit we’re not the ones she wants at her bedside right now.”
That stung, sharper than he wanted to admit. His instinct was to fight it, to insist that no one could love Ana more than her father, that it was his job to be there. But the picture of Verstappen sitting hunched in that chair, eyes red, hand wrapped around Ana’s…
It hadn’t been for show. Toto knew the difference.
He let out a long breath, shoulders dropping. “I don’t like it. Ten years and she never told us. Ten years and she chose him, every time, but not us.”
Susie’s hand found his, squeezing. “That’s not how she sees it. She’s scared. You heard Max.”
Toto did. And that was perhaps what unsettled him most: how much sense it made. How perfectly it fit with all the little fractures in Ana he’d tried to plaster over. The way she flinched at the idea of permanence. The gnawing doubt in her voice when she asked if he ever wished she were “normal.”
And yet Max — that boy he’d dismissed as reckless, arrogant — had stayed. Ten years. Quietly, stubbornly. He hadn’t run.
Toto lay back at last, staring at the ceiling. “If he hurts her, Susie—”
“He won’t,” she interrupted again, her voice firm. “Not in the way you fear. You saw him tonight. He’s already hurt enough for both of them.”
Silence stretched. The hum of the city filtered faintly through the window. For once, Toto didn’t argue.
Because down the hall, in the dim light of Ana’s room, Verstappen was still there. A sentinel in the chair, steadying her hand even in sleep.
Susie patted his arm. “On the plus side, at least she picked one with excellent car control?”
“Not helping,” Toto muttered.
***
Wolff Residence, Monaco - 29 July 2025
Ana woke slowly, the world piecing itself together in fragments. The ache in her wrist pulsed first, dull but constant; the sour taste of medication coated her tongue. Her head throbbed faintly, the way it always did after hospital sedatives, as though her body still hadn’t quite figured out which way was up.
She blinked at the ceiling, then turned—
And froze.
Max Verstappen was sitting in a chair at her bedside.
Not a dream. Not a hallucination. Not some cruel trick of her tired brain. He was really there.
“…Max?” Her voice came out hoarse, incredulous. Her throat ached, but that was nothing compared to the ache in her chest. “You—you can’t be here.”
Max jerked awake in the chair at her bedside. Hoodie wrinkled, hair a mess, eyes bruised with exhaustion. He straightened instantly, as if her voice had jolted him alive.
“Hey,” he said softly.
Her pulse leapt. “You’re… what? You’re here? What are you doing here?”
Max tried for a smile, but it was a tired, fragile thing. “Couldn’t stay away.”
Ana pushed herself up a fraction, wincing at the pull in her injured wrist. “No, Max—you don’t understand. Papa will—he’ll…” She shook her head, breath catching. “He’ll kill you.”
“He already yelled,” Max interrupted gently. “Susie too. But they let me stay.”
Tears burned despite her resistance, spilling over hot and fast. “You shouldn’t have come.”
Max exhaled like she’d just punched the air from his lungs. Then, softly: “I couldn’t stay away.”
Ana shook her head again, the disbelief making her voice crack. “You’ll regret it.”
“Not once in ten years,” Max said, squeezing her hand now, grounding her with his touch. “Not once.”
Her eyes burned, traitorous tears rising fast. “You shouldn’t have come.”
Max leaned forward, voice steady, careful. “I had to.”
Her chest lurched. “If Papa finds out—”
“He already knows,” Max said quietly. “Both of them. Last night.”
Ana’s stomach dropped. “Oh god.” She pressed her good hand against her face. “Oh god, oh god. No. No. You weren’t supposed to—”
“Too late,” Max cut in, gently but firm. “Ana. They know. And I’m still here.”
Ana shook her head hard, blinking against tears. “You’ll regret this. You’ll regret me. Everyone does.”
“No,” Max said at once. His chair scraped back as he moved closer, crouching beside her bed. “Don’t do that. Not with me.”
Her voice cracked. “My mother always said I ruin things. I ruin people.”
“You don’t,” Max said fiercely. “You don’t ruin anything. Not with me. Not ever.”
Ana stared at him, fragile and half-broken, her wrist aching under its cast. The panic made her voice sharp. “You’ll leave. They all do. Everyone leaves.”
Max swallowed hard, eyes steady on hers. “I won’t.”
She wanted to believe him. God, she wanted to. But her whole body trembled with the weight of everything unspoken.
“I love you.”
She froze. Completely. The words had lived between them for years, unspoken, burning at the edges but never allowed out. And now here, like this, in the wreckage of sedation and humiliation and fear—he just said it.
Her chest heaved. Her mouth worked before her brain could catch up.
“I love you too,” she blurted, half-hysterical, too loud, like the dam had cracked and spilled everything at once.
The words just… fell out.
She froze. The silence after it made her dizzy. She clapped a trembling hand over her mouth as if she could shove the words back in. Her eyes stung with fresh tears.
So did Max.
Her eyes widened like she was realizing it in real time. “I said that out loud, didn’t I.”
He blinked. Nodded once.
“Oh, fuck .” Her voice cracked. “I didn’t mean to do that—”
“I’ve waited ten years, Ana.”
She sniffled. “Not like this.”
“Don’t take it back. Please don’t take it back.”
Her chest heaved. Her wrist throbbed. She wanted to crawl out of her skin.
Not like this. Not like this.
But Max was looking at her as though the entire world had just shifted on its axis. Not triumphant, not smug, not even relieved—just raw, wide-eyed, devastated with the sheer weight of it.
“Ten years,” he said again, quieter now, almost broken. “You think I didn’t know? Every time you pulled away. Every time you swallowed it back. I knew. I knew, and I waited. I’d wait forever if that’s what it took.”
Her good hand shook as she dragged it over her face. “You don’t understand.”
“I do,” Max said immediately. “I do. You’re terrified I’ll leave. You think you’re too much, or not enough, or that you ruin things. But Ana—” He leaned forward, his voice firming like steel under pressure. “I’m not your mother. I’m not anyone else. I’m still here.”
Her throat closed up. Her heart slammed against her ribs like it wanted to break free.
“You can’t promise that,” she whispered. “You can’t know.”
“I can,” Max said, fierce and steady. “Because I know myself. I know what I want. And it’s you. It’s always been you.”
Tears spilled again, hot, unchecked. “Max…”
He squeezed her hand, so careful of her wrist, grounding her as though he could anchor her to the earth by sheer will. “Don’t take it back. Not now. Not ever. Please.”
Her lip trembled. “I don’t know how to do this.”
His thumb traced a slow, steady circle over her skin. “You don’t have to know. You just have to let me stay.”
The words lodged deep, right where the cracks lived. She wanted to shove them away. She wanted to cling to them like lifelines. Both at once.
For a long moment, she said nothing, staring at him through the blur of her tears. Her pulse raced so hard she thought she might be sick.
Then—so soft he almost missed it—“Don’t go.”
Max exhaled shakily, relief shuddering out of him like the tide breaking against shore. He pressed her hand gently against his cheek, closing his eyes as though he could breathe her in.
“I won’t,” he promised, voice rough, threaded with ten years of wanting. “Not now. Not ever.”
Ana’s breath hitched, sharp and unsteady. She didn’t trust herself to believe him. But for the first time in years, maybe she wanted to.
***
Wolff Residence, Monaco - 29 July 2025
Max couldn’t look away from her.
She was pale, her lashes wet with tears, hair messy against the pillow. Still shaking. Still fragile. But she’d said it. The words he had dreamed of for years. I love you too.
And now she was looking at him like she wasn’t sure whether to cling to him or shove him out the door.
He swallowed hard, throat tight. “Ana… about Spa.”
Her face crumpled instantly. She turned away, pressing the heel of her good hand against her eyes. “Don’t. Please don’t. I can’t—”
“No,” Max said quickly, leaning in, desperate to cut the spiral before it carried her away. “Listen. I was an ass. I was frustrated, and angry, and I took it out on you. I never should’ve—”
“You were right,” Ana whispered, voice small and cracked. “I push you away. I never let you in, and then when you get angry it’s my fault for—”
“Don’t.” He caught her hand before she could bury herself further, holding it tight. “Don’t do that. You don’t get to take all the blame. I lost my temper. I said things I shouldn’t. I’m sorry.”
Her chest shook on a rough breath. Slowly, painfully, she turned her head back to look at him. “I’m sorry too.”
Max’s heart squeezed so hard it almost hurt. That was all he’d needed. Not excuses, not deflection—just her. Meeting him halfway.
And then—hesitant, fragile—she added, “If we… if we tried. If we really tried. Do you think it could work?”
The question knocked the air from his lungs. For a second he thought he’d misheard her, that sedation was still tugging at her mind and the words weren’t real. But her eyes—red and raw and terrified—were steady on his.
Max felt something spark in his chest, so sharp and so sudden he almost laughed.
Ten years of waiting, of hoping, of holding himself at the edge of her walls—crumbling in one breath.
Relief, joy, disbelief—all tangled until he thought he might laugh or cry or both. Ten years of waiting, of hoping, of being pushed away only to find her again—finally, finally she wasn’t running.
“Yes,” he said fiercely, without hesitation. “God, yes. Ana, I’ve wanted nothing else. I don’t care how hard it is. I don’t care how long it takes. I’ll wait, I’ll fight, I’ll do anything. Just—let me try with you.”
Her lip trembled, but this time she didn’t look away. “Okay,” she whispered.
Max’s whole body jolted like he’d just crossed a finish line at 300 kph. Okay. The word roared in his ears, dizzying, euphoric.
He wanted to throw his head back and laugh. He wanted to shout it to the world. He wanted to kiss her until neither of them could breathe.
Instead, he just squeezed her hand tighter and let the grin break across his face, helpless and boyish, the kind of smile he hadn’t felt in years.
“Okay,” he echoed, his voice wrecked with relief. “You won’t regret it. I swear you won’t.”
Ana’s eyelids fluttered, exhaustion tugging her down again, but her fingers curled weakly into his. For once, she didn’t let go.
Max sat back in the chair, heart pounding, the giddy smile still plastered to his face. He knew the road ahead would be chaos. Toto. Susie. The paddock. Everything.
But Ana had said okay.
She’d said I love you too.
For Max Verstappen, that was everything.
Chapter 23: Chapter 21: Monaco
Chapter Text
Wolff Residence, Monaco - 29 July 2025
The morning after felt disjointed, like his head hadn’t quite caught up with reality.
Toto stirred his coffee absently, staring at the surface without really seeing it. He’d woken early, but his thoughts were still trapped back in Anastasia’s room—Max Verstappen in the chair by her bed, like it was the most normal thing in the world.
He hadn’t shouted. Not after the first round the night before. But the image kept replaying. His daughter pale against the sheets, her wrist bandaged, and that boy —no, not a boy anymore, but still, to Toto he would always be that karting kid—sitting at her bedside like he belonged there.
Toto hadn’t known what to do with it. Still didn’t.
“Papa.”
Jack’s voice dragged him back, sharp and insistent. The boy stood in the kitchen doorway, hair sticking out in every direction, still in his pajamas.
“What is it?”
“I don’t want to go to school today.” Jack crossed his arms, small chin jutting out in stubborn defiance. “I want to stay with Ana.”
Toto pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose. He should have expected this. Jack adored his sister, idolized her in that wholehearted way only a younger brother could. And after everything that had happened—of course he wanted to cling close.
But explaining was impossible. You can’t stay because your sister needs rest. Because there’s someone else in that room I can’t even begin to explain to you. Because I still don’t know what the hell to make of it myself.
“She needs to rest,” Toto said instead, gentling his tone. “Mama and I will take good care of her.”
“I can be quiet,” Jack shot back immediately. “I’ll sit in the corner. I won’t say anything.”
Toto’s chest tightened. He admired his son’s loyalty, but—God, not today. Not with Max Verstappen still sitting there when he left, still looking at Anastasia like she was the center of the universe.
“She’ll want to see you when she’s feeling a bit better,” Toto tried again, crouching down so he was eye-level with his son. “Right now, she needs to sleep. And you need to go to school. That’s your job, ja?”
Jack’s eyes filled, frustration warring with hurt. “But what if she needs me?”
Toto swallowed hard. He had no answer for that, not one he could give. Not without unraveling more than he was ready for.
“I promise,” he said quietly, resting a hand on Jack’s shoulder. “If she needs you, I’ll come get you right away. But for now—we let her rest. Understood?”
It took a long beat, but eventually Jack nodded, still sulky, still unwilling.
Toto straightened, ruffling his son’s hair, masking his own unease with practiced calm. He turned back to his coffee, trying to focus on the ordinary morning rhythms—school bags, shoes, cereal bowls.
But his mind stayed elsewhere.
On Anastasia.
On Max Verstappen still sitting in that chair.
And the fact that, sooner or later, he was going to have to find the words to explain it—to himself, and to his family.
***
Wolff Residence, Monaco - 29 July 2025
The sunlight in Monaco was merciless, too bright against the blinds, too sharp for her throbbing head. Ana sat propped against her pillows, heart pounding so violently she swore the monitors should have picked it up.
Max hadn’t moved from the chair. Not once. He’d sat through her dozing, through her jittery half-awake muttering, through the constant drum of panic under her ribs. Every time she cracked her eyes open, he was there, hoodie rumpled, eyes ringed with sleepless shadows—and still looking at her like she was the only thing anchoring him to the room.
It was too much. It was everything.
The creak of the door made her jolt upright, pulse spiking. She knew before she even looked who it was.
Susie entered first, her calm presence somehow filling every corner of the room. Toto followed, tall and looming, his face a mask of quiet intensity.
Ana’s throat closed.
Max stood automatically, like instinct, but her hand shot out before he could move too far. Her fingers curled tight into his hoodie sleeve, holding him close.
“Papa,” she blurted, the word cracking out too loud, too desperate. Her chest heaved with the effort of breathing, panic crowding her lungs. “Papa, I love him. Please don’t kill him.”
Her own voice startled her. The plea tore itself out of her like a child again, trembling, terrified, begging for something she shouldn’t have had to beg for.
Toto froze. His eyes widened, not with anger, but with something more complicated. Shock. Pain. Recognition.
Susie was already at her bedside, settling gently on the edge of the mattress, one hand brushing back Ana’s hair. “Breathe, darling. Slow. In, out. That’s it.”
But Ana couldn’t slow. Her chest rattled, breaths hitching, everything shaking apart. “I mean it. I mean it. I love him. Don’t take him away from me. Don’t—” Her voice broke, spiraling. “Don’t make him leave.”
She didn’t dare look at Max, not with the way her words were spilling unchecked, humiliating and raw. She kept her eyes on her father instead, wide and wet and desperate.
Toto finally moved, sinking heavily into the chair on her other side. His jaw worked, as though he was grinding down a thousand things unsaid. When he spoke, his voice was low, steadier than she expected.
“No one is making him leave, Ana.”
She blinked at him, disbelief choking her.
Susie’s hand rubbed gently over her arm, grounding. “Your father is shocked, yes. Protective, of course. But kill him? No.”
Toto’s gaze flicked briefly to Max, sharp and unreadable, before returning to her. “I am not losing you again. If this is who you love—if this is what you want—then I have to… accept it. Even if it takes me time.”
Ana’s lip trembled. The panic in her chest thinned into something else—something fragile and almost unbearable.
Her father, who had raised walls of steel around his family, who had thrown his whole life into control and protection, was sitting there and saying he wouldn’t tear this away from her.
She sucked in a shaky breath. “I just want… him.”
Max’s hand tightened gently on hers, silent, steady.
Toto closed his eyes for a moment, a weary exhale leaving him. “Then we will find a way.”
Ana’s whole body trembled, relief colliding with disbelief until she felt hollow and full at once.
Susie kissed her temple softly. “See? No one is killing anyone.”
Ana didn’t realize she was shaking until Susie’s hand stilled on her arm, thumb pressing a grounding circle into her skin. She tried to steady her breath, tried to hold herself together, but her chest was heaving, her body a traitor to the calm she was begging for.
And then—her father moved.
Not with the stiff precision she had grown up watching in boardrooms, not with the restrained politeness that so often substituted for affection. He shifted forward in the chair, long frame folding awkwardly, until he leaned in and wrapped his arms around her.
For a second, Ana froze. Her mind simply couldn’t process it. She couldn’t remember the last time he’d hugged her like this—arms firm, face pressed to her hair, no hesitation, no distance.
Her throat gave out. The sob cracked loose before she could swallow it back, muffled against his chest.
“Papa,” she gasped, clinging with her good arm like she was eight years old again and terrified of thunderstorms. “I love him. I can’t—don’t make me—”
“Shhh.” His voice rumbled low, steady, right above her ear. “I’m not taking him from you.”
She shook harder, a storm breaking loose inside her.
Toto’s arms only tightened, uncharacteristically unshakable, like he was trying to hold every broken piece of her in place. “You are my daughter,” he said, voice hoarse but certain. “That will never change. Whoever you love—I have to trust you. Even if it scares me. Even if I don’t like it.”
Ana let out another sob, trembling so hard her cast thumped awkwardly against him.
Her forehead pressed into his chest, her shoulders shaking.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, the words tumbling raw, cracked. “I’m so sorry, Papa. I should have told you. I should have—” She broke off, breath hitching. “I just… I didn’t want you to be disappointed in me. I didn’t want to make your life harder. I didn’t want to ruin everything.”
Toto’s arms tightened, one broad hand cupping the back of her head the way he had when she was a child. His voice was low, almost gravel.
“Anastasia. Look at me.”
She tried. Her eyes blurred, lashes sticky with tears, but she forced herself to tilt her face up.
He met her gaze head-on. No fury. No disappointment. Just something heavy and unbearably human.
“You could never ruin me,” he said firmly. “You could never ruin anything in my life. Do you understand?”
Her lip trembled. “But I lied. For years. I hid him from you. I didn’t want anyone to know—”
“And that was your choice,” Toto cut in, softer now, brushing his thumb across her damp cheek. “Maybe not one I agree with. Maybe one that hurt me to discover. But never something that makes me disappointed in you. Never.”
Ana swallowed, throat tight. “But you’ve given me everything. And I just—I didn’t want to be another complication. You’ve already had to carry so much.”
His brow creased, pain flickering across his face. “Ana… you are not a burden. You never have been. Not once. Do you hear me? The only thing that would ever disappoint me is if you thought you had to hide yourself to keep my love.”
Her breath stuttered. A sob slipped free before she could stop it, and she buried her face back into his chest, clutching his shirt with shaking fingers.
Toto kissed the top of her head, his voice dropping into that mix of German and English he only used when she was at her lowest. “ Sternchen… ich bin stolz auf dich. Always. Nothing you do will ever change that.”
Her hand fisted weakly in the fabric of his shirt. She’d thought he would rage, or banish, or forbid. She had braced herself for battle. But there wasn’t one. Not really.
She cried into his chest, helpless and unrestrained, while Susie stroked her hair and Max’s hand stayed steady in hers.
***
Wolff Residence, Monaco - 29 July 2025
Max sat on the edge of the sofa, hands clenched into fists against his knees, the tension in his body wound so tight it felt like a snapped spring waiting to break.
Ana was curled up beside him, tucked into the corner of the couch, blanket wrapped around her shoulders like armor. Her casted wrist rested against her chest, her good hand twisting the edge of the fabric. She looked small—too small—eyes red, skin pale, exhaustion pulling her features down.
Across from them, Toto and Susie sat together in low, tight-voiced discussion. A stack of papers sat on the coffee table—notes from HR, statements from Brackley staff, copies of the legal brief their lawyers had started drafting.
The words made Max’s stomach twist: “sexual misconduct,” “violation of conduct standards,” “hostile work environment.” Sterile words. Empty words compared to the fury in his chest.
Toto’s voice was calm, too calm. The way it got when he was planning war. “We’ll pursue legal action. Civil, potentially criminal. HR is already drafting formal proceedings. George has no place in this sport anymore.”
Ana’s head snapped up at that, panic flickering in her eyes. “Papa, no. Don’t—don’t make this bigger.”
Susie’s mouth tightened. “Bigger? Ana, he assaulted you. You said no. He didn’t stop. He grabbed you. He kissed you. You broke your wrist getting away from him. That is already too big to ignore.”
Ana flinched, curling further into the blanket. “I just… I don’t want this to be a headline. I don’t want to be the story.”
Max’s chest burned hot. He wanted to put a hole through the wall. He wanted to put his fist through George’s jaw. He wanted to make sure George never walked through another paddock again.
Instead, he forced himself to speak, his voice low, rough. “Ana. He doesn’t get to do this and just… walk away. He doesn’t get to touch you and make you feel like it’s your fault. He doesn’t get to smile at the cameras while you sit here with a broken wrist.”
She shook her head, eyes glassy. “Max, please—”
“No.” His voice came out sharper than he meant, but he couldn’t stop it. “He hurt you. He scared you. And if Toto doesn’t sue him, I will.”
“Max,” Toto warned, but his tone wasn’t chastising—it was weary. “This is already in motion. The lawyers will handle it.”
Max barely heard him. His eyes were on Ana, who was trembling under the weight of everyone’s words. He softened his voice, tried to meet her where she was. “You’re not alone in this. Not this time. You don’t have to fight him off by yourself. Let us fight for you.”
Her lip trembled. She pressed the back of her good hand against her mouth, eyes squeezing shut. “I just wanted him to stop. That’s all. I didn’t want—”
Max leaned closer, fierce, desperate to burn it into her. “And you had the right to want that. He didn’t listen. That’s on him, not you.”
Silence fell heavy. Susie reached across the table, resting her hand lightly over Ana’s ankle through the blanket. Her voice softened. “He doesn’t get to decide what happens next. You do. We’ll support you no matter what you choose—but I promise you, he will not touch you again. Not on our watch.”
Ana swallowed hard, shoulders trembling.
Finally, Ana’s shoulders sagged. Her voice was barely more than a whisper.
“Okay.”
Max exhaled, shaky, half-relief and half-rage still simmering. He tightened his grip on her hand, vowing silently that George Russell would never come within reach of her again.
And if the lawyers didn’t finish him, Max swore he would.
Max’s fists clenched tighter, nails biting into his palms. The fury inside him had nowhere to go, not without breaking things, but he stayed put. For her.
All he could do was keep saying it, over and over in his head, until she believed it:
You’re safe. You’re safe. He’ll never touch you again.
***
Text Messages: Gianpiero Lambiase & Max Verstappen
GP:
Mate.
Just got back from mountain biking all day yesterday, no signal.
WHAT the actual fuck happened to George?
I check my phone this morning and suddenly Bottas is driving Hungary.
Max:
Yeah, you picked the right day to be off-grid.
Long story short: he kissed Ana. Against her will.
She broke her wrist punching him to get away.
GP:
…
What the actual FUCK.
Max:
Yeah. Toto’s lawyers are all over it. He’s suspended.
But Ana’s safe. She’s in Monaco with her parents.
GP:
Jesus Christ. I don’t even know what to say.
Is she okay?
Max:
Not really. She’s a mess. But she’ll get through it.
…GP, she told me she loves me.
GP:
Wait—WHAT?
Max:
She said it. Out loud.
Not planned. Not calm. She was half drugged and panicking but…
She said it. And she meant it.
GP:
Hold on.
George Russell commits career suicide and YOU walk away finally getting the “I love you” after ten bloody years?
Max:
Pretty much.
I don’t even care how it happened, GP. She said it.
She asked me to stay. She said we should give us a chance.
GP:
…you sound like you just won a fifth championship.
Max:
This is better.
GP:
Just don’t get killed by Toto before you make it down the aisle.
Max:
Working on it.
***
Mercedes F1 HQ, Brackley, England - 29 July 2025
Lunch club was supposed to be relaxing.
It wasn’t.
The cafeteria smelled faintly of curry, Bono had his usual stack of files next to his tray like he couldn’t quite switch off, and Valtteri looked more like he’d wandered in from a war room than from the simulator suite.
And George Russell’s name was on everyone’s tongue.
Kimi stabbed at his pasta. “So, uh… they’re not actually gonna let him back, are they?”
The silence stretched. Then Valtteri let out a low breath.
“If they did,” Valtteri said flatly, “I wouldn’t be here.”
Kimi nodded slowly. That tracked. Still didn’t do much to quiet the storm in his head.
Bono leaned back, rubbing his temple. “I don’t think people outside realise how bad this is. It’s not just… what he did to Ana. It’s the trust . You break that in this place and you don’t come back from it.”
Kimi’s jaw tightened. He wanted to ask a hundred questions about Ana—if she was okay, if anyone had seen her—but he didn’t know if he was allowed. Instead, he muttered, “I still can’t believe it. He always acted… normal. Well. Boring.”
“Some of the worst ones do,” Valtteri said grimly. He pushed his tray back. “He’s lucky Ana fought back. If she hadn’t—” He didn’t finish. He didn’t need to.
Bono’s eyes were darker than usual. “Toto hasn’t said it out loud yet, but everyone knows. George is finished here. Suspension is just the start. They’re building the case airtight.”
Kimi’s fork froze halfway to his mouth. “Good.”
Valtteri gave him a small, sharp nod. “Good.”
For a moment, the three of them just sat there. The hum of conversation around them felt distant, like the whole factory had dropped into some strange quiet. Brackley usually buzzed. Now it felt like a tomb.
Bono cleared his throat. “Anyway. Hungary.”
Kimi blinked. “What about it?”
“You do realise this will be the first time Altair goes live outside simulation?” Bono said, leaning forward. “You’ve had it in sim, yes, but this is the real track. The whole calibration is balanced on you.”
Kimi’s stomach dipped. He shoved another bite of pasta in his mouth to cover it. “No pressure then.”
Valtteri gave a dry smile. “Don’t worry. If you bin it, they’ll blame the setup. Not you.”
“Encouraging,” Kimi deadpanned.
But inside, nerves prickled sharp. Hungary. His first race weekend with the full system live. His first weekend partnered—at least on paper—with Bottas , not George. The first weekend where every camera would look at Mercedes and whisper.
First time in the real W16 with the package Ana had basically built around him. He’d run it in sim for weeks, learned it, cursed it, mastered bits. “Feels wrong,” Kimi admitted. “To be excited. When she’s…” He trailed off, hands clenching.
Bono softened, just a little. “She’d want you to be. She built that system for you, lad. Hell, she named it after a star. That’s her way of saying she believes in you.”
He shoved his tray away. “I’m not worried.”
Valtteri gave him a look that said he saw straight through it. Bono just smirked faintly, like he’d heard that line a hundred times before.
“Sure you’re not,” Bono said. Then, softer: “You’ll be fine, Kimi. Trust the car. Trust yourself. We wouldn’t put Altair in your hands if we didn’t believe you could handle it.”
Kimi ducked his head, fiddling with his fork. He wanted to believe it. He really did. But between the mess with George, Ana, the whole world suddenly looking at Mercedes, and the weight of Altair sitting squarely on his shoulders, it felt like he was already strapped into the car, the lights counting down.
Valtteri leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. “Just don’t do what George did.”
Kimi snorted, bitter. “Don’t worry. I actually respect Ana.”
That got both of them to nod, grimly united.
Lunch club wasn’t relaxing.
But maybe, just maybe, it was the reminder Kimi needed: he wasn’t alone in this.
***
Wolff Residence, Monaco - 29 July 2025
Papa picked him up from school instead of Mama. That already felt weird. Papa almost never did school pick-up. Usually he was on a plane or in meetings, his phone glued to his ear, speaking in German or English or both. But today he was just quiet, one hand on the wheel, jaw set tight.
Jack swung his feet in the back seat, clutching his backpack straps. He wanted to ask about Ana—wanted to know if she was awake, if she’d eaten, if she was still pale and sad the way she’d been yesterday. But Papa’s face was all angles, and Jack had learned you didn’t poke at Papa’s sharp edges when he looked like that.
So he waited until they pulled into the drive.
“Is Ana okay?” Jack asked as Papa parked.
Papa sighed through his nose, glanced at him in the mirror. “She’s… resting. She’ll be glad to see you.”
Jack nodded, though it didn’t make the knot in his stomach go away.
Inside, the apartment smelled like coffee and paper and something sweet Mama must have baked earlier. Jack dropped his bag by the stairs and padded toward the living room—then froze.
Ana was on the couch. That wasn’t the strange part. She had a blanket tucked over her legs, her wrist in a bandage, hair a bit messy, but she was awake, smiling faintly at something someone had said.
No—the strange part was who was sitting next to her.
Max Verstappen.
Max Verstappen, the driver Papa yelled at on TV, the one Jack had drawn crashing into the wall in his coloring book last year just to annoy Papa. Max Verstappen, sitting too close to Ana, his hand brushing hers when she shifted the blanket, like it was the most normal thing in the world.
Jack’s eight-year-old brain went red.
He marched into the room, backpack thumping against his hip. “Why is he here?”
Ana blinked at him, startled. “Jack—”
“I don’t like it,” Jack cut in, glaring at Max with all the force his small frame could muster. “You’re too close.”
Max’s brows shot up, clearly not expecting to be ambushed by a third grader. “Uh…”
Ana’s cheeks flushed, half-embarrassed, half-amused. “Jack, it’s fine. He’s… he’s keeping me company.”
Jack crossed his arms. “I can keep you company.”
Max coughed, like he was trying not to laugh. “I’m sure you can, little man.”
“I’m not little,” Jack snapped. “And you don’t need to sit that close .”
Papa appeared in the doorway then, one eyebrow raised, arms folded. “Jack.”
Jack turned toward him, hands on his hips. “Papa, you said George hurt Ana. And George is one of your drivers. And he was supposed to protect her. But he didn’t. And now—” He jabbed a finger toward Max. “—now this one is sitting on the couch acting like he owns it. I don’t like it.”
Ana made a strangled noise, hiding her face in her good hand. Max looked like he wanted the ground to swallow him whole.
Papa pinched the bridge of his nose. “Jack…”
But Jack wasn’t finished. He marched right up to the couch and plopped himself down on Ana’s other side, squishing himself under her arm, glaring across her at Max. “If anyone’s keeping Ana company, it’s me. Not you. ”
Ana’s shoulders shook with half-smothered laughter, her eyes suspiciously shiny when she leaned down to kiss the top of Jack’s hair. “You’re my hero, you know that?”
Jack stuck out his chin. “Good. Someone’s got to be.”
From the corner of his eye, he saw Max’s jaw tighten, his expression caught between frustration and something softer. But Jack didn’t care. He’d decided.
If George Russell could hurt Ana, and Papa could let Max Verstappen sit on the couch, then it was up to Jack Wolff—age eight, crayons still in his schoolbag—to guard his big sister from everyone else.
Even world champions.
***
Wolff Residence, Monaco - 29 July 2025
Jack had wedged himself firmly against her side like a human shield. Eight years old, all elbows and defiance, glaring at Max like he was some kind of villain out of one of his comic books.
Ana rubbed her good hand over her face. Of all the things she’d expected to deal with today — the cast on her wrist, the painkillers making her woozy, Papa’s lawyers circling like hawks — Jack staking claim to her like a jealous watchdog had not been on the list.
“Jack,” she said carefully.
He stiffened but didn’t look at her. His glare stayed trained on Max, who was sitting on the other end of the couch, trying to look unbothered and failing spectacularly.
“Mm?” Jack said, suspiciously casual.
“Be nice.”
“I am nice.”
Ana arched a brow. “Really? You’ve been glaring at him for twenty minutes.”
Jack’s jaw jutted. “Because he’s too close. ”
Max made a strangled sound like he was trying not to laugh, and Ana shot him a look sharp enough to cut glass. Do not encourage him.
She sighed. “Jack. Max isn’t the enemy.”
“He could be.”
Ana pinched the bridge of her nose, her wrist throbbing. “He’s not. He’s… he’s important to me.”
That got Jack’s attention. His head whipped around, eyes wide. “Important how?”
Ana winced. She was not prepared for this interrogation, not from her eight-year-old brother with the tactical instincts of an auditor. “Just… important.”
Jack’s scowl deepened. “Important like Papa says Toto’s sponsors are important?”
Max actually choked. Ana’s cheeks burned. “No. Not like that.”
Jack crossed his arms. “Then prove it.”
Ana bit the inside of her cheek, then glanced at the low table, where Jack’s box of Lego still sat half-spilled from the weekend. An idea struck. Desperate, but maybe workable.
She nudged Jack gently. “How about this. You and Max build something together. A car, a rocket, I don’t care. If he can build with you without messing it up, then you have to stop glaring at him. Deal?”
Jack eyed her skeptically. “And if he does mess it up?”
Ana smiled faintly. “Then you get to laugh at him forever.”
That perked Jack up. He considered Max like a tiny king weighing whether to allow someone into his court. Finally, he nodded. “Fine. But I get to choose the bricks.”
Max gave Ana a look that clearly said you’re evil for this, but leaned forward anyway, elbows on his knees. “Alright. What are we building?”
Jack pulled the Lego box closer with a flourish. “A Mercedes W15.”
Ana nearly burst out laughing. Max’s face was priceless — somewhere between resignation and outright horror.
“Sure,” Max said tightly. “How hard can it be?”
Ana leaned back into the cushions, her wrist aching but her lips tugging upward despite it all. Her little brother was still scowling, Max was clearly out of his depth, and the Lego pieces were already scattering like confetti across the table.
But it was a start.
If Jack could share his Lego, maybe—just maybe—he could share her too.
***
Text Messages: Victoria Verstappen & Max Verstappen
Max:
Ana said it.
She told me she loves me.
Victoria:
…
Wait.
Actually said it ?
With words?
Max:
Yes. Out loud.
Not maybe. Not halfway.
She said “I love you too.”
Victoria:
🤯🤯🤯
FINALLY.
Do you have any idea how long I’ve been waiting for this??
Do you know how many years of “she almost said it” stories I’ve had to listen to??
Max:
Yeah, well.
Worth it.
Victoria:
You sound smug.
Max:
I’m not smug.
I’m…
Happy.
Like stupidly happy.
Victoria:
Good. You deserve it.
She deserves it too.
I love her, Max. I want her in this family.
Max:
She is. Always has been.
Victoria:
🥹
Okay don’t make me cry at the supermarket.
Max:
😂
Victoria:
By the way—
What the actual fuck happened with George Russell???
My entire feed is “HR investigation this” “Bottas back that” and nobody knows anything.
Max:
You don’t want to know.
Victoria:
Max.
Max:
He tried something with Ana.
She broke her wrist fighting him off.
Victoria:
WHAT.
WHAT.
I WILL FLY TO ENGLAND AND END HIM MYSELF.
Max:
Toto and Susie are already on it. Lawyers, HR, everything.
But trust me, he’s finished.
Victoria:
Good.
I’ll still keep my baseball bat by the door.
Max:
😅
***
Motorsport Monthly - Is Mercedes Engineering a Convenient Exit for George Russell?
By Michael Finch
The motorsport world was thrown into chaos this week as Mercedes-AMG Petronas announced the sudden suspension of George Russell, citing an “HR investigation.” Valtteri Bottas, conveniently available after his Kick Sauber stint, will be stepping in for the Hungarian Grand Prix.
On paper, the move reads like a straightforward disciplinary measure. But when one digs deeper, questions arise. Too many questions.
Timing Too Convenient?
Sources close to Russell suggest that the young Briton is being made a scapegoat — and not for the first time in Mercedes history. “It’s hard not to notice the timing,” one insider remarked. “The so-called incident appeared out of nowhere, with vague language and no details provided. And suddenly, Bottas is parachuted in. You can’t tell me that’s just coincidence.”
More damningly, speculation has grown that Mercedes’ true motivation lies in securing a seat for a different driver — one who has been openly frustrated with his current team and whose name has been whispered in Brackley corridors for months: Max Verstappen.
The Verstappen Question
It’s no secret that Verstappen’s relationship with Red Bull has been strained since the team’s competitiveness slipped in 2025. Rumors of private meetings between Toto Wolff and Verstappen in Sardinia have only fueled suspicions.
“George is being forced out under the guise of an HR scandal,” another source close to Russell’s camp claimed. “It gives Mercedes the perfect cover story. Nobody questions it, nobody digs deeper, and then suddenly a seat opens up for Max next season. It’s all too neat.”
Shadows of the Past
This wouldn’t be the first time Wolff has maneuvered ruthlessly behind the scenes. Critics point to his handling of drivers like Esteban Ocon and Valtteri Bottas in previous years — useful, loyal, but ultimately disposable when a bigger name was on the horizon.
“George has been a loyal soldier for Mercedes,” one Russell ally argued. “He’s delivered results, he’s toed the company line, and yet he’s treated like this? It reeks of politics, not justice.”
Where There’s Smoke…
For now, the official word remains opaque: “suspension pending HR investigation.” But in the hyper-politicized world of Formula 1, the whispers are often louder than the press releases.
And the whispers are saying this: George Russell has become collateral damage in Mercedes’ desperate pursuit of Max Verstappen.
***
Racing World Weekly - Did Ana Wolff Engineer George Russell’s Fall From Grace?"
By Reese Shaw
The shock suspension of Mercedes driver George Russell ahead of the Hungarian Grand Prix has sent Formula 1 into chaos. Official statements cite a pending HR investigation, with Valtteri Bottas recalled at short notice to race in Budapest. But sources close to Russell suggest there’s more to the story than Mercedes is letting on — and it all leads back to one name: Dr. Anastasia “Ana” Wolff.
Ana, 27, is Mercedes’ enigmatic systems engineer — and, not coincidentally, the daughter of Team Principal Toto Wolff. She has long kept out of the spotlight, but insiders describe her as wielding “more influence than anyone realizes.”
According to one source in Russell’s camp, the incident that triggered his suspension was “wildly overblown” and rooted in personal tensions. “George and Ana never saw eye-to-eye,” the insider said. “She didn’t like his feedback on the car, and he didn’t like that she always got the final say in systems strategy. There was friction. But instead of handling it internally, suddenly he’s being painted as some kind of villain.”
The source also implied ulterior motives, suggesting Ana wanted Russell out of the team ahead of Mercedes’ blockbuster signing of Max Verstappen for 2026. “She’s been part of the inner circle on Verstappen’s deal for months,” they claimed. “It’s no secret she and Max are close. And now George is gone? Convenient, isn’t it?”
Critics have pointed to Ana’s rapid rise through Mercedes’ engineering ranks as further proof of favoritism. “She’s smart, sure, but let’s be honest,” another unnamed voice told Motorsport World. “If her last name wasn’t Wolff, would she really be calling the shots on the power unit project at her age? There are people with twice the experience who don’t get half the platform she does.”
It’s not the first time Ana’s presence in the garage has raised eyebrows. Some rivals have whispered about “distraction,” questioning her close ties to drivers and suggesting that Mercedes’ internal culture has become “too much about the Wolff family.”
For Russell’s supporters, the timing feels damning. “He’s a proven race winner,” the source said. “But overnight he’s benched without due process. All because Toto Wolff’s daughter didn’t want him around anymore. Judge for yourself what that says.”
Mercedes has declined to elaborate beyond its brief HR statement, while Russell himself has stayed quiet. But the paddock is already buzzing: is this truly a case of driver misconduct, or has one engineer’s influence grown too powerful for the team’s good?
One thing is certain: Formula 1’s most private figure is suddenly at the heart of its ugliest storm.
***
Twitter Thread: George Russell is feeding the media?
@/F1MathGirl:
Wait hold up… that article is saying Mercedes suspended George to make room for Max??
HELLO?? Max already signed with Mercedes for 2026. He literally has a secure seat. 💀
@/kimisvodka:
Lmao so we’re pretending like Toto needs a “cover story” to get rid of George??
Newsflash: both George and Kimi aren’t signed for next year. There are TWO open seats.
@/chickenrunlandon:
bro the conspiracy theories are insane. max is locked in. kimi is prob gonna get promoted. george is the one dangling. nobody had to fake an “HR thing” for that 😭😭😭
@/gasslyscentedcandle:
Mercedes: suspends George for HR investigation
Random tabloid: “this is so max can join next year”
Me: ??? what year do YOU live in???
@/beefybotas:
Everyone crying “set-up” like George wasn’t literally out of contract. Mercedes didn’t need to “plot” anything. If they didn’t want him, they could just not re-sign him.
@/oscarsbreadloaf:
If Toto really wanted Max, he’d just sign him. Period. No dramatics needed. What’s he gonna do, summon a whole HR investigation for fun?? 😭
@/chaoticfernando:
The fact that people are forgetting Mercedes announced Max already is killing me. That seat is LOCKED. There’s only one left and it was George vs. Kimi.
@/OpenWheelObsessive:
That whole “they’re pushing George out to make room for Max” conspiracy is laughable. Max ALREADY signed with Mercedes. The seat that’s uncertain is between Kimi & George.
@/formula1nerd:
What are these articles smoking??? Mercedes doesn’t need to set George up to “clear space” for Max. That space has BEEN cleared. The real question is who pairs Max: Kimi or George.
@/AlbonoFan69:
The theory that this is about “making space for Verstappen” is the dumbest thing I’ve read since “Lance is secretly going to Red Bull.” Max’s deal with Merc was announced weeks ago. 😂
@/W14Woes:
Let’s recap:
- Max: ✅ signed for 2026+
- Kimi: ❓ no deal yet
- George: ❓ no deal yet
Tell me again how Toto needs a fake HR scandal to “open a seat”?
@/SpicyPitStops:
I’m begging certain outlets to do BASIC fact-checking before running conspiracy drivel. Mercedes didn’t need a plot twist to get Max — he’s already theirs. This is about George. Full stop.
@/SilverArrowTruthers:
Open your eyes, people. This “suspension” is way too convenient. They want Max in that seat and George out. Classic Mercedes politics. #F1
@/DR44dreams:
Everyone pretending this isn’t obvious… Toto is obsessed with Max. They needed a reason to dump George and now they have one.
@/f1shadowfiles:
Max’s deal was suspiciously fast . Don’t tell me it’s a coincidence George gets pushed out right after. Connect the dots.
@/GridConspiracies:
Mercedes couldn’t drop George clean because PR backlash. So they “found something” for HR to investigate. Textbook smear.
@/charlesmymonaco:
Max stans can laugh but it’s true. Why suspend George right before Hungary? To test Valtteri as placeholder until Max slides in.
@/garageinsider420:
Y’all can’t be this naive. Mercedes wanted George gone for ages. They created this mess so no one questions why Max replaces him next season.
@/tinFoilTifosi:
Mark my words: George’s career is being sacrificed so Toto can have Max + Kimi. It’s all staged.
@/F1StatMan:
Why would Merc “set George up” to clear a seat for Max when… MAX ALREADY SIGNED WITH THEM FOR 2026?? 😂 The contracts are public record. It’s Kimi & George without confirmed deals, not Max.
@/pitlanechaos:
Conspiracy theorists are working overtime… Mercedes literally secured Verstappen months ago. The seat shuffle is between Kimi & George, not Max.
@/gridgossipgirl:
This article is unhinged. Toto Wolff didn’t need to “frame” George for anything to get Max. The seat was already locked in.
@/f1academic:
Let me get this straight: Max has a Mercedes contract. Kimi’s future is still in flux. George is suspended. And apparently the big master plan is… to open a seat for the guy who already has one? Make it make sense.
@/landoismydad:
“Set up for Max” 💀 babes he already has a seat . The math ain’t mathing.
@/offtrackrumors:
Max to Merc: ✅
Kimi future: ❓
George’s suspension: ❓
But yeah, let’s spin it into some wild “cover-up conspiracy” lmao.
@/mercedesinsider69:
Don’t be fooled. This HR stuff is just corporate language. They needed George out so Max could slide into the team drama-free.
@/tinfoilformula:
They’re protecting their star investment (Max) and making George the scapegoat. It’s obvious.
@/redflagrumors
I don’t trust the official story one bit. Whenever a team says “HR investigation” it means they want someone gone. And George is the fall guy.
@/engineerstan
“she only has her job because of her dad” yeah except she’s got a PhD in systems engineering!
@/mercedesstan420
so let me get this straight. george russell is suspended pending an HR INVESTIGATION. and instead of maybe…thinking HE DID SOMETHING, this magazine blames ana wolff??? you can’t make this up 💀💀💀
@/drunklando
i can’t stop laughing at the idea that ana masterminded a plot to remove george just to make space for max—WHO ALREADY HAS A MERCEDES SEAT SIGNED 😂😂
@/womeninmotorsport
the misogyny jumped out. you can tell this “source” is panicking. every woman in F1 has heard the “you’re only here bc of xyz man” line and it’s TIRED.
@/kimiantonelliupdates
“ana wolff is too powerful” → me: good. she should be.
@/mercedesinsider
the funniest part is that brackley literally runs on ana wolff’s code. half of these guys wouldn’t even get their coffee machine to work without her.
@/motorsportnerd:
That article really said “Ana Wolff is too smart, so she must be cheating” 💀 the sexism jumped OUT.
@/f1chaosupdates:
Wild how every time a woman in F1 is competent, the press immediately goes: nepotism, manipulation, witchcraft??
@/landoosmile:
So let me get this straight:
George is suspended by HR → Mercedes confirms it publicly (something teams NEVER do unless it’s serious) → BUT ACTUALLY it’s because Ana wanted him gone??
Y’all hear yourselves??
@/fernandoAlonslo:
They’re really trying the “angry woman ruins man’s career” angle huh. Vintage.
@/maxielover33:
Oh, so Ana masterminded Verstappen’s contract too? What’s next, she controls the weather?
@/bottas_fan44:
Ana Wolff hacking George Russell’s career like it’s telemetry is the funniest conspiracy take I’ve ever seen.
@/f1lawyerlady:
FYI: HR investigations of this magnitude don’t happen because someone “didn’t like someone else.” They happen when something serious occurs. Stop blaming Ana.
@/F1Stan420
lmao so Racing World Weekly just published a “blame Ana” article and it’s the most sexist trash I’ve read in months
@/engineergirlie
amazing how when a man gets suspended the narrative is never “wow what did he do wrong” but instead “a woman tricked HR with her evil agenda”
@/landoapologist
not theses magazines basically running a PR campaign for George 💀💀💀
@/ValtteriBottasFan89
“she wanted him out for Max” ?? bro Max ALREADY SIGNED. George’s seat wasn’t even secure past 2025. Try harder.
@/mercedesinsider
imagine blaming the engineer who builds your power unit for your own lack of job security. tragic.
@/womeninmotorsport
Sexist undertones? Babe it’s not undertones, it’s a foghorn. This whole article screams “a woman made me face consequences and now I’m mad.”
@/pitlaneprofessor
So… two separate “sources” magically appear within 48 hours?
First article: “HR investigation is fake, it’s just to free a seat for Max.”
Second article: “Actually it’s Ana Wolff’s fault.”
Guess whose camp that reeks of. 🧐
@/gridgeek
the funniest part is that george’s camp can’t even get their story straight. first it’s “Mercedes plotted against him” now it’s “Ana masterminded his downfall.” pick a lane 💀
@/leclercmoments
this is what happens when you hire PR people who think reddit conspiracy theories = crisis management strategy
@/fernandohotlap
they thought they were playing chess but it’s giving connect four with missing pieces
@/f1sleuth
first the “it’s a conspiracy to get Max a seat” article, now this “Ana engineered George’s downfall” piece… 🧐 both with the exact same tone, same anonymous “sources”. smells like camp russell.
@/pitwallgossip
the PR strategy is literally: 1) blame Max, 2) blame Ana, 3) never blame George.
@/teamLH44
you can tell it’s from his camp because it always circles back to “George is innocent” and “Ana Wolff is evil mastermind.” it’s like a bad Netflix script.
@/charlesleclercslap
funny how NO ONE else in the paddock is defending George, but suddenly he has these “journalistic allies” writing hit pieces.
@/maxieluv
bro if you’re gonna run a smear campaign at least pick ONE narrative.
Is it “Ana set him up for Max” or “Ana only has her job because of Toto”? which is it?? 🤡
@/yukistofu
the PR strategy is:
step 1: get suspended
step 2: blame Verstappen
step 3: blame Toto’s daughter
step 4: wonder why nobody buys it
@/gp2enginepls
Both articles: “George Russell was a victim of big bad Wolff family conspiracy”
Reality: George Russell is suspended pending HR investigation . HR doesn’t just hand out suspensions for fun.
@/chaoticgrid
the leaks are so unserious. article one: MAX IS BEHIND IT
article two: ANA IS BEHIND IT
article three incoming: SUSIE WOLFF PLANNED IT ALL FROM HER IPAD
@/francofangirl
Both articles are so obviously from George’s camp it’s actually embarrassing 💀 man should just log off until this blows over
@/leclercsmirror
Conspiracy article 1: Max.
Conspiracy article 2: Ana.
Can’t wait for Conspiracy article 3: It was Lewis Hamilton all along.
@/f1tea
Both articles are desperate. Both articles are from George’s side. The math is mathing.
***
Slack Channel: #brackley-nerds
Private Channel. ~30 members.
zahra.aero:
ok so who read those articles this morning???? because I’m actually gonna combust
fatima.pr:
“ana wolff masterminded george’s downfall” – are you kidding me???
nicola.sim:
funniest part is george’s camp can’t even decide if it’s Toto, Max, or Ana’s fault. pick ONE scapegoat
james.brakes:
if you’re gonna run a smear campaign maybe don’t make two conflicting ones in the same week??
lucy.comms:
Right?? One article blames Max. The other blames Ana. Who’s writing this strategy, a drunk hamster?
simon.engine
Nah it’s so transparent it’s insulting. Like the entire paddock doesn’t know HR only suspends when they HAVE something.
jess.hr:
Reminder: HR suspensions don’t happen because “she didn’t like his car feedback.” They happen when conduct crosses lines. Full stop.
liv.strategy:
also this whole “she only has her job because Toto is her dad” line… 🤬 the PU literally runs on Ana’s architecture. half this building would be eating cold sandwiches in the dark without her code.
megan.sim :
“she only has her job bc Toto is her dad” — ohhh boy do I wish they’d sit in one of her system integration meetings. They’d melt in five minutes.
liam.engine: Melt? She codes circles around us. I still don’t understand half of what she writes.
james.brakes:
ohhh the sexism is loud. “She’s too competent → must be nepotism.” Seen that movie before.
zahra.aero:
like imagine blaming the woman you assaulted because she’s “too powerful.” the victim-blaming is insane.
fatima.pr:
and they’re dragging Max into it too?! like??? he already SIGNED. months ago. HR didn’t suspend George for Verstappen fanfiction reasons 😭
lorelai.pa:
Oh trust me, I’m two seconds away from replying to every one of those articles with screenshots of George “suggesting” Ana should smile more in meetings. Or when he told her she “wasn’t approachable enough for leadership.” 🫠
liv.strategy:
WAIT. he actually said that??
lorelai.pa:
More than once. I kept receipts. He called it “banter.” I call it “death by condescension.”
jess.hr:
If you’ve got records, Lorelai, send them my way. The investigation file is already thick but more context never hurts.
liam.engine:
bro this is wild. man negged Ana for YEARS and then tried to spin himself as a victim when HR finally pulled the plug.
megan.sim:
and now he’s briefing “sources” to paint her as the evil mastermind behind his suspension. desperate.
zahra.aero:
desperate AND obvious. both articles came out of the same PR shop, you can smell it.
megan.sim:
the mood in the sim suite is feral btw. people are ready to print t-shirts that say “Ana built this house”
liv.strategy:
ngl I’d buy one
jess.hr:
Do it after the investigation wraps. For now → keep documentation coming. We’re not letting spin rewrite what happened.
lorelai.pa:
good. because I’m DONE watching him drag her name through the mud.
jess.hr:
And FYI: if anyone’s contacted by press, do not engage . Point them straight to comms.
nicola.sim:
do we think Toto’s seen these articles yet?
james.brakes:
bro if he has the building is about to shake
liv.strategy:
nah, Susie’s probably buffering him so he doesn’t go nuclear on the press
zahra.aero:
honestly? i hope he does go nuclear. every woman in this factory has heard the “you only got here bc of xyz man” line at some point. watching Ana get hit with it at this scale is disgusting.
lorelai.pa:
say it louder 👏
****
Group Chat: “WHO IS MAX VERSTAPPEN DATING”
(Members: Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, Carlos Sainz, Daniel Ricciardo, Alex Albon)
Lando:
HOLY SHIT DID YOU SEE THE ARTICLES
Oscar:
Yeah. Both of them. Back to back.
Carlos:
It’s… bad. Really bad.
Alex:
They’re trying to paint Ana as the villain.
After she’s the one who—god, I can’t even type it.
Lando:
She’s literally the victim . And they’re turning it into some conspiracy?!
Max is gonna burn the whole paddock down when he sees this.
Daniel:
Correction: DO NOT let Max see this.
He was already on the warpath yesterday and that was before these came out.
Oscar:
Too late. No way he hasn’t seen it.
Carlos:
If he hasn’t yet, don’t be the ones to send it. I’m serious.
Alex:
Mate. He’ll find it. You think Max Verstappen doesn’t read every single word written about her?
Lando:
Honestly?? He’s probably memorized every headline.
Daniel:
Which is exactly the problem.
Max’s temper + the press dragging Ana = nuclear event.
Carlos:
Max Verstappen going feral in defense of his girlfriend is not a fight I want to be near.
Alex:
Honestly? For once, I hope he does. George deserves everything coming to him.
Oscar:
It’s disgusting though.
She’s one of the smartest engineers in F1 and they reduce her to “Toto’s daughter” and “girlfriend.”
Alex:
And blame her for what George did. Like she masterminded it. Unreal.
Carlos:
We all know where this came from.
Daniel:
Yeah. Camp Russell is flailing.
First it was “Mercedes framed him for Max” and now it’s “Ana engineered it.”
They can’t even pick a story.
Lando:
If Max punches him in the face I’ll donate to his legal fund.
Oscar:
Same.
Alex:
I want to. And I used to be George’s friend.
Daniel:
Listen—whatever you do, don’t feed Max’s fire.
If he goes full berserker mode, Toto will kill him before anyone else gets the chance.
Lando:
…so, hypothetically, if Max does kill George, who gets the Mercedes seat?
Carlos:
Lando. Shut up.
Oscar:
Not the time.
Alex:
Seriously, shut up.
***
Email Subject: Media Monitoring – Articles re: Russell Suspension
From: Bradley Lord <[email protected]>
To: Toto Wolff <[email protected]>
Dear Toto,
I wanted to flag two pieces that hit the press this morning which you’ll no doubt see referenced externally, if not already.
- Motorsport Monthly has published a story alleging that George’s suspension is a “cover” to clear space for Max. The narrative pushes the line that HR action was orchestrated for political ends.
- Racing World Weekly has published an even more problematic article implying that Ana engineered the outcome. The framing is predictably sexist — questioning her qualifications, suggesting she has influence solely because of her surname, and pushing the idea that she targeted George personally.
Both clearly originate from Russell’s camp. The tone, timing, and “sources” all align. Our monitoring team notes they’ve been seeded to the same set of outlets that usually run friendly to him.
We’re already counter-briefing trusted journalists that:
- Max’s contract was signed and announced weeks ago, so the “seat-clearing” theory is factually impossible.
- The HR process is robust, independent, and ongoing. Speculation undermines colleagues across the company.
- Ana’s work speaks for itself — and does not require defending, though we will if necessary.
We’re monitoring coverage closely. At present, the backlash against these pieces is far louder than the articles themselves. Many in the media are calling them “transparent PR spin” from George’s camp, and fans are pointing out the obvious contradictions. In that sense, the narrative is leaning in our favor. Still, it’s worth being aware of the tactics being used.
Internally, I want to reassure you that Brackley is united behind Ana. Staff have been quick to dismiss the insinuations. I’ve had several department heads personally reach out to say how much they value her work and how unacceptable they find the coverage. HR will keep me updated on any further leaks, but the mood here is protective, not divisive.
Please give Ana our best from the Comms side. There is no pressure for her to engage; her wellbeing is the priority. If she wishes to make a statement in her own time, we’ll support it of course — but silence is also powerful here.
I’ll continue monitoring and prepare reactive lines if this narrative spreads further. For now, please know the press strategy is aligned, and the team here is behind both you and Ana.
Regards,
Bradley Lord
Team Representative & Chief Communications Officer
Mercedes-AMG PETRONAS Formula One Team
***
Email Subject: RE: Media Monitoring – Articles re: Russell Suspension
From: Toto Wolff <[email protected]>
To: Bradley Lord <[email protected]>
Bradley,
Thank you for flagging. I’ve read both articles. I expected something, but not this level of filth.
Let me be absolutely clear: my daughter will not be made the scapegoat for George Russell’s behaviour. Not in the media, not in the paddock, not anywhere. The attempt to turn this into a conspiracy or a nepotism story is transparent, and I will not allow it to take root.
You are right — this has George’s camp written all over it. We will not engage in their theatre. We stay disciplined. HR is handling the investigation, legal is already involved, and when the facts are published there will be no ambiguity about why he was suspended.
In the meantime, I want every department in Brackley to hear, loud and clear: Ana has my full confidence, the team’s full confidence, and Mercedes’ full confidence. Anyone who suggests otherwise will answer to me.
Please pass on my thanks to those who have spoken in her support. It matters more than they know.
And Bradley — I appreciate your note about Brackley missing her. I will tell her. She doesn’t believe it, but perhaps hearing it from me and from you will help.
Hold the line. This storm will burn itself out.
Regards,
Toto Wolff
CEO & Team Principal
Mercedes-AMG PETRONAS Formula One Team
***
Wolff Residence, Monaco - 29 July 2025
Susie could hear them from the sitting room.
The sound was soft but unmistakable: Lego bricks being shifted, snapped into place, Jack’s voice running like a motor while Ana gently corrected his math on how many studs made a full “wing” for his car, Max laughing low when Jack insisted his own design was faster than any Red Bull.
It was almost absurd, the domesticity of it. Ana pale, her wrist in a brace, Max hovering like he was afraid to breathe too loud, and Jack — bless him — still side-eyeing Max like he was an intruder. But the click-clack of Lego was steady, and it was the most normal sound Susie had heard in days.
She should have been grateful. She was grateful. But when Toto walked in from his office, jaw tight, laptop under his arm, she knew the reprieve wasn’t going to last.
He didn’t speak until he reached her in the kitchen, out of earshot. His voice was low, controlled — too controlled. “Two more articles.”
Her stomach dropped. “What kind?”
“The kind that make me want to break things.” He slid the laptop open on the counter, screen angled toward her. Headlines leapt off the page: Is Mercedes Engineering a Convenient Exit for George Russell? — and worse — Did Ana Wolff Engineer George Russell’s Fall From Grace?
Susie’s mouth went dry. She scanned enough of the text to taste bile. Conspiracy theories about Max. About Toto. About Ana. Nepotism whispers. Sexist undertones, thick as fog. And all of it in print, masquerading as journalism.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” she breathed. “They’re blaming her ?”
Toto’s face didn’t move, but the vein in his temple stood out. “Bradley sent them across. He says it reeks of Russell’s camp. I agree.”
Susie shut the laptop with more force than necessary, pulse spiking. “Unbelievable. That boy crosses the line with your daughter, gets suspended, and now suddenly she’s the villain? Of course. Of course it’s her fault, isn’t it? The brilliant, too-quiet Wolff girl who doesn’t play their media games — she must be the puppet master.”
Toto exhaled sharply, the closest he’d let himself come to a snarl. “They’re trying to turn her into the distraction. To undermine her. If this gains traction…” His jaw worked. “She’s already fragile enough. She doesn’t need the world accusing her of career sabotage on top of everything else.”
Susie pressed a hand to her mouth, then dropped it with a sharp shake of her head. “She’s in there building Lego cars with your son, trying to hold herself together, and meanwhile the press is gutting her alive.”
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The muffled sound of Jack’s laughter carried through, Max’s voice low and careful, Ana’s softer than Susie had heard it in weeks.
Finally Susie looked at him. “What do we do?”
Toto’s eyes stayed hard. “We fight it. Bradley’s already drafting responses. HR, legal — they’ll bury it. But if George thinks this will protect him, he’s mistaken. He won’t drag Ana down with him.”
Susie swallowed, her throat tight. She knew that look in her husband’s eyes — the one that meant he wasn’t just Toto Wolff, Team Principal of Mercedes. He was a father, and someone had gone after his child.
And that, she thought grimly, was the one line you never crossed.
***
Murphy Sheep Farm, Harlestone, England - 29 July 2025
Xia had seen bad PR spins before. But this?
This was filth.
She sat cross-legged on her couch, laptop glowing in the dark, the second “exclusive” open on her screen.
First they’d tried to pin it on Max. Now on Ana.
Ana.
The one person who had stood by her when she was fifteen and drowning in boarding school politics. The one who smuggled her snacks during late-night coding marathons. The one who taught her to stop apologising for being smarter than the boys.
One of the people Xia would burn the world for without hesitation.
And now? Some hack, spoon-fed by George’s desperate camp, was painting Annie as a power-hungry nepotism hire who “wanted him gone”?
Xia’s hands trembled—not with fear, but with fury so sharp it steadied her.
Enough.
Her cursor hovered over the encrypted folder she’d broken into the day before. Incident – Russell/Wolff. The footage burned in her mind already: Ana’s recoil, George leaning in, her fist snapping up, the panic written in every line of her body.
Xia hadn’t wanted to use it. Not unless she had no choice. Ana hated exposure. Hated being seen in ways she couldn’t control. But this wasn’t about control anymore. This was survival.
“They won’t smear you,” Xia muttered in Mandarin, the words a vow as she opened her command line. “Not while I’m still breathing.”
The upload tunnel lit up. A dozen anonymous relays. A dozen more backdoors. The file duplicated, fragmented, disguised, repackaged. No trace back to her. Not this time. Not ever.
Then she let it fly.
Directly into inboxes. Journalists. Editors. Rival team principals. FIA officials. Half the paddock group chats. By the time the PR flacks realised what was happening, the video would already be halfway around the world.
SUBJECT: For transparency.
ATTACHMENT: Russell_Wolff_Surveillance.mp4
BODY: “Spin is easy. Proof is better.”
Her laptop pinged confirmation after confirmation. Delivered. Delivered. Delivered.
Xia sat back, exhaling slowly, fury simmering under her skin.
Let them try to call this a conspiracy now. Let them try to smear Ana with “nepotism” and “set-up” headlines when the world could see with their own eyes what George Russell had done.
She opened her private chat with Ana—still unanswered, still silent. Her throat tightened.
“I’ve got you, Annie,” Xia whispered, her finger tapping against the screen like she could send the words straight through. “Always.”
Then she watched the internet catch fire.
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