Text Messages:  Rosa Wolff & Benedict Wolff

Rosa: DID YOU KNOW ABOUT THE ENGAGEMENT?!?!

Rosa: BENEDICT.

Rosa: ANSWER ME.

Rosa: I know you have seen these.

Rosa: You have been ignoring me for four days.

Rosa: Did Ana tell you?

Rosa: Did Papa?

Rosa: WHO IS SHE ENGAGED TO?

Rosa: Mama is losing her mind.

Rosa: Babcia is worse.

Rosa: Call me.

Rosa: Now.

Benedict: Yes.

Rosa: YES WHAT?

Benedict: Yes, I knew.

Rosa: YOU KNEW?

Rosa: And you did not tell me?

Rosa: How long have you known?

Benedict: Not long. Before the public statement.

Rosa: Ana told YOU before she told me?

Benedict: Ana has not told you.

Rosa: Exactly. Why would she tell you and not me?

Benedict: Do you actually need me to answer that?

Rosa: Oh, fuck off. You have spoken to her twice and suddenly you are taking her side?

Benedict: This is not about sides.

Rosa: It is always about sides with her.

Benedict: No. It is always about sides with Mama.

Rosa: What is that supposed to mean?

Benedict: Exactly what it says.

Rosa: Mama is the only person who has ever been honest about Ana.

Benedict: That is not honesty.

Rosa: She abandoned us.

Benedict: Ana was eight.

Rosa: Papa abandoned us for her.

Benedict: Papa remained our father.

Rosa: Not in the same way.

Benedict: Because Mama made every hour he spent with Ana feel like something stolen from us.

Rosa: It was stolen.

Benedict: No. It was not. Ana is his daughter the exact same way you are. 

Rosa: What the hell has happened to you?

Benedict: Nothing.

Rosa: You have barely answered me all week.

Rosa: You did not call Mama back.Babcia says you are behaving strangely.

Benedict: Babcia thinks most human behaviour is evidence of moral collapse.

Rosa: Do not speak about her like that.

Benedict: Why?

Rosa: Because she is our grandmother. She is worried about you.

Benedict: She is worried that I am no longer doing what she expects.

Rosa: Mama has been crying since she saw the ring.

Benedict: Why?

Rosa: Because Ana humiliated her again.

Benedict: By getting engaged?

Rosa: By letting everyone else know before us.

Benedict: Ana does not owe Mama an engagement announcement. Why would she tell her? Mama has spent twenty years insisting she isn’t family. 

Rosa: That is not true.

Benedict: It is completely true.

Rosa: Mama welcomed her into our home.

Benedict: Grudgingly.

Rosa: You know how Ana could be.

Benedict: I know how Mama told us to describe her.

Rosa: What does that mean?

Benedict: It means I do not remember Ana ever calling herself difficult. I remember Mama calling her difficult. Cold. Ungrateful. Dangerous.

Rosa: She could be frightening.

Benedict: She was a child who did not speak German and could not tolerate loud noise.

Rosa: That is not all it was.

Benedict: No. It was also a grown woman teaching her children to resent an abandoned eight-year-old.

Rosa: Mama did not teach us to hate her.

Benedict: What did she teach us? That if Papa spent time with Ana, he was choosing her over us. That if Mama cried, Ana had caused it. That if a holiday was uncomfortable, it was because Ana could not behave normally. That Ana’s existence was an attack on our family.

Rosa: Mama was hurt.

Benedict: By a child?

Rosa: By Papa.

Benedict: By a relationship he had before Mama ever even met him? First, that’s ridiculous. Second, then she should have been angry with Papa. Not Ana.

Rosa: You are making everything sound simple.

Benedict: Some parts are simple.Adults do not get to punish children for their marriage problems.

Rosa: What has Ana been saying to you?

Benedict: Nothing. Ana has not tried to turn me against anyone.

Rosa: Then why are you acting like this?

Benedict: Because I left.

Rosa: What?

Benedict: I went to America. I had distance. I met people outside Mama and Babcia’s version of what is acceptable.Eventually, you begin noticing that the whole world cannot be wrong every time your mother disapproves of it.

Rosa: Mama said you went because you thought you were better than us.

Benedict: She told me I was abandoning her.

Rosa: You were leaving.

Benedict: I was going to university abroad.

Rosa: You could have studied in Vienna.

Benedict: I did not want to stay in Vienna.

Rosa: And I did?

Benedict: Did you?

Rosa: That is irrelevant.

Benedict: No. It is not.

Rosa: I stayed because somebody had to care about Mama.

Benedict: You stayed because you watched what she did to me when I left.

Rosa: You do not know that.

Benedict: I know you had brochures from universities in Paris. I know you asked Papa about London.I know Mama found out and stopped speaking to you for three days.

Rosa: She was upset.

Benedict: She punished you.

Rosa: She did not punish me.

Benedict: She ignored you until you apologised for wanting to leave.

Rosa: She said I was making decisions without considering how they affected everyone else.

Benedict: You were choosing a university.

Rosa: She had just been through a difficult year.

Benedict: There was always a difficult year.There was always a reason we could not upset her.Always a reason her feelings mattered more.Always a reason we had to wait before doing what we wanted.

Rosa: She loves us.

Benedict: As long as we remain the versions of ourselves she approves of.

Rosa: That is a horrible thing to say.

Benedict: It is a horrible thing to realise.

Rosa: What did she do when you told her about America?

Benedict: You were there.

Rosa: Not for all of it.

Benedict: She cried. She said I was selfish. She told me Papa had filled my head with ideas because he wanted to take me from her. She said I would regret leaving once I realised nobody outside the family would ever love me properly.

Rosa: She said something similar to me.

Benedict: When?

Rosa: When I mentioned Paris.

Benedict: What did she say?

Rosa: That people there would use me. That they would laugh at me. That I was too trusting to manage without her.

Benedict: Rosa.

Rosa: I thought she was frightened for me.

Benedict: Maybe she was. That does not make controlling you acceptable.What did she actually do when she heard about the engagement?You said she lost her mind.

Rosa: She threw a glass.

Benedict: At you?

Rosa: No.

Benedict: Rosa.

Rosa: At the wall.

Benedict: Were you in the room?

Rosa: Yes.

Benedict: Did it hit you?

Rosa: No.

Benedict: What happened afterward?

Rosa: She cried.

Rosa: Then she said Ana had done it deliberately. That she had waited until the worst possible moment to make everyone look at her.

Benedict: It became public because photographers saw the ring.

Rosa: Mama says Ana wanted them to.

Benedict: Of course she does.

Rosa: She called Papa eleven times.

Benedict: Did he answer?

Rosa: No.

Benedict: Good.

Rosa: Then she called Susie.

Benedict: Did Susie answer?

Rosa: No.

Rosa: Mama started screaming after she hung up.

Benedict: At you?

Rosa: Not exactly.

Benedict: What does not exactly mean?

Rosa: She kept asking why neither of us had told her. She said we had both betrayed her.

Benedict: You did not know.

Rosa: I told her that!

Benedict: And?

Rosa: She said I should have known.

Benedict: How?

Rosa: I do not know. She said if I were paying proper attention to the family, Ana could not have hidden something this large.

Benedict: That is not your responsibility.

Rosa: She was so angry, Benny.  Not sad. Not even really surprised. Angry. Like Ana had taken something from her.

Rosa: But Ana getting engaged does not actually affect her.

Benedict: No.

Rosa: Why did I think it did?

Benedict: Because Mama tells us that everything Ana does is about her.

Rosa: Babcia was worse.

Benedict: What did she say?

Rosa: That Ana had trapped someone. That no decent man would choose her willingly. That the ring proves he is after Papa’s money. Then she said if Ana had any shame, she would not wear white.

Benedict: Why?

Rosa: You know why.

Benedict: No.

Rosa: She thinks Ana has slept with men.

Benedict: Ana is twenty-seven years old. We aren’t living in the 18th century anymore.

Rosa: I know.

Benedict: And it is none of Babcia’s business anyway. She would say the same thing about you if you lived differently from what she approves of.

Rosa: She has.

Benedict: When?

Rosa: When I was dating Lukas. She asked whether I had “given him something he had not earned.”

Benedict: Jesus Christ.

Rosa: I thought she was just being old-fashioned. Mama said she only wanted to protect my reputation.

Rosa: Babcia said something else tonight. She said Ana’s fiancé would eventually realise what she was and leave her.

Rosa: Mama said, “Not if she has made herself indispensable first.”

Benedict: That is vile.

Rosa: I laughed. Not because it was funny. Because they were both looking at me. And I knew they expected me to.

Benedict: Rosa.

Rosa: I always know what I am supposed to say with them. I had never thought about that before.

Benedict: You do not have to say it anymore.

Rosa: Mama notices when I do not.

Benedict: I know.

Rosa: She asked why I was defending Ana.

Benedict: Were you?

Rosa: I only said we did not know who the fiancé was or why he chose her.

Benedict: That is not much of a defence.

Rosa: Mama looked at me like I had slapped her. She went upstairs without saying goodnight.

Benedict: And now you feel guilty.

Rosa: Yes.

Benedict: For what?

Rosa: I do not know.

Rosa: Do you know who Ana is engaged to?

Benedict: Yes.

Rosa: Will you tell me? 

Benedict: No.

Rosa: Why not?

Benedict: If I tell you, Mama will ask. Babcia will ask. You will feel guilty for keeping it from them. Then you will tell them because withholding information will feel like betrayal.

Benedict: Am I wrong?

Rosa: No.

Benedict: That is why.

Rosa: You think I cannot be trusted.

Benedict: I think you have never truly been allowed to have privacy from Mama.

Rosa: She says secrets destroy families.

Benedict: Does she tell you all of hers? Does she let you read her messages?

Rosa: No.

Benedict: Does she tell you every conversation she has with Papa?

Rosa: Only what he says that upsets her.

Benedict: Exactly.

Rosa: Oh.

Rosa: She knows my phone passcode.

Benedict: Change it.

Rosa: She will ask why.

Benedict: You do not have to answer.

Rosa: She will think I am hiding something.

Benedict: You are allowed to hide things.

Rosa: That sounds wrong.

Benedict: Privacy is not dishonesty.

Rosa: She always said it was.

Benedict: I know.

Rosa: Are you invited to the wedding?

Benedict: Yes.

Rosa: You are invited?

Benedict: Yes.

Rosa: After ignoring her for twenty years?

Benedict: I asked the same thing.

Rosa: What did she say?

Benedict: That I am her brother.

Rosa: I am her sister.

Benedict: Yes.

Rosa: But she does not think I am.

Benedict: I do not know what she thinks.

Rosa: She did not tell me.And she told you because you reached out.

Benedict: Probably.

Rosa: I have never reached out.

Benedict: No.

Rosa: I kept waiting for her to apologise.

Benedict: For what?

Rosa: I do not know anymore. Mama always said Ana had to apologise for destroying the family. But she was eight. She did not ask to be there.

Rosa: Oh God.

Rosa: We were awful to her.

Benedict: Yes.

Rosa: You were too.

Benedict: Yes.

Rosa: And she still invited you.

Benedict: Yes.

Rosa: Why?

Benedict: Because she is kinder than we were.

Rosa: Mama will say she is manipulating you.

Benedict: I know.

Rosa: She will say Ana is taking you away too.

Benedict: I know.

Rosa: That is what she said about Papa.

Benedict: Yes.

Rosa: And Susie.

Benedict: Yes.

Rosa: And America.

Benedict: Yes.Everyone who makes us less dependent on her becomes the enemy.

Rosa: Is that why you have not been talking to me?

Benedict: Partly.

Rosa: Because you think I will tell Mama things. You could have just said that.

Benedict: No.

Rosa: Why not?

Benedict: Because I am trying to protect you.

Rosa: From Mama?

Benedict: From being placed in the middle.

Rosa: I am already in the middle.

Benedict: Not of everything.

Rosa: What does that mean?

Benedict: It means there are things I am not telling you because knowing them would force you to choose between keeping my confidence and keeping Mama calm.

Rosa: You do not trust me to choose you.

Benedict: I do not want you to have to. Mama turns information into tests.If you know something she does not, she will make you prove your love by telling her. If you refuse, she will punish you.I am not giving her another weapon to use against you.

Rosa: You have been ignoring me to protect me.

Benedict: I have been keeping distance because every conversation with you becomes a conversation with Mama five minutes later.

Rosa: You could have warned me.

Benedict: And then what? You would have asked what I was hiding. Mama would have noticed you were worried. She would have pushed until you told her. Then you would hate yourself for it.

Rosa: You really think she would do that.

Benedict: She already does.

Rosa: I changed my phone passcode.

Benedict: Just now?

Rosa: Yes.

Benedict: Good.

Rosa: My hands are shaking.

Benedict: You have not done anything wrong.

Rosa: It feels like I have.

Benedict: I know.

Rosa: Will it stop feeling like that?

Benedict: Eventually.

Rosa: How long?

Benedict: I do not know.

Rosa: Are you okay?

Benedict: I am safe.

Rosa: That is not what I asked.

Benedict: It is all I can tell you right now.

Rosa: Because you are protecting me.

Benedict: Yes.

Rosa: Or protecting yourself from me?

Benedict: Both.

Rosa: Okay. I will not ask again tonight.

Benedict: Thank you.

Rosa: But when you are ready. I want to be someone you do not have to protect yourself from.

Benedict: Then do not tell Mama about this conversation.

Rosa: I will not.

Benedict: Even if she cries. Even if she says you are betraying her. Even if Babcia says something cruel.

Rosa: Okay.

Benedict: If you can do that, then maybe I will believe you.

Rosa: I am sorry.

Benedict: For what?

Rosa: I am not sure where to begin.

Benedict: Begin with not repeating it.

Rosa: I can do that.

Benedict: Good.

Rosa: Does Ana hate me?

Benedict: I do not know.

Rosa: Would she answer if I texted her?

Benedict: Probably.

Rosa: What should I say?

Benedict: Not tonight.

Rosa: Why?

Benedict: Because right now you are frightened and guilty.

Benedict: If you contact her tonight, you may ask her to make you feel better.

Rosa: That would be selfish.

Rosa: When should I do it?

Benedict: When you can apologise without explaining why Mama made you do it.

Rosa: Okay.

Benedict: And do not ask about the wedding.

Rosa: I know.

Benedict: Do you?

Rosa: I think I am beginning to.

Rosa: Mama is going to notice I changed the passcode.

Benedict: Probably.

Rosa: What do I say?

Benedict: That you wanted privacy.

Rosa: She will ask privacy from what.

Benedict: You do not owe her an explanation.

Rosa: That is going to make her angrier.

Benedict: I know.

***

Text Messages:  Susie Wolff & Max Verstappen

Susie:  Do you want to have lunch today?

Max:  Sure.I have a doctor’s appointment first, but afterwards?

Susie:  Perfect.I can drive you.

Max:  You knew I had a doctor’s appointment.

Susie:  You just told me.

Max:  No. You already knew.

Susie:  That is a very serious accusation.

Max:  Ana told me she asked you to keep an eye on me while she was in Austin.

Susie:  Did she?

Max:  Yes.

Susie:  Interesting.

Max:  Susie.

Susie:  Max.

Max:  You knew about the appointment.

Susie:  I may have known there was an appointment.

Max:  And you invited me to lunch so I would not go alone.

Susie:  I invited you to lunch because I enjoy your company.

Max:  And because Ana told you to make sure I am not alone.

Susie:  Those things are not mutually exclusive.

Max:  You are all very bad at being subtle.

Susie:  I think I am excellent at it.

Max:  You offered to drive me before I told you where the appointment was.

Susie:  Monaco is small.

Max:  You do not even know which doctor.

Susie:  I know enough.

Max:  You know, security can drive me.

Susie:  I know.

Max:  Then why are you driving me?

Susie:  Because you should not have to do everything alone simply because you are capable of it.

Max:  That sounds like something Ana told you to say.

Susie:  No.

Susie:  Ana would have used more words and possibly included a study about recovery outcomes.

Max:  True.

Susie:  Besides, I have an incentive.

Max:  What incentive?

Susie:  I found a spare copy of Driven. There are photographs in there.

Max:  Of what?

Susie:  Teenage Ana.

Max:  Sold.

Susie:  That was easy.

Max:  What kind of pictures?

Susie:  A Picture of her at the piano when she was 13 and could just about reach the pedals. And one of her and Jack. 

Susie:  You know, I have even more on my phone.

Max:  More teenage Ana?

Susie:  Many.

Max:  Are there baby pictures?

Susie:  No, Max.

Max:  None?

Susie:  No.

Susie:  Toto only met Ana when she was eight. You know that.

Max:  Yes.

Susie:  I have a lot of photographs from after Toto and I started dating.  And many of her with Jack. But there are no baby pictures of Ana.

Max:  Irina did not give Toto any?

Susie:  No.

Max:  Not even one? What kind of mother does that?

Susie:  Max.

Max:  No.

Max:  Seriously.She had eight years.There must have been pictures.

Susie:  There probably were.

Max:  And she kept them?

Susie:  Or destroyed them.

Max:  That is worse.

Susie:  I know.

Max:  Ana has no pictures of herself as a baby because Irina could not even give her that. I hate her.

Susie:  I know.

Max:  Every time I think I cannot hate her more, there is something else. Ana should have baby pictures.

Susie:  She should.

Max:  She should know what she looked like. Whether she had hair.

Susie:  She probably had a lot of it. She always had enormous amounts of hair. 

Max:  That is not the same.

Susie:  No. It isn’t.

Max:  Does it bother her?

Susie:  She says it does not.

Max:  That means yes.

Susie:  Not always.

Max:  With Ana it usually means she decided being upset would not change the outcome.

Susie:  You know her very well.

Max:  I know when she turns something into a fact so she does not have to feel it.

Susie:  Then perhaps do not ask her directly while she is away and already dealing with enough.

Max:  I won’t.

Susie:  Good.

Max:  But I am still angry.

Susie:  You are allowed to be.

Max:  I want to see all the pictures you do have.

Susie:  All of them?

Max:  Yes.

Susie:  There are several thousand.

Max:  Fine.

Susie:  Max.

Max: I am serious.

Susie:  Some are objectively terrible.

Max: Especially those.

Susie:  There is one where she cut her own fringe.

Max:  Send it now.

Susie:  No.

Max:  Susie.

Susie:  Lunch first.

Max:  Blackmail.

Susie:  Motivation.

Max:  Fine.

Susie:  I will pick you up thirty minutes before the appointment.

Max:  You still do not know where it is.

Susie:  Max.

Max:  Ana gave you the address.And the time.

Susie:  She is very thorough.

Susie:  See you at eleven.

Max:  Bring the book.

Susie:  I will.

Max:  And the fringe picture.

Susie:  We will negotiate.

***

George Russell’s Residence, England  -  16 October 2025 

Jasper had arrested George Russell before.

The first time, George had been controlled.

Pale, furious, offended by the entire concept of consequence—but controlled.

He had asked for his solicitor.

He had corrected wording.

He had sat very straight in the back of the police car, jaw tight, behaving like a man who believed composure could still make the facts look negotiable.

The second arrest was different.

By the time Jasper reached the Russell residence, the search team was already in position.

Two marked vehicles waited farther down the road. An unmarked van carrying digital forensics had parked beside the gates. The monitoring officer stood near the entrance speaking quietly into a radio, while Priya Shah checked the warrant for the third time despite having memorised every line.

The house itself looked peaceful.

Expensive stone.

Tall windows.

Trimmed hedges.

The sort of place designed to communicate order.

Jasper had learned a long time ago that houses lied.

“Latest signal?” he asked.

The digital officer looked up from the tablet.

“Still inside.”

“Location?”

“Rear half of the property. Upper floor or ground floor beneath it. Accuracy is shifting.”

“Active?”

“Not transmitting now, but it connected briefly eight minutes ago.”

Eight minutes.

George Russell had either sent another message or checked whether Ana had finally answered him.

Jasper’s mouth tightened.

“Vale?”

“Not present,” Priya said. “He left yesterday evening. His firm has no idea we’re here.”

“Good.”

“And Russell?”

“Inside with two members of household staff.”

“No family?”

“No.”

Jasper looked toward the house.

“Let’s do it.”

The monitoring officer opened the gate.

They crossed the drive in a tight formation, not dramatic, not hurried.

There was no need to perform urgency when everyone involved already understood it.

Jasper knocked.

The door opened after less than a minute.

A woman in a dark uniform stared at the officers behind him and went immediately pale.

“Police,” Jasper said. “We have a warrant to search the premises and arrest George Russell for suspected breach of court-imposed conditions, malicious communications, witness intimidation and threats to kill.”

The woman’s hand tightened around the door.

“He’s upstairs.”

“Where?”

“His bedroom. Or the study. He’s been moving between them.”

“Has he got a phone?”

“I don’t know.”

Jasper watched her face. Not evasive. Frightened.

“When did you last see him?”

“Ten minutes ago.”

“Did he appear agitated?”

She gave a small, helpless laugh.

“He’s been agitated since last night.”

“How?”

“He was shouting.”

“At whom?”

“Nobody. The television. His laptop. Her.”

Jasper’s expression sharpened.

“Dr Wolff?”

“She was on the news.”

Of course she was.

The engagement coverage. The ring. The photographs.

Anastasia Wolff’s life being replayed on every screen while George Russell sat under court restrictions and convinced himself it had been arranged to torment him.

“Stay here,” Jasper said. “Do not use any phone. Do not warn him.”

She nodded quickly.

The team moved inside.

The house was too warm.

Jasper noticed that first.

Then the broken glass near the entrance to the sitting room.

A tumbler, shattered against the skirting board. Amber liquid had dried in streaks across the pale wall.

Priya looked at it. “Recent?”

“Last night,” the housekeeper whispered behind them. “He threw it.”

“Why?”

“He saw the photograph.” The ring.

Jasper did not need clarification.

They reached the stairs.

A man’s voice sounded above them. Loud.

Not words at first. Just the rhythm of someone arguing without another person present.

Jasper climbed.

At the top landing, the voice became clear. “She did it deliberately.”

Then silence. Then:  “She knew I would see.”

Jasper exchanged a glance with Priya.

The study door stood open.

George Russell was inside.

He wore grey tracksuit bottoms and a white T-shirt, barefoot on the expensive carpet. His hair was disordered. His eyes were bloodshot.

A laptop sat open on the desk.

Ana’s engagement photograph filled the screen.

The close-up of her hand.

The star sapphire.

The double halo.

George stood in front of it as though facing an enemy.

On the desk beside the computer lay a collection of printed articles.

Some were about Ana. Some about Max. Some about Mercedes. Several had been written on in black ink.

Names circled. Sentences underlined. One photograph of Ana had been torn through the middle.

Not across her face.

Across the ring.

Jasper stopped in the doorway. “George Russell.”

George turned. For a second, there was no recognition. Then his face changed. “What are you doing here?”

“Police. Step away from the desk.”

“You’ve already searched the house.”

“We have a new warrant.”

“No.” It was refusal. Childlike in its certainty. “No, you don’t.”

Priya held up the document. “We do.”

George looked at it without reading it.

His gaze moved past them toward the officers in the corridor. Then back to Jasper. “This is because of her.”

Jasper kept his voice even. “This is because you are suspected of breaching the conditions of your house arrest and sending threatening messages.”

“I didn’t send anything.”

“Step away from the desk.”

“She has lied again.”

“George.”

“She always lies.”

Jasper watched him carefully.

The first arrest had involved strategy.

This did not.

George’s attention moved too quickly, his breathing shallow, his hands opening and closing at his sides. “She told them I attacked her.”

“You were arrested and charged in relation to that incident.”

“She wanted it.”

Jasper felt something cold settle in his stomach.

Priya’s face did not change.

“She wanted me to kiss her,” George said. “Then she panicked because she knew what it meant.”

Jasper said, “Step away from the desk.”

“She chose me.”

“No.”

The word came from Priya. Flat. Immediate.

George looked at her as though he had only just noticed she existed. “You weren’t there.”

“No,” Priya said. “But she said no.”

George’s face twisted.

“She didn’t know what she wanted.”

Jasper had interviewed stalkers who said the same thing.

Men who believed a woman’s mind was merely a locked room to which they held the real key.

“She needed time,” George continued. “She needed me to prove it.”

“By threatening her?” Jasper asked.

“I didn’t threaten her.”

“By contacting her despite a court order?”

“I haven’t contacted her.”

“Then where is the phone?”

George’s eyes moved. Barely. Toward the far side of the room.

Jasper saw it. So did Priya.

The digital officer stepped past them.

George moved suddenly. Not toward the officer. Toward the desk. His hand reached for something behind the laptop.

“Stop.”

George ignored him. Two officers closed the distance immediately. One caught his arm.

George exploded. Not fought. Exploded. He twisted violently, shoulder striking the desk, sending papers and a lamp crashing to the floor. “Get off me!”

“George Russell, stop resisting.”

“You cannot do this!”

His voice cracked. He kicked backward, almost catching an officer’s knee. They forced him against the edge of the desk.

The laptop slid sideways. Ana’s hand remained on the screen, the sapphire catching frozen light.

“She is mine!”

The room went still for half a second. Even the officers restraining him seemed to register it.

George struggled harder. “She is mine! He took her from me!”

Jasper stepped closer. “Who?”

George stared at him. His face was flushed now, spit bright at the corner of his mouth.

“You know.”

“No. I don’t.”

“You all know.”

“Who took her?”

“The man.”

“What man?”

“The one she is pretending to marry.”

Jasper watched him.

George’s eyes were enormous. Wild. Focused entirely on a version of reality no one else inhabited.

“He thinks he won,” George said.

“Who?”

“He thinks he can put a ring on her and make her forget.”

“Forget what?”

George laughed. It was a terrible sound. “What we are.”

Jasper had seen the messages.

Mine. Owed. Belongs.

Now he heard the architecture beneath them.

George had not merely convinced himself Ana loved him. He had built an entire relationship that had never existed. Every rejection had become fear. Every boundary had become proof. Every consequence had become manipulation by someone else.

“You assaulted her,” Jasper said.

“No.”

“You frightened her.”

“No.”

“She obtained protection from you.”

“Because her father forced her.”

“She is engaged to someone else.”

The effect was immediate.

George lunged forward against the officers. The restraints bit into his wrists. “She is not!” His voice tore through the room. “She is not engaged!”

Jasper did not move. “The ring is real.”

“It is a stunt.”

“She confirmed it.”

“She wants me jealous.”

“She said yes to another man.”

“No man wants her!”

The sentence came out with such venom that one of the officers looked away.

George continued without pause. “No one wants her when they know her. Not really. She is cold and strange and she does not know how to love anyone.”

Jasper stared at him. “And yet you say she belongs to you.”

George stopped. For one second, confusion crossed his face. Then rage filled it again. “Because I understand her.”

“No,” Jasper said. “You don’t.”

“I am the only one who does.”

“You do not understand her. You have invented her.”

George jerked against the officers again. “You know nothing.”

“I know she told you no.”

“She was scared.”

“I know she stayed away from you.”

“Her father stopped her.”

“I know she is marrying somebody else.”

George screamed. Not a word. A raw sound of fury and panic.

The digital officer crouched near a low cabinet on the far side of the room.

“There.”

He pointed.

A section of the baseboard had been removed.

Behind it sat a black phone connected to a charging cable running through the wall cavity. The burner. Hidden less than four metres from where George had been standing.

The officer photographed it in place.

George saw. His whole body changed. The fury drained into fear. “No.”

Jasper looked at him. “No what?”

“That isn’t mine.”

“It is concealed in your study.”

“I have never seen it.”

“It connected to this residence.”

“I don’t know anything about it.”

“It was supplied through your solicitor.”

George’s mouth opened. Closed.

That single hesitation told Jasper more than the denial. “Jonathan Vale brought it here,” Jasper said.

“No.”

“Did he know what you were using it for?”

George looked toward the phone. “He said nobody would trace it.”

Silence.

Priya inhaled slowly. Jasper kept his voice neutral. “Who said that?”

George realised too late what he had done. “No one.”

“Jonathan Vale?”

“I want my solicitor.”

“Your solicitor who supplied the prohibited phone?”

“I want Vale.”

“That may be complicated.”

“You cannot question me without him.”

“I am not questioning you. I am arresting you.”

The digital officer placed the handset into a Faraday bag.

George watched it disappear as though someone had removed the only part of the room keeping him upright.

Jasper stepped closer.

“George Russell, I am arresting you on suspicion of making threats to kill, malicious communications, stalking involving fear of violence, witness intimidation and breach of the conditions imposed by the court.”

George shook his head. “No.”

“You do not have to say anything—”

“No.”

“—but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned—”

“No, no, no.”

“—something which you later rely on in court.”

“She started this.”

“Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”

“She posted the ring.”

Jasper held his gaze. “That is not a crime.”

“She knew.”

“She was entitled to announce her engagement.”

“She knew what it would do to me.”

“That is not her responsibility.”

George’s expression became almost pleading. “You don’t understand.”

“I understand enough.”

“She is confused.”

“No.”

“She needs help.”

“Not from you.”

“She needs me.”

“No.”

The word landed.

George went still.

Jasper had never seen someone react to a single syllable with such total hatred.

Then George smiled. It was not sane.

That was Jasper’s first clear thought.

Not legally. He was not a psychiatrist, and he was not about to diagnose a suspect. But the man standing in front of him had moved beyond anger into something detached from shared reality.

“She will come back,” George said quietly.

Jasper said nothing.

“When she sees what he is like.”

“Who?”

“The fiancé.”

“You do not know who he is.”

“I will.”

“How?”

George’s smile widened. “Everyone finds out eventually.”

Jasper felt the skin at the back of his neck tighten.

The officers began moving him toward the door.

George resisted only enough to slow them.

As he passed the laptop, he twisted his head toward Ana’s photograph. “Take it off,” he said.

Not to the officers.

To the image. “Take it off, Ana.”

Priya closed the laptop.

George made a strangled sound. “Open it!”

Nobody did.

“OPEN IT!”

The officers pulled him into the corridor.

His voice followed them down the stairs. “She is mine!” Then:  “You cannot let her marry him!”

And finally, as they reached the front door:  “If she marries him, it is your fault!”

Jasper followed at a distance.

Outside, the quiet street remained absurdly normal.

A neighbour’s sprinkler turned slowly over a lawn.

A delivery van passed at the far end of the road.

George was placed into the back of the police vehicle.

He kept talking even after the door closed. Jasper could see his mouth moving through the glass.

Priya came to stand beside him. “Well,” she said.

Jasper watched George strike the inside of the vehicle once with the flat of his hand. “He has completely lost it.”

Priya folded her arms. “That is not going in your report.”

“No.”

“What is?”

“That his behaviour was agitated, delusional in presentation, possessive toward the victim, hostile toward the unidentified fiancé and suggestive of escalating risk.”

“Better.”

“Less honest.”

“We can be honest after a psychiatrist assesses him.”

Jasper looked back toward the house.

Digital officers moved through the study now, photographing the hidden compartment, the laptop, the notes, the torn articles.

One officer emerged carrying an evidence box.

“Do you think he believes it?” Priya asked.

“What?”

“That she belongs to him.”

Jasper thought of George’s face.

“Yes.”

Priya’s mouth tightened. “That makes him more dangerous.”

“Yes.”

“Do you think he knows who the fiancé is?”

“No.”

“Yet.”

Jasper looked toward the police car.

George had stopped hitting the window. Now he sat very still.

“No,” he said. “And we need to keep it that way until he is behind a locked door he cannot negotiate his way around.”

“The hearing is tomorrow.”

“The CPS will seek remand.”

“His lawyers will argue mental-health crisis.”

“They may be right.”

“That does not make him safe.”

“No.”

Jasper watched the vehicle pull away.

George’s face remained turned toward the house until the car disappeared around the corner.

They walked back toward the house.

At the foot of the stairs, Jasper stopped beside the shattered glass. “She posted one photograph,” he said.

Priya looked at him.

“A photograph of her own hand. Her own engagement. Her own life.”

“And he interpreted it as an attack.”

Because in George Russell’s world, Ana Wolff was not a person with a private life.

She was a thing that had disobeyed.

Jasper looked up toward the study where the burner had been hidden.

“He did not break the house-arrest conditions because he thought he would get away with threatening her,” he said.

“Why did he?”

“He broke them because he does not believe any rule that keeps him from her is legitimate.”

Priya’s expression went cold. “That is worse.”

“Yes.” Jasper reached for his notebook. “Much worse.”

Thames Valley Police, Kidlington, England -  16 October 2025

Detective Inspector Jasper McKnight knew the new messages were worse before he read them.

He knew because Priya Shah stopped scrolling. Her thumb went still against the screen as though the muscles in her hand had abruptly forgotten their purpose.

Jasper stood on the opposite side of the desk, coat still on, a paper cup of coffee cooling beside his elbow. “How many?” he asked.

Priya did not look up. “Since the engagement post?”

“Yes.”

“Forty-three.”

Jasper closed his eyes. “For fuck’s sake.”

“All from the same number.”

His eyes opened again. “The original burner?”

“Yes.”

“So it never stopped.”

“No.”

Jasper held out his hand.

Priya hesitated. That frightened him more than anything else had.

“Give it to me.”

She passed him the tablet.

Jasper read. 

The first set had been angry, cruel and personal. They carried the feverish grievance of a man who believed a woman’s refusal was not a decision but an error he was entitled to correct.

These were worse.

The engagement had changed something. Or revealed it.

The sender no longer wrote as though Anastasia Wolff had betrayed him.

He wrote as though she had stolen herself from him. The ring was treated as evidence of theft.

The fiancé—unnamed, faceless and unknown—was described as an intruder who had taken possession of something the sender believed already belonged to him.

The same words appeared repeatedly.

Mine. Owed. Taken. Given away. Belongs.

The sender moved between insisting the engagement could not be real and raging at Ana for allowing it to happen. He claimed no man could ever want her, then demanded to know which man had dared to choose her.

He described her as unlovable while insisting she belonged exclusively to him.

This was not logic. It was pure possession. Nothing else. 

Jasper stopped at one message and lowered the tablet. He stared at the wall beyond Priya’s shoulder.

“What?” she asked.

He handed it back without answering. Jasper sat down slowly. “This is no longer intimidation.”

Priya’s expression was rigid. “No.”

“This is an escalation in fixation with an expanded target.”

“Wolff and the fiancé.”

“Whoever the fiancé is.”

“They still haven’t identified him to us.”

“No.”

“Does that matter now?”

“Yes.” Jasper pushed both hands over his face. “Yes, it bloody matters that we have a credible threat against an unidentified secondary target!”

“Their legal team says his identity is highly sensitive.”

“Their client is receiving messages implying that both she and the man she intends to marry may be harmed.”

“I know.”

“Then privacy has become a safeguarding issue.”

“I know.”

Jasper stood again. He could not remain seated.

He crossed to the whiteboard and added beneath the previous entry:  

15 Oct — severe escalation following public engagement confirmation of AW’s engagement.

Then:  

Possessive fixation. Secondary target:   unidentified fiancé.

He underlined the second sentence.

“What time did the post go live?” he asked.

Priya checked her notes.

“Eleven forty-two in the evening, London Time.”

“First new message?”

“Eleven forty-nine.”

Jasper looked at her. “Seven minutes.”

“Yes.”

“So he was monitoring her.”

“Or someone sent it to him immediately.”

“Either way, he knew.”

Priya folded her arms. “The officers supervising Russell’s house arrest say he continues to deny having access to an unregistered device.”

Jasper laughed once. There was no humour in it. “How reassuring. Visitors?”

“Restricted.”

“Staff?”

“Approved and logged.”

“Solicitor?”

“Three visits in the last week.”

Jasper looked toward her. “Name?”

“Jonathan Vale.”

Jasper knew the name. 

Vale was expensive, controlled and immaculate. The sort of criminal solicitor who never raised his voice because he had already identified which sentence in the custody record would become a problem six months later.

“What did he bring into the house?”

“Files. A laptop. Document case.”

“Was any of it searched?”

“Privileged legal material.”

“Of course.”

Priya looked back down at the message timestamps. “The latest cluster continued until six this morning.”

“And Russell was confirmed inside the residence?”

“Yes.”

“Anyone else present?”

“No.”

Jasper’s phone rang.

The number was unfamiliar, but not withheld. 

A London landline. He answered. “McKnight.”

“Detective Inspector McKnight, my name is Emmanuel Walsh.”

Jasper reached automatically for his pen. “And you are?”

“Secret Intelligence Service. Deputy Director, Technical Operations.”

Jasper stopped writing.

Across the desk, Priya saw his expression change.

“MI6.”

“Yes.”

“You are calling a domestic police investigation.”

“I am aware.”

“Why?”

“Because my office has information relevant to the threats made against Dr Anastasia Wolff.”

Jasper sat down again. “What information?”

“We have identified the device and traced the communication route.”

Jasper’s grip tightened around the pen. “Lawfully?”

“Yes.”

The answer came without hesitation.

“Under what authority?”

“The initial data was identified during an authorised technical operation involving communications infrastructure already subject to lawful intelligence collection. Once the domestic safeguarding relevance became clear, the material was reviewed by counsel and authorised for dissemination to your investigation.”

Jasper stared at the wall. “You accidentally found the phone during an unrelated intelligence operation?”

“Accidentally is a rather inelegant description, but broadly, yes.”

“And you can lawfully share the result.”

“I would not be introducing myself and giving you my direct office number if I could not.”

That was a fair point. 

“Why was the data reviewed?” Jasper asked.

There was a brief pause. Then Walsh said, “Because somebody asked me to look at it.”

“Who?”

“Someone to whom I owed a favour.”

“Walsh—”

“The person in question has a vested interest in the continued well-being of Anastasia Wolff.”

Jasper glanced at Priya. “Who?”

“That is all you need to know.”

“No, it is not.”

“Yes, Inspector. It is.”

“I need to understand whether your source has influenced the intelligence.”

“They did not provide the evidence. They asked whether I could determine if the number was traceable through lawful means.”

“And you agreed because you owed them.”

“Yes.”

“Who are they?”

Walsh was silent for a moment. Then he said, with remarkable sincerity, “I am not crossing them.”

Jasper blinked. “Excuse me?”

“I am not insane.”

Priya’s eyebrows rose.

“You are a deputy director at MI6.”

“Yes.”

“And there is someone with enough influence to ask you to trace a burner whom you are unwilling to identify because you are frightened of irritating them.”

“Frightened is your interpretation.”

“And who has a vested interest in Ana Wolff’s well-being?”

“That remains confidential.”

“Was it Toto Wolff?”

“No.”

“Mercedes?”

“No.”

“Dr Wolff herself?”

“No.”

“Then who?”

Walsh sighed. “Inspector, the relevant point is that the request caused my office to identify data that was already lawfully available to us. We then followed the correct internal process, obtained authorisation and contacted you through an official channel.”

“Interagency collaboration.”

“That is the phrase I was going to use.”

Jasper glanced toward the screenshots. “What have you established?”

“The same physical handset was used throughout.”

“We suspected that.”

“You now have confirmation.”

“Where is it?”

“At the Russell residence.”

Jasper went still. “You can place it there now?”

“The most recent network event was forty-six minutes ago.”

“Can you place it in Russell’s possession?”

“We can establish that it was used inside the residence during periods when Russell was present and access to the property was restricted.”

“That is not physical possession.”

“No. That will require recovery and examination.”

“How did it enter the house?”

“Through his solicitor.”

Jasper’s pen stopped. “Jonathan Vale?”

“Yes. The burner was purchased through an intermediary working for Vale’s firm.”

Priya moved closer.

“The purchase was lawful?” Jasper asked.

“Purchasing a prepaid phone is not itself unlawful.”

“Supplying it to a man under house-arrest restrictions that prohibit undeclared communication devices is another matter.”

“Correct.”

“Can you prove Vale brought it into the residence?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“Financial records, activation data, device-location information, and access logs from the property. All acquired or disclosed under lawful authority.”

Jasper rubbed his forehead. “Did Vale know Russell intended to use it to threaten Dr Wolff?”

“We cannot establish that.”

“Did he know Russell was prohibited from possessing it?”

“That will be a question for Mr Vale.”

“So at best he ignored the house-arrest conditions.”

“At best.”

“And at worst?”

Walsh’s voice remained neutral. “He knowingly facilitated prohibited communications that were then used to threaten a prior victim and potential witness.”

Jasper looked at Priya. She had already opened a fresh page in her notebook.

“Has Vale been informed?” Jasper asked.

“No.”

“Russell?”

“No.”

“Anyone at the residence?”

“No.”

“Good.”

“You will receive the full intelligence package through the secure interagency portal. It includes a statement from me, certification of the lawful basis on which the material was collected, a technical summary suitable for urgent operational use and contact details for the officers who can assist your digital team.”

Jasper paused. “You are actually putting your name on it.”

“Yes.”

“That is unexpectedly refreshing.”

“I sensed you were sceptical.”

“I receive anonymous claims from alleged intelligence officers less often than television suggests, but more often than I would like.”

“This one is not anonymous.”

A notification appeared on Jasper’s computer. Secure interagency transfer received.

Walsh continued. “The intelligence can support immediate safeguarding action and applications for search and arrest powers. Your team will still need to recover the handset and establish evidential attribution.”

“Understood.”

“The current messages indicate a substantial escalation following the engagement announcement.”

“I have read them.”

“The risk is no longer confined to Dr Wolff. The unidentified fiancé is now a direct target. I would strongly advise moving before Russell has reason to believe the device has been traced.”

“We are going to.”

“Good.”

Jasper looked again at the name on his page. “Mr Walsh.”

“Yes?”

“Thank you.”

“You are welcome.”

“And the person to whom you owed the favour?”

Walsh paused. “They will consider the debt settled.”

“You really are not going to identify them?”

“No.”

“Because you are not crossing them?”

“I am not crossing them or Anastasia Wolff. Not directly, indirectly or by implication.”

The line went dead. Jasper lowered the phone.

Priya stared at him. “Well?”

“That was Emmanuel Walsh, Deputy Director of Technical Operations at MI6.”

“Actually MI6?”

“He gave me his name, rank, office number and a signed intelligence statement.”

“That is considerably less mysterious than expected.”

“He also said he intervened because he owed someone with a vested interest in Anastasia Wolff’s continued well-being a favour.”

“Who?”

“He refused to say.”

“Why?”

“Because he is not crossing her.”

Priya frowned.

“Crossing who?”

“Crossing the anonymouse favour owner or Anastasia Wolff. Apparently.”

“But Wolff did not ask him.”

“No.”

“Who did?”

“I do not know.”

“Do you believe him?”

“I believe that a senior intelligence officer who willingly signs his name to a technical package is either telling the truth or creating a national scandal of astonishing stupidity.”

“Fair.”

Jasper opened the transferred file.

The covering page carried the appropriate markings, a reference number and Walsh’s electronic signature.

No mystery. No anonymous warning. No questionable evidence.

Just a formal interagency intelligence disclosure.

The first section explained how the number had intersected with an authorised operation. The second identified the physical handset. The third mapped its purchase. The fourth placed it with an employee of Jonathan Vale’s firm. The fifth followed it to Vale’s chambers. The sixth placed it inside the house throughout the threat campaign. The seventh documented the engagement post. The eights recorded the handset transmitting the first escalated message minutes later.

Message after message followed.

The same device. The same property. The same periods during which George Russell was alone inside. 

Priya leaned over Jasper’s shoulder. “This is enough for a search.”

“Yes.”

“And arrest?”

“Combined with the threat content, his restrictions and the existing investigation?” Jasper reached for his phone. “Yes.”

“Threatening a prior victim while under house arrest is generally frowned upon,” Priya said with a sigh. “Courts can be surprisingly traditional about that.”

“And possessing an undisclosed burner?”

“Also frowned upon.”

“Using a solicitor to bring it inside?”

“Especially frowned upon.”

Jasper called the Crown Prosecution Service liaison. He gave the case reference. Summarised the escalation. Explained the lawful intelligence disclosure. Outlined the likely breaches. The prosecutor interrupted only twice.

The second interruption was to ask whether Jasper could securely forward Walsh’s statement immediately. “Yes.”

“And the intelligence places the phone in the Russell residence now?”

“Within the last hour.”

“Then obtain the search warrant.”

“We are preparing the application.”

“And arrest authority?”

“I want him taken back into custody when the device is recovered.”

A pause.

The prosecutor said, “Given the escalation and apparent breach of conditions, I agree. He will need to be brought before the court again for a variation or revocation of bail.”

“Remand application?”

“On these facts, almost certainly.”

Jasper looked toward Priya. She nodded once. “His solicitor supplied the device,” Jasper added.

Another pause. “Knowingly?”

“That remains under investigation.”

“Do not approach Vale until the handset is secured.”

“We will not.”

“I will alert the duty judge.”

“Thank you.”

Jasper ended the call.

Priya was already moving. “I’ll contact the arrest team.”

“Digital recovery van on scene. Household staff separated before interview. Someone needs to notify the supervising court that we believe he has committed further offences and breached the house-arrest order.”

“I’ll have Sergeant Patel draft it.”

Jasper called the search-warrant officer next. Then his superintendent. Then digital forensics.

When the analyst answered, Jasper said, “You can stop waiting for the commercial provider to finish the trace.”

A weary voice replied, “Why?”

“MI6 has done it for us.”

Silence. Then:   “Sorry?”

“You heard me.”

“I thought we were supposed to pretend they didn’t do domestic work.”

“They found it through an authorised operation and have now provided a lawful interagency disclosure.”

“Of course they have.”

“The handset is inside the Russell residence.”

“Now?”

“According to the most recent event.”

The analyst’s tiredness disappeared. “I’ll assemble the team.”

“I want the device isolated before anyone touches it.”

“Understood.”

Jasper ended the call.

He crossed to the whiteboard. Under the escalation timeline, he wrote:  

SIS lawful intelligence disclosure.

Burner supplied through solicitor Jonathan Vale.

Device currently located at Russell residence.

ARREST ON RECOVERY.

Priya returned, coat over one arm.

“The team can move in thirty minutes.”

“Good.”

“The CPS has contacted the court. If Russell is arrested today, they can list an emergency hearing tomorrow morning.”

“For breach and remand?”

“Yes.”

Jasper nodded.

George Russell had already been given restrictions instead of a cell. He had been permitted to remain inside a comfortable residence while the attempted-murder investigation continued.

He had been told not to contact Ana. He had been told not to intimidate witnesses. He had been told not to possess undeclared communication devices.

And, according to the intelligence package now open on Jasper’s computer, he had violated every single one of those conditions.

Not accidentally. Not once. Repeatedly.

Jasper capped the marker.

“He thought house arrest meant he was untouchable,” Priya said.

“He thought privilege meant nobody would check.”

“And Vale?”

“We find out whether he was arrogant, negligent or criminal.”

“Do we arrest him too?”

“Not until we know what he knew.”

“But Russell?”

Jasper looked at the timeline. “Russell goes back into custody.”

His secure phone rang. Wolff’s lawyers. 

“Detective Inspector McKnight.”

“We understand you have identified the device.”

“Yes.”

“And the information was lawfully obtained.”

“Yes. Formal intelligence disclosure from the Secret Intelligence Service. Named officer, documented authority and technical package.”

A short pause. “That is unusually helpful.”

“It surprised me too.”

“Where is the phone?”

“Inside the Russell residence.”

“Who supplied it?”

“His solicitor.”

The silence on the other end changed. “Jonathan Vale?”

“Yes.”

“Does Mr Vale know you have established this?”

“No.”

“Does Mr Russell?”

“No.”

“Good.”

“We are obtaining a search warrant now.”

“And arresting him?”

“If the handset is recovered and the initial information is confirmed, yes.”

“He has breached his house-arrest conditions.”

“That is our assessment.”

“He has threatened Dr Wolff repeatedly. And threatened her fiancé.”

“Yes.”

“Then I presume the court will reconsider its earlier confidence that restrictions were sufficient.”

“We will be seeking remand.”

Mrs Ellison’s voice became very still. “When?”

“He will be brought before the court at the earliest available hearing. Likely tomorrow morning.”

“And until then?”

“Police custody.”

“Good.”

Jasper glanced toward Priya.

She had the door open.

The arrest team was waiting downstairs.

“Mrs Ellison,” he said, “we need the fiancé’s identity now.”

Another silence.

“This is not curiosity,” Jasper continued. “The messages designate him as a target. We need to assess his security and take a statement if appropriate.”

“I understand.”

“Will Dr Wolff cooperate?”

“She will dislike it.”

“That was not my question.”

“She will cooperate.”

“Thank you.”

“I will arrange secure disclosure to you personally.”

“Good.”

“And Detective Inspector?”

“Yes?”

“Retrieve the phone before Jonathan Vale realises that legal privilege does not extend to smuggling prohibited communication devices into a client’s home.”

Jasper looked at the intelligence package.

“At present, we have not established that he knew how it would be used.”

“No,” Mrs Ellison said. “But he knew his client was prohibited from having it.”

“That appears likely.”

“Then I expect he is about to have a very unpleasant week.”

The call ended.

Jasper put the phone in his pocket.

Priya handed him his coat. “We ready?”

He looked once more at the whiteboard.

The line from rejection to assault. From assault to Baku. From Baku to house arrest. From house arrest to the burner. From the engagement announcement to the most serious threats yet.

George Russell had been given an opportunity to demonstrate that restrictions could manage the risk he posed.

Instead, he had treated those restrictions as another obstacle he was clever enough to bypass.

Jasper pulled on his coat. “Let’s go arrest him again.”

Priya picked up the warrant application file. “And then?”

“Then he can explain to a judge why threatening the woman he was ordered not to contact seemed like a sensible use of house arrest.”

“Judges are notoriously humourless about that.”

“So I have heard.”

They walked toward the door.

Jasper’s phone buzzed once.

A message from Emmanuel Walsh. Please confirm receipt of the formal disclosure.

Jasper typed back:   Received. Operational action underway. Thank you for the interagency collaboration.

The reply came almost immediately. You are welcome. Please do not mention the favour.

Jasper stared at it. Then wrote:   You realise that makes me more curious.

Three dots appeared. Curiosity is healthy. Crossing Anastasia Wolff is not.

Jasper showed the message to Priya.

She read it. Looked at him. Then said, “He may have a point.”

“Apparently everyone in Europe is frightened of this woman except the man we are about to arrest.”

Priya opened the stairwell door. “And look how well that is going for him.”

***

Lambiase Residence, Towcester, England  -  16 October 2025 

By seven fifteen on Thursday morning, Gianpiero Lambiase had already been reminded three times that his daughter was no longer a baby.

The first reminder was the enormous silver balloon shaped like a 17 currently lodged against the kitchen ceiling.

The second was Francesca herself, sitting at the table in her school uniform with one knee pulled beneath her, drinking coffee Eloisa continued to insist was too strong for her while answering messages at a speed that suggested every person she had ever met had remembered her birthday before breakfast.

The third was the email waiting in GP’s inbox from a lawyer named Declan Kavanagh.

SUBJECT:  PROPOSED INTELLECTUAL PROPERTY HOLDING STRUCTURE — FRANCESCA SOFIA LAMBIASE

Nothing made a man confront the passage of time quite like seeing his child’s full legal name attached to a document containing the phrase commercial exploitation rights.

GP stared at it over the rim of his mug.

Then he stared at Francesca.

She was frowning at her phone because one of her school friends had apparently used an unflattering photograph in a birthday post. Her hair was still slightly damp from the shower. One shoelace was undone. There was a faint blue ink mark on the side of her hand.

This was the same child who had once refused to sleep unless he sat beside her bed and counted racing cars instead of sheep.

Now she required an expensive intellectual-property lawyer.

An expensive, aggressive intellectual-property lawyer.

A man called Declan Kavanagh, who spoke in perfectly measured sentences while somehow making every conversation feel as though he had placed a knife on the table and was waiting for everyone else to acknowledge it.

All because Francesca had done a school project.

A school project.

That was how it had begun.

A prototype assembled across the dining-room table. Wires, printed components, sensor modules, three cups of tea left untouched, and Francesca muttering darkly at a mechanism that refused to behave.

At first GP had thought it was simply clever. 

It was not simply clever. 

GP still did not entirely understand how they had travelled from Francesca has made something interesting for school to no educational institution, sponsor, future university, investor or opportunistic adult is going to take a fraction of this from her.

He only knew Ana had taken one look at the situation and became terrifyingly calm. Then she had found a lawyer who was even more terrifyingly calm.

Eloisa placed a plate of toast in front of him. “You are glaring at her again.”

“I am not glaring at her.”

“You are.”

Francesca looked up from her phone. “Why are you glaring at me?”

“I’m not.”

“You have your pit-wall face.”

“I do not have a pit-wall face.”

Both women looked at him.

GP sighed. “I received another email from Kavanagh.”

Francesca brightened immediately. “Did he finish the draft?”

That was not the reaction of a normal seventeen-year-old to an email from an intellectual-property solicitor.

GP blamed Ana. “He has apparently prepared three alternative ownership structures.”

“Good.”

“And something called a future licensing framework.”

“Also good.”

“And a list of clauses he wants removed from your school’s standard competition-entry agreement.”

Francesca’s expression became deeply satisfied. “He said that agreement was predatory.”

“He called it ‘an amateur land grab drafted by someone who had heard the phrase intellectual property at dinner.’”

Eloisa laughed as she sat down. “I like him.”

“You do not have to speak to him.”

“I spoke to him on Tuesday.”

GP turned to her. “What?”

“He called about the parental consent forms.”

“You didn’t tell me.”

“You were already suffering enough.”

Francesca covered a smile with her coffee mug.

GP pointed at her. “This is your fault.”

“My fault?”

“You built it.”

“You told me not to abandon a project because one actuator kept failing!”

“That was ordinary parental encouragement. I did not realise it would result in legal counsel.”

Eloisa spread marmalade across her toast. “You should be proud.”

“I am proud.”

“You sound traumatised.”

“I can be both.”

Francesca’s phone buzzed again. Then the doorbell rang. All three of them looked toward the hall. 

GP frowned. “Are you expecting someone?”

“No,” Francesca said.

He stood and went to the door.

A courier waited outside holding two packages.

One was a flat, cream envelope.

The other was a wooden shipping case large enough that GP immediately suspected Max.

There were certain people who sent gifts. There were other people who arranged logistics.

Max Verstappen arranged logistics.

GP signed for both and carried them into the kitchen.

Francesca stared. “What is that?”

“A mysterious early-morning delivery.”

Eloisa examined the labels. “From Monaco.”

Francesca was out of her chair before GP had finished placing the wooden case on the table. “Is it from Ana?” 

“Perhaps read the card before disassembling the box,” GP said.

Francesca had already found the envelope.

Her name was written across the front in Ana’s precise handwriting. Not printed.

She opened it and unfolded the card.

“Read it aloud,” Eloisa said.

Francesca cleared her throat.

“Dear Francesca. Happy seventeenth birthday. Max believes experiences are preferable to objects. I disagree with the universal application of this principle, so we have sent both. The envelope contains two tickets. I have been informed that I am attending with you. The box is from me. Please open it carefully, as the mechanism is part of the object. Love, Ana and Max.”

Francesca looked up. “She wrote love.”

GP felt something soften in his chest.

Eloisa smiled. “She did.”

Francesca immediately opened the inner envelope.

Two heavy tickets slid into her hand.

She read them. Then read them again.

“Oh my God.”

“What?” GP asked.

She turned them around as though he could interpret them from across the table.

“It’s the Royal Opera House.”

GP took one. The tickets were for a gala concert featuring orchestral and vocal performances from several Italian operas, including Puccini.

Very good seats.

Of course they were very good seats. Max Verstappen did not purchase bad seats.

“There are two,” Francesca said.

“Yes,” GP replied. “That is generally how attending with another person works.”

“Ana is taking me.”

“So the note suggests.”

“Ana is taking me to an opera gala.”

“Yes.”

Francesca looked at her mother. “Mum.”

“I heard.”

“Ana is taking me.”

“Yes, darling.”

“To London.”

“Yes.”

“To see Puccini.”

“Yes.”

“Oh, my God.”

GP sat back down.

This was the hero worship. He recognised it by now.

Ana could have sent Francesca a set of annotated printer instructions and the girl would have framed them.

“She may still cancel,” he said, because he believed in managing expectations.

Francesca looked personally betrayed. “She won’t.”

“She has a job.”

“She said she is taking me.”

“She was also informed she is taking you, which suggests Max arranged this without first obtaining full consent.”

“That makes it better.”

“How?”

“Because he talked her into it.”

GP looked at Eloisa.

Eloisa lifted one shoulder. “She has a point.”

Francesca was already rereading the programme details. “There’s a full orchestra. And selections from La Bohème. And Tosca.”

“You play violin,” GP said. “Try not to start critiquing the string section.”

“I would never.”

“You critiqued the school orchestra during your own performance.”

“They were rushing.”

“You were all fourteen.”

“They were still rushing.”

Eloisa nudged the wooden case toward her. “You have another present.”

Francesca put the tickets down with extreme care.

Inside the wooden crate sat an antique jewellery box.

The wood had been polished until it glowed warmly beneath the kitchen lights. The lid was decorated with an intricate floral inlay—small curling stems, pale blossoms, darker leaves and tiny pieces of mother-of-pearl that caught the light as Francesca moved.

There was no visible hinge. No clasp. No obvious opening at all.

Francesca breathed, “Oh.”

GP turned the box slightly. “Is there a note?”

A slim envelope had been fitted beneath it.

Francesca opened it.

Francesca,

This is a late nineteenth-century jewellery and music box. The floral inlay is primarily mother-of-pearl, stained sycamore and rosewood.

It does not open conventionally. There are four movements in the correct sequence. Do not force any section.

The mechanism plays an excerpt from Puccini when fully opened. I selected it because Max informed me of the concert before I finished choosing your gift, and thematic consistency appeared preferable.

Happy seventeenth birthday.

Ana

Francesca looked up very slowly. “It is a puzzle box.”

“It appears so.”

“An antique puzzle jewellery box.”

“Yes.”

“That plays Puccini.”

“Yes.”

Francesca put both hands on either side of her face. “Oh my God, this is so cool.”

GP laughed. He could not help it.

She looked genuinely overwhelmed.

Not because it was valuable, though it clearly was. Not because it was antique. Because Ana had selected something intricate. Mechanical. Beautiful.

Something that required attention before it surrendered its purpose. A gift designed not merely for Francesca’s taste, but for the way her mind worked.

She whispered, “Ana found this?”

“I imagine Ana does not shop in normal places,” Eloisa said.

“That is certainly true,” GP muttered. “Do you know how to open it?” 

“No.”

“Excellent.”

She looked offended. “That is the point.”

“I know.”

Francesca bent over the box.

For the next three minutes, she examined it without touching anything.

GP watched her eyes track the inlay.

One flower sat fractionally higher than the others.

A narrow section at the side showed a seam only when the box was angled toward the window.

“There,” she murmured.

She pressed the raised flower.

A small panel released with a quiet click.

Francesca gasped.

“Dad.”

“I saw.”

Inside the panel was a brass catch shaped like a leaf.

She moved it carefully.

The lower section of the box slid forward less than a centimetre.

A hidden compartment appeared along the right side.

Francesca laughed, delighted. “This is insane.”

“Do not tell Ana her gift is insane.”

“She would understand it as positive.”

“That is probably true.”

The third movement involved rotating a small marquetry rose until its petals aligned with a pattern on the lid.

The fourth required pushing the lower drawer back while lifting the left side.

The box unfolded.

Not simply opened. The side compartments extended outward. The lid rose in two stages. A mirrored interior appeared beneath a velvet-lined jewellery tray, and somewhere inside the base, a mechanism caught.

The first notes began softly. Puccini. Delicate and slightly tinny with age, but unmistakable.

Francesca froze.

The melody carried through the kitchen. A few clear, chiming notes from Puccini. Not enough to perform the full melody. Enough to recognise it.

Francesca’s mouth fell open. “No.”

Eloisa looked at GP. “Which one is it?”

Francesca answered before he could. “O mio babbino caro.” The notes repeated, bright and slightly wistful from the antique mechanism. Francesca looked down into the box as though Ana had somehow placed an entire orchestra inside it. “It plays Puccini.”

“Yes,” GP said.

“And Max got the concert tickets.”

“So it appears.”

“Ana found a puzzle jewellery box that plays Puccini.”

“Yes.”

Francesca looked up at him, eyes enormous. “Dad.”

“What?”

“This is the coolest thing anyone has ever given me.”

“I bought you a telescope.”

“That was also very cool.”

“You used it every night for six months.”

“I’m not ranking them.”

“You just ranked them.”

Eloisa was openly laughing now.

GP looked at her. “You are enjoying this.”

“Immensely.”

“Our daughter is more impressed by Max Verstappen’s ability to book a concert and Ana’s ability to locate antique furniture than by seventeen years of excellent parenting.”

“It is not furniture,” Francesca said, offended.

“It is a box.”

“It is a nineteenth-century mechanical jewellery box with sequential puzzle locks and floral marquetry!”

GP stared at her.

Eloisa smiled sweetly.

Francesca turned the tiny key again. The melody restarted. She examined every hinge and concealed join, tracing the edges without applying pressure.

“There has to be another compartment.”

“Why?” GP asked.

“Because the first sequence is too simple.”

“It required four mechanisms.”

“Yes.”

GP looked at Eloisa.

Eloisa merely sipped her tea. Francesca pressed one section of the floral inlay.

Nothing happened.

She tilted the box, watching how the reflected light moved across the lid. Then she pressed the centre of one mother-of-pearl flower while sliding the right-hand panel backward.

There was another soft click.

A narrow concealed drawer opened beneath the lining.

Inside was a small folded note.

Francesca gasped.

“I knew it.”

She unfolded it.

In Ana’s handwriting:  

You were correct to continue looking.

The maker constructed three known compartments. This is the second. I have not yet located the third. Please tell me when you do.

Francesca looked as though she had just been personally selected for a mission of national importance. “She couldn’t find it.”

GP knew immediately what that meant. “She probably did.”

“No, she says she didn’t.”

“Ana is capable of lying for educational purposes.”

“She would not lie to me.”

“She absolutely would if she thought it improved the puzzle.”

Eloisa nodded. “She would.”

Francesca considered this. Then looked even more delighted. “So I have to work out whether she genuinely couldn’t find it or whether she is testing me.”

“Yes,” GP said. “That is what normal people call psychological warfare.”

“It is so cool.”

There it was again.

GP looked at his daughter. Seventeen. Her face still changed in exactly the same way it had when she was five and saw something she wanted to understand.

Not simply possess. Understand.

Her whole expression sharpened. Her eyes became brighter. The rest of the room ceased to matter.

He remembered holding her when she was hours old.

Tiny enough to fit against his chest with room left over. A dark cap of hair. One fist tucked beneath her chin. Furious at the entire concept of being born.

He had stood beside Eloisa’s hospital bed, terrified he would drop her, while a nurse assured him babies were less fragile than they appeared.

He had not believed her. He still did not.

That baby had become a girl who built robotics prototypes at the dining-room table and discussed intellectual-property structures before school.

A girl with an expensive lawyer. A girl Ana Wolff took seriously.

Perhaps that was the part GP had not yet adjusted to.

Ana did not humour Francesca.

She did not speak to her as though her ambitions were charming. She treated her work as work. Her ideas as assets. Her intelligence as something worth protecting before the world had an opportunity to exploit it.

Francesca worshipped Ana because Ana represented everything she wanted to become.

GP trusted Ana because she saw Francesca clearly. Even when that vision resulted in a lawyer sending him fifteen-page documents at six in the morning.

His phone buzzed on the table.

As though summoned by irritation:  Declan Kavanagh

GP stared at the screen.

Eloisa noticed. “Speak of the shark.”

“He is calling before eight.”

“He knows you are awake.”

“How?”

“You replied to his email.”

GP looked down.

He had.

At seven twelve.

Francesca was still inspecting the underside of the music box.

“Answer it,” she said.

“It is your birthday.”

“And?”

“I would prefer not to discuss licensing frameworks during your birthday breakfast.”

“Kavanagh said the school needs our response by Friday.”

“You are seventeen today and already using the phrase ‘needs our response.’”

Francesca looked pleased.

Eloisa pointed toward the hall. “Take it in the study.”

GP glared at both of them. Neither was remotely affected.

He answered. “Good morning, Mr Kavanagh.”

“Mr. Lambiase.”

No happy birthday to Francesca. No apology for the hour. Straight to business.

“I have reviewed the latest proposed terms from the school.”

GP walked toward the study. “And?”

“They remain unacceptable.”

“Of course they do.”

“They have altered the language but not the substance.”

“What does that mean in normal English?”

“They still want rights they have not earned.”

GP glanced back into the kitchen.

Francesca had found a magnifying glass from somewhere. Eloisa was taking a photograph of her with the box.

“And what happens now?” GP asked.

“I send them a revised agreement.”

“Will they sign it?”

“They will eventually.”

The confidence was breathtaking.

“How do you know?”

“Because their alternative is explaining why a school attempted to claim commercial rights over work created independently by a minor using no institutional funding, facilities or proprietary materials.”

There was a pause.

Kavanagh added, “They will not enjoy that explanation.”

GP believed him.

He believed Declan Kavanagh could make a man regret a clause he had not personally drafted.

“And the holding structure?”

“My recommendation remains that the intellectual property is assigned to a company established for Francesca’s sole benefit, with you and Mrs Lambiase acting only in a limited administrative capacity until she reaches eighteen.”

“She is seventeen today.”

“I am aware.” Of course he was aware. “Happy birthday to her,” Kavanagh added, as though remembering that normal human beings observed such things.

“I’ll tell her.”

“I have also sent a revised confidentiality protocol.”

“For a school project.”

“For potentially valuable intellectual property.”

GP rubbed the bridge of his nose.

“She made it on our dining-room table.”

“Many significant ideas have been developed in less dignified locations.”

The study door opened.

Eloisa leaned against the frame. She had clearly come to observe his suffering.

GP covered the bottom of the phone. “Why are you here?”

“This is funny.”

“It is not.”

She smiled.

He returned to the call. “Mr. Kavanagh, Francesca is still a child.”

There was a brief silence.

Then the lawyer’s voice softened by perhaps three percent.

“She is also the inventor.”

GP looked through the doorway. Francesca was turning the music box carefully in her hands,.

“Yes,” he said.

“She should be permitted to remain a child without that being used as an opportunity to take ownership from her.”

GP did not reply immediately.

That, he suspected, was why Ana had chosen Kavanagh.

Not merely because he was aggressive. Because beneath the aggression was something absolute.

Francesca’s age was a reason to protect her. Not a reason to discount her.

“Send the revised documents,” GP said.

“I already have.”

“Of course you have.”

“I will speak to the school’s counsel this afternoon.”

“Try not to frighten them too badly, please.”

“I make no promises I cannot keep.”

The call ended. Eloisa burst out laughing.

GP lowered the phone. “I am glad this is entertaining for you.”

“You used to negotiate with Christian Horner for a living.”

“That was simpler.”

“Kavanagh is on our side.”

“That does not make him less alarming.”

“No,” Eloisa agreed. “But it makes him very useful.”

They went back into the kitchen.

Francesca had put the music box down long enough to take photographs of the tickets.

“Do not post the seat numbers,” GP said automatically.

“I know.”

“And do not tag Ana without asking.”

“I know.”

“And the box should probably be insured before you take it upstairs.”

Francesca looked at him. “How expensive is it?”

“I have absolutely no idea.”

“Do you think it’s very expensive?”

“It came from Ana.”

Eloisa picked up the original card again. “Are you going to message them?”

Francesca was already typing. “Yes.”

Her fingers moved quickly. Then she stopped. Deleted it. Started again.

GP watched. “What are you writing?”

“Nothing.”

“You have rewritten it three times.”

“I want it to sound right.”

“You could simply say thank you.”

“That isn’t enough.”

“It is generally considered adequate.”

Francesca frowned at the screen.

“I want Ana to know I understand why she chose it.”

GP looked at Eloisa.

Eloisa’s expression softened. “Then tell her that,” she said.

Francesca typed more slowly this time.

GP’s phone buzzed again. Another email from Kavanagh. REVISED DRAFT — URGENT REVIEW REQUESTED

GP closed his eyes.

Eloisa looked over his shoulder. Then smiled. “Our baby has a lawyer.”

“This cannot possibly be the child I once carried around at three in the morning because she had hiccups.”

“No,” Eloisa said. “That child did not have a patent strategy.”

GP looked toward the ceiling, where the silver seventeen balloon turned slowly in the morning air.

“This is Ana’s fault.”

“Entirely.”

“And you find it funny.”

“Extremely.”

He opened Kavanagh’s email.

Eloisa kissed his cheek and took his coffee before it became completely undrinkable.

And despite the lawyer, the terrifying speed at which seventeen years had passed and the growing certainty that his daughter’s mind would carry her far beyond anywhere he could protect her, GP smiled.

Season 1

🇭🇺 -> Fastest Laps 🇳🇱 -> Lando's treat 🇮🇹 -> Invasive questions 🇦🇿 -> Out in Q1 🇸🇬 -> Thank you Daniel 🇺🇸 🇲🇽 🇧🇷 -> Triple Header 🇺🇸 -> Sin City 🇶🇦 -> What the hell is a Lestapstri 🏎 -> And with that, the 2024 season comes to an end (Whole grid) Epilogue (2025 rookies)

Season 2

🇦🇺 -> Ollie's no good very bad weekend -> Lando's pole -> Double the treat, double the trouble

🇨🇳 -> It's a marathon not a sprint -> Birthday boy -> The 50th McLaren 1-2 (+ a bunch of loosers)

🇯🇵 -> Poles and Streaks -> The Lion, the Birthday boy, and the Rookie (and a wardrobe)

🇧🇭 -> Anything you can do I can do better -> Blood, Slick and Tears

🇸🇦 -> Oh Lando... -> History repeats (sort of) -> Kissing walls (bonus blurb)

🇺🇲-> Friday night fever, Saturday nightmare -> Hat Trick

🇮🇹 -> Pity Party -> Max finally gets his prize

🇲🇨 -> Monaco, baby! ft. a special guest

🇪🇸 -> Entertaining the Locals -> Busy Sunday

🇨🇦 -> Rookie's choice

🇦🇹 -> Losers -> Winners

🇬🇧 -> Anything I can do better than you -> Viewing party

🇧🇪 -> Pick-me-up -> Private ride

🇭🇺 -> Pole-sitter -> Public enemy number 1

🇳🇱 -> The Stand-in

🇮🇹 -> It is what it is

🇦🇿 -> Unexpected pity party -> Unexpected road trip

🇸🇬 -> Payback and all that good stuff

🇺🇸 -> Bad to Worse to Worser -> Save a horse

🇲🇽 -> Change of Speed

🇧🇷 -> Rewards and Consolations

🇺🇸 -> What Verstappens in Vegas...

🇶🇦 -> Misery's Company

🇦🇪 -> Glory Glory -> Here's to the losers, Bless them all

Season 3

🇦🇺 -> New recruit

🇨🇳 -> Three's company

🇯🇵 -> Get Well Soon

🇺🇲 -> Kimi's choice

🇨🇦 -> Lessons in humility

🇲🇨 -> The french are coming

🇪🇸 -> The british are coming (multiple times)

🇦🇹 -> The RedBull Ring

🇬🇧 -> Worth the wait

🇧🇪 -> Lestappen sandwich

Set After:

Rockstar - Brendon Park meets his match against PTMC’s fiery new attending.

Pussy Wagon - A spilled drink leads you to see a different side of your nemesis Park The Shark.

The First Time (NSFW) - Fireworks aren’t the only explosive thing happening at Jesse’s Fourth of July party.

A Loaded Gun (NSFW) - Hate sex has never been so fucking hot…

This Is Not A Love Story - Brandon tries to set a rule after a ‘sticky’ situation.

The Game - Brendon finds himself breaking his own rules when it comes to you.

Set Before:

Tell. Me. To. Stop (NSFW) - Jealousy is not an emotion Brendon Park is accustomed to.

Surrender (NSFW) - Brendon Park isn’t a sub… at least not until you coax him into a pair of leather cuffs after a bad day.

Both Ways - Brendon and Jesse discuss a surprisingly intense experiance with you.

Pittfest -Brendon comforts you when you fall apart after the events of Pittfest.

Is He Prettier Than Me? - Brandon gets curious when he learns you have other plans.

Confetti (NSFW) - Brendon Park doesn’t do night clubs…

The Drawer - Brendon realises your relationship may be shifting when he discovers he has a drawer at your place.

Scrunchies - Scrunchies… they’re the downfall of Brendon Park.

Love Games (NSFW) - Brendon and you love to play games, especially with each other.

An Exquisite Form of Torture (NSFW) - Brendon continues to turn up the heat as he holds you captive.

Authentic - You and Jesse discuss your situationship with Brendon after you see him with another woman.

THAT Guy - Brendon is forced to face up to his feelings for you when he finds out your meeting up with an ex.

Seven Days - Seven days is far too long to go without you…

Save It - A thirty six hour shift leads to another admission about your relationship with Brendon.

Doctor Dick - Brendon’s day takes a turn when Whitaker gives him some critical information.

A Manipulative Fuck - You and Brendon discuss what happened with your ex.

The Call (NSFW) - Brendon decides to put a stop to David’s calls once and for all.

The One That Hates The Ravens - David’s attempt at revenge backfires spectacularly.

The Lovin Spoonful - You wake up to an unexpected surprise.

Delete, Block, Rinse, Repeat - A series of cryptic messages force Brendon to confront a secret he’s been keeping for almost a decade.

His Father’s Son - Brendon reflects on the past as he debates taking that first sip of whiskey.

The Cost of Dignity - Brendon’s greatest secret comes with a cost.

A Kiss For Luck - Brendon struggles to navigate working at the hospital after the release of THAT video.

The Craziest Fucking Thing - You take matters into your own hands after receiving bad news from Brendon.

Ride Or Die - You wake up to the sound of an angry blender after Brendon discovers what happened with Rowena.

Baby Shark - Once a year Brendon always ends up back at the aquarium.

Diamonds (NSFW) - A bet leads to naughty shenanigans in a five star restaurant.

The Call Out - Brendon’s focus on wedding planning is disrupted when he’s called out to the scene of a multi-car pile up.

Good Hands - Abbot reminds Brendon you’re in good hands as they proceed with the amputation.

Flayed - Brendon’s world crashes down as he learns the truth about the accident.

Ten Things I Love About You - Brendon discovers a pink envelope in the pocket of the jacket you were wearing at the time of the accident.

The Parent Trap - Brendon faces your parents, leading to a surprise revelation.

Sledgehammer - Brendon struggles to cope in the aftermath of everything that’s happened.

Et Tu Marianne? - Your mother throws Brendon under the bus after you wake up from surgery.

Roses - Brendon is forced to deal with a vindictive POS when a dozen red roses are delivered to your door.

The Fucking Patient - Abbot has some harsh words for Brendon regarding your care.

Chemistry - You and Brendon finally have a moment alone to talk.

A Serial Absconder - Your habit of disappearing leads to a healing journey Brendon doesn’t expect.

The Best the Ravens Have Ever Looked (NSFW) - Brendon has a real problem with your shorts.

Home - Brendon introduces you to your new home after the accident.

The Change Up - When you struggle to reacclimate at home Brendon realises you need a change up.

The Body Pillow - Brendon and you settle in for your first night at the new house.

Rae Days - You’re forced to navigate your new limitations when Brendon returns to work full time.

The Liberator - Brandon asks Abbot’s for advice with a very particular problem.

Grounded - Brendon gets a surprise when his brother turns up on his doorstep unexpectedly.

Watermelon Sugar (NSFW) - Brendon uses your favourite song against you when the sex cushion comes out to play.

Suck (NSFW) - Brendon’s dommy side finally comes out to play for the first time since the accident.

Bad Girl (NSFW) - You tempt Brendon into having sex for the first time since the accident.

Brendon doesn’t get sick.

He keeps his body in peak physical condition. Going the gym daily, watching what he eats and now its betraying him in the most vicious of ways, leaving him sprawled out on the couch, dying.

The flu comes for everyone, Jesse had told him when he’s dropped by before his shift with as much cold medicine as he thought Brendon could handle. Even narcotic gym bros like you.

Chills, sniffles, nausea, and a fatigue that makes the climb up to the bedroom insurmountable, Brendon has never suffered anything like it.

It’s early evening when the doorbell goes. He’s spent most of the day wrapped up in blankets, lingering somewhere between consciousness and unconsciousness with the sports highlights playing in the background. He drags himself out of the cocoon, keeping one blanket wrapped around his shoulders to ward off the cold that vibrates through his bones as he opens the door.

He doesn’t expect to see you standing there.

This thing between the two of you isn’t serious. He didn’t think you’d even notice that he was absent from the hospital today, let alone turn up here with takeout.

“I heard you were out sick.” You say, holding up that brown paper bag you have clasped between your hands. “I brought chicken soup, crackers… Jesse said you were struggling to eat.”

He’s never wanted to murder anyone more than Jesse Van Horn at this moment. He knows Brendon struggles with vulnerability, that he hates people perceiving him as weak and now, he’s sent his arch nemesis and current hook up to play nursemaid.

He gathers up every single ounce of his strength as he straights his spine, throwing his shoulders back. “I don’t need-”

But you don’t give a shit about what he’s about to say. You’re already over the threshold, ducking under his arm and sweeping into his living room. He twists around, shame creeping through his body as you take in the bundle of blankets, used tissues and empty water bottles on the coffee table. He’s usually a neat freak, controlling his environment in a way that’s practically OCD but today he just doesn’t have the strength.

“Rae, you don’t have to-”

But the trashcan is already in your hand as you cover your hand with your sleeve and shovel the mess into the receptacle.

“Sit.” You respond, jabbing your finger at the couch. Every instinct in him tells him to bark back, to rebel but his exhaustion wins out and he finds himself propped up on the sofa while you re-drape those blankets over him. “Are you ready to eat something?”

He shakes his head. “My stomach it’s a mess.”

“OK.” You say taking the crackers out of the bag. You open up the packet, placing them on the coffee table. “Small bites often is better than nothing. They’re ready when you feel like you can manage something.”

You sit down on the couch, picking up one of his grey cushions and placing it over your thighs.

“You don’t need to be here.” He attempts half heartedly as your arm, drapes over his shoulders. It feels like a comfort residing there, like he’s wrapped up in warmth and a safety he’s never felt, not even as a child.

“I know.” You say softly, guiding his shoulders down so that his head comes to rest in your lap. He nestles in close, his gaze fixed on the TV as it plays at a low volume. “But I’m not leaving you to fend for yourself.”

Jesse… he knew exactly what he was doing, Brendon realises, as your fingers start to comb through his hair, lulling his body into a state of relaxation. His muscles unfurl and he feels his eyes fluttering closed as your fingertips lightly massage his tender scalp.

“That’s better, isn’t it?” You murmur, leaning over, your lips brushing his temple.

“Yes.” He mumbles as sleep starts to take him. “Yes, it is.”

Like My Work? - Tip your friendly fan fic writer here! Or be a sweetheart and drop me comment or reblog.

“Hard to believe.” You said with a laugh.

“I called him Michael.” Javadi admitted, “I-It was a joke and he didn’t take it as one.”

You and Ellis hissed as Santos started to laugh.

“Oh Javadi, do you want me to talk to Abbot? See if he can talk Robby off the edge?” You offered and Javadi shook her head.

“No, it’s my fault.” Javadi said with a sigh, “I shouldn’t have tried a TikTok trend on him.”

You and Ellis looked at each other with a smirk, “Please explain.” You and Ellis said.

“It’s where you call doctors by their first name.” Javadi explained, putting her phone in her pocket.

“Oh? Like this?” You asked then looked over to Shen who was walking in with his coffee, “JOHN!”

“WHAT?” He called back.

“Just saying hi!” You said with a smile.

“Hi!” He said with a wave, then headed to the locker room

“Shen don’t give a fuck!” Ellis said, “Don’t worry Javadi, we’ll avenge you.”

“Thanks guys, I’m just embarrassed and I don’t want this to get back to my mom.” Javadi admitted grabbing her bag.

You and Ellis waved goodbye to Javadi and Santos as they walked away.

“Team call Jack and John by their first name?” You whispered as you looked to Ellis.

“Team night shift baby!” She whispered back.

The two of you did your handshake and parted ways, ready to see how long it took before someone cracked.

———————————————————————————

“Hey John, how’s your coffee?”

You had decided to play it safe with John at first then move onto Jack.

“It’s really good! Thanks for asking!” He said excitedly.

“Oh my god, is this about me not complimenting your coffee making skills?” Abbot whined, coming to sit down and chart, “I told you, I love your coffee.”

You looked at him confused, “What are you going on about?” You asked.

“I think he’s jealous you are paying more attention to me than to him.” Shen said, leaning on the nurses hub.

“Hey, we have a very secure relationship.” Abbot said, pointing between you and him, “We are fine.”

“Hey Jack, can you come look over this patient with me before he is discharged?” Ellis asked.

Abbot nodded before he registered what had happened, “Jack?” He repeated.

“Yea Jack. Do you mind?” Ellis asked, “Or should I get John to help me?”

“I mean, are you busy brother? I can help. I’m an attending to now.” Shen said.

“No I got it, but Jack?” Abbot asked, still trying to grasp it.

“Jack, it was a simple question.” You said with a laugh, “Are you gonna help Ellis??”

“Wait no, you never call me Jack. Uh uh, you don’t start.” He said, pointing to you and then shook his head, “Yea, I’ve got ya Ellis.”

You watched Ellis and Abbot head into a patients room, Abbot still looking over his shoulder to watch you.

“What’s that about?” Shen asked, sipping his coffee.

“Oh I never call him Jack. Like ever. I always call him Jackie.” You explained, “That’s why he got so wigged.”

“Ohhh.” Shen said, sipping his coffee, “This is gonna be a fun night then! Wait, why are we calling him Jack not Abbot?”

“The same reason we call you John, not Shen.” You stated, finishing inventory.

“Is this an inside joke? I wanna be apart of it!” Shen whined.

“John! I need an attending!” Henderson called out from a patient’s room.

“Coming!” Shen called out, heading toward the patients room.

You were left to just the inventory checklist when you suddenly felt eyes on you.

“Jackie.” Abbot repeated, staring you down.

“Jack.” You said, meeting his gaze, “Can I help you?”

“Jackie. You don’t call me Jack. It’s Jackie.” He said, “Say it with me.”

“Jack I’m sorry, I’ve got a job to do.” You stated, walking away.

He crossed his arms and scoffed, clearly offended. “Who does she think she is? Jack? No, I’m her Jackie.” He whined, walking away.

The night had just begun.

———————————————————————————

Jack of course had no problem with people using his real name, but you? The love of his life? The same woman who called him her ‘Jackie Baby’ oh he was pissed. He earned that Jackie Baby nickname.

“What are you doing?” Shen asked, looking over Jack’s shoulder, “Why are you shopping at Tiffany during work hours?”

“She won’t call me Jackie! She only calls me Jack! I think she knows.” Abbot hissed, “Why would she be so pissed?”

“She can’t know!” Shen hissed, “We won’t be allowed to hang out!”

“Why would I be pissed?” You asked, walking over, “What did you two do?”

“Nothing!” The two men said at the same time.

You gave them a confused look as you sat down at the computer across from them, “Okay then.”

“What’s my name?” Jack asked, staring you down.

“Jack.” You stated, not looking up.

He threw his hands up and ran his fingers over his face, “You hate me!”

“I never said that!” You said with a laugh, “Where is this coming from?”

“Because you won’t call me Jackie!” He fake sobbed, “I’m gonna die from heart break!”

“He’s dying!” Shen sobbed as he started fake CPR on Abbot. Meanwhile, Abbot laid motionless with his tongue out.

“One for the dramatics tonight Dr. Abbot and Dr. Shen?” Walsh asked, coming over, “I’m here for a surgery consult.”

“Quick! Give him mouth to mouth!” Ellis called out, “Oh and Walsh, your patient is in rm 3.”

Shen committed to the bit and went to kiss Abbot, cupping his face.

“I HAVE A GIRLFRIEND! NO!” Abbot squealed, wrestling off Shen.

You, Walsh, and Ellis just stared as the two men started to wrestle.

“It’s not gay if my scrubs are black!” Shen stated, trying to move.

“THATS NOT THE RULE! Baby girl help me!” Abbot whined, pushing Shen’s lips away.

“You got this Jack.” You called out and Walsh looked at you.

“You just called him Jack.” Walsh stated confused, “Isn’t he Dr. Abbot to you all?”

“It’s a tik tok trend Emery.” Ellis said with a smirk.

“Ew.” Walsh stated, shaking her head as she walked away, “Don’t ever call me that again!”

“We won’t!” You said, going back to work.

“Think they’ll get it?” Ellis asked just as Abbot managed to push Shen away.

“Ehh in due time.” You said, grabbing Abbot’s coffee to taste it, “in due time.”

Soon Ellis and Shen had wandered off and Abbot walked over to you looking smug.

“What’s my name pretty girl?” He asked, putting his hands behind his back.

“Jack.” You said, setting down the clipboard you had in your hands.

“Ooh wrong answer.” He said, stepping closer, “Let’s try that again. What is my name baby girl?”

“Jack.” You repeated, “Honey, do you need hearing aids?”

Abbot scoffed and moved to cross his arms, “Baby girl, I am fifty! Don’t change the subject.” He warned, “Final time I’m asking, what’s my name?”

“Jack.” You said, throwing your hands up, “Are you sure you aren’t hard of hearing.”

He grabbed your chin and forced you to look at him, “Baby girl, you only call me Jack when you’re filled with my fat cock and get so dumb you forget my nickname.” He cooed, “Because you get all ‘Jack baby.. I-I’m s-so close’ and then I have to make sure my baby girl cums.” He said with a mocking tone, “So you gonna tell me why you’re calling me Jack and not Jackie?”

“Ooh threatening me in the ER, add that to my list of kinks in the bedroom.” You said with a smirk, “I like pissy Jack Abbot.”

He brought your face up to his and scrunched his nose, “Mhm, you’re a brat.”

“Your brat Jack.” You said with a smile as he pulled your chin to kiss you.

The two of you shared a brief kiss at the nurses hub, just a fleeting moment.

“Jack! Scooter vs car, coming in hot!” Lena called out and he pulled away.

“Discussion isn’t over baby girl.” He said, hand moving down to squeeze your ass.

The two of you parted ways, letting the Pitt swallow you two whole.

———————————————————————————

Soon 6:30 a.m. came and Robby had come in earlier than usual.

“You’re here early.” Abbot said, moving to stand by him, “Got in trouble with the missus?”

“No, I wrote up Javadi yesterday and I have to explain the reasoning to our educators.” Robby said with a sigh.

“Write her up for what?” Abbot asked with a laugh, crossing his arms, “What did she do? Insult your beard.”

“No.” Robby said, finishing up paper work.

“Hey Jack, when you got a second could you help me with a patient?” Santos asked, walking up.

“It’s Dr. Abbot. Do not refer to him by his first name.” Robby snapped, “It is rude and inappropriate.”

“Told you he’d get pissy!” Santos called out to you and Ellis.

“Wait what? Hold on.” Abbot said, putting up his hand up, “Don’t talk to Santos like that. She can call me Jack, hell anyone can call me Jack.”

“It’s inappropriate brother. We have earned our titles, I will not let my co workers call me by my first name while we work together.” Robby repeated, “Javadi called me Michael yesterday and she is going to learn her actions have consequences, i suggest you do the same.”

“Throw that write up in the trash.” Abbot snapped, “Do not get a fucking complex on me Michael. We are peers and equals in this fucking hospital and if my girls or any of my co workers want to call me Jack, so be it. As long as they don’t call me a lil bitch, I’m good.”

Robby looked at Abbot for a minute and nodded, “Yea that was an asshole thing of me. Thanks for making me look at it a different way.”

Abbot patted his back then paused, “Wait, if Javadi call you Michael… hold on.” Abbot mumbled and looked around and whistled.

He had you trained like a dog because you immediately came to the nurses station, “Yes?” You asked.

“Is this a tik tok prank?” Abbot asked with a laugh.

“Yes it is Dr. Abbot. Only took you the entire shift to realize that.” You said with a smirk, “Congratulations.”

“Oh so she’s not mad about the sign thing.” Shen said walking up, “Thank god.”

Robby and Abbot immediately covered Shen’s mouth, “Shut up!” They hissed.

“The what thing?” You asked, crossing your arms, “Jacqueline explain.”

Abbot winced at the nickname you only used when you demanded an answer, “Remember when I claimed I broke my tail light from backing into something? That’s not what happened. I found an Abbot street sign and stole it and the owner shot my tail light out to my jeep.”

“In our defense, who sits on their property on horse back at 3 am at night with a gun?” Robby asked.

“Oh my god.” You said, covering your mouth, “You three are insane.”

Abbot still remembered the farm hand yelling at him and chuckled to himself.

“Wait, who was driving? Because you three sounded like you were drinking.” You asked, clearly confused.

“Oh Antoine and Larry. Larry was DD. Super cool to hang out with.” Shen explained.

“I’m sorry I kept that from you.” Abbot said, bringing up your hand to kiss it, “Can you forgive me baby?”

You rolled your eyes and smirked, “Can’t stay mad at you for long Jackie.”

He pulled you closer and kissed your head, “Still got my charm.” He muttered against your head.

“If it makes you feel better, the sign has two T’s in Abbott instead of one.” Shen explained.

“Where’s the sign?” You asked with a laugh, gently squeezing Abbot’s butt.

“Oh it’s at my man cave.” Robby explained, “We’re still figuring out what to do with it.”

“Oh lovely.” You joked, pulling away, “Well Jackie, how does it feel to catch onto a tik tok prank?”

“I feel fantastic.” He said with a smirk, “Now go tell the girls I figured it out.”

The two of you parted and you walked away, hoping to find Ellis.

At least Abbot wasn’t completely clueless.

You let out another huff of amusement as the line disconnected before you could say another word.

Your conversation practically went forgotten as you locked back into your work, only breaking your focus as Frank approached you with a steaming bowl of pasta in his hand.

"Thank you baby." You smiled, leaning up to peck his lips as he placed it in front of you.

"You're welcome." He said, sliding down into the chair opposite you.

He watched you as you finally closed your laptop, reaching for the bowl as if you suddenly remembered that eating was in fact something you needed to do.

"So..." Frank spoke slowly as he twirled a forkful of pasta. "....what's this thing tomorrow night?" He asked casually before taking a bite.

"Oh." You waved your fork absentmindedly. "It's nothing exciting, the firm's throwing this networking event and inviting a bunch of our big clients so obviously we all have to show up and...mingle."

Frank watched the tiny grimace that crossed your face at the last word.

"Mingle?"

You grimace deepended as he repeated the word. "I know."

He smiled. "Well, if you want company and you're allowed a plus one I'm more than happy to come."

Frank didn't miss the way your face faltered for a moment, surprise flashing across your features before disappearing just as quickly.

"Oh no it's fine really, I meant what I said to Amy about saving you from it."

“I really don’t mind.” He insisted. “Besides I’d love to finally meet the people that steal you away from me so often.” He continued lightly.

Frank's eyes narrowed slightly as he watched you squirm under his gaze, your eyes flickering down to your dinner.

“What is it? Are you embarrassed of me?” He teased.

Your eyes widened in alarm, your head snapping up so quickly it almost gave you whiplash. “Absolutely not.”

"Then what is it?"

You glanced back down at your lap. “it’s just, if you come you’ll have to see me…”

Frank raised a brow. “See you what?”

“Well see me… smooze.”

“Smooze?” Frank repeated, the corner of his mouth twitching up as he watched you visibly wince.

“Yeah.” You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. “All these clients are coming so I’m going to have to network and make polite conversation and remember everyone's spouse's names and pretend I care about things like golf-"

"Wait, you don't care about golf?"

"Frank." You whined, letting out an exasperated laugh. "I'm being serious."

"Baby, you’re just doing your job. I’m not going to judge you.”

“That’s easy for you to say now.” You huffed.

“I promise I won’t.” He laughed, leaning across the table to grab your hand.

“I want to be there for you.”

Your eyes met his, and just like that, every excuse you'd been preparing quietly dissolved. You smiled softly, your resolve visibly crumbling as you looked down at your interlaced fingers.

“Alright." You relented. "I’ll let work know I’m bringing a plus one.”

-

“So how many people are going to be at this thing?” Frank asked as he leant against the doorframe to the bathroom.

You shrugged as you made eye contact with him through the mirror. “There’s free alcohol on offer, which means the whole office will probably show up.”

A quiet chuckle escaped him. "Great."

His laughter faded as he watched you apply your lip gloss. The black cocktail dress you'd chosen was simple but elegant in the understated way everything you wore seemed to be. It fit you perfectly, the fabric skimming your figure in a way that nobody could accuse you of dressing inappropriately for a work function, but fitted just enough to make Frank briefly forget what the original question had been as he reminded himself that he was, in fact, dating the most beautiful woman on the planet.

"Frank."

"Hm?"

"You're staring." He could hear the smile in your voice before his eyes dragged up to your face.

"I know." He answered immediately. "You look incredible."

The words were so matter-of-fact that they made your cheeks warm almost instantly, your smile widening across your face despite your best efforts to suppress it.

"You don't scrub up so bad yourself Dr Langdon." You teased as you turned to face him. Your gaze drifting over the dark blazer he'd reluctantly pulled from the back of his wardrobe. He looked unfairly handsome like he always did.

Frank glanced down at himself before giving one shoulder an easy shrug. "I've got to make sure I'm a half decent accessory."

The laugh that bubbled out of you never failed to make his chest warm.

"You're significantly more than half decent." You assured him as you closed the distance between you to reach up and smooth the lapels of his blazer.

He quirked a brow up as he studied you, his hands settling on your waist.

"So, anything I need to know before I enter into the lion's den?"

You pretended to mull it over as his thumbs started to draw lazy circles over your hips. "Just remember that no matter what you say or do, the person you're talking to is going to assume they're the smartest person in the room."

His smirk widened.

“They haven’t met me yet.”

You rolled your eyes playfully. "And they're almost certainly more arrogant than you."

"Oh?"

"They'll make you look humble."

“Let’s see them try.”

You laughed again, shaking your head as you reached for your lip gloss beside the sink. "You think I'm joking."

He could tell underneath your laughter that you were nervous. He cupped your face in his hands gently once you turned back to him.

"I've survived a double shift in an emergency department without power once. I can handle a few know it alls." He insisted.

You withheld a sigh as you studied him. "Let's see if you're still saying that in four hours."

-

The office was already crowded by the time you arrived.

The client floor had been transformed almost beyond recognition. The walls separating the individual meeting rooms had been folded back, opening the entire level into one sprawling space. Soft jazz drifted through hidden speakers, blending with the steady hum of conversation, while waitstaff weaved effortlessly between clusters of guests balancing trays of champagne and canapés that looked like they'd come from the future.

Beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, the Pittsburgh skyline glittered against the darkening sky, the city's lights reflecting faintly off the glass like a second room suspended beyond the building.

Clusters of your coworkers occupied every available corner, each group somehow managing to look perfectly curated. Tailored suits and dresses steamed to perfection blended together, watches that probably cost more than Frank's first car gleamed back at him.

You squeezed his hand as you led him deeper into the room. Frank unconsciously straightened his jacket as he followed you as a foreign wave of nerves washed over him.

Frank had always been confident in his abilities. He'd spent years learning to trust his instincts, making decisions in seconds that could mean the difference between life and death. Some would attest that he was borderline cocky at times. Plenty of others would say arrogant. And yes, while that might be true, that was when he was in his safe space, in his comfort zone.

Because the truth was, Frank felt entirely more comfortable with a scalpel and a flatlining patient then he did right now walking into a room full of lawyers.

He watched as heads turned and gazes lingered as you weaved through the crowd. Some people smiled in recognition when they saw you, others glanced towards Frank with a flicker of surprise before leaning closer to the people beside them, quiet conversations beginning behind discreetly raised champagne glasses.

Unsurprisingly, it seemed you turned heads no matter where you went, even the heads of people that saw you everyday.

"Well well well." A booming voice cut through the crowd. "What do we have here?"

Frank turned to find an older man making his way towards you. His greying hair was all but glued back, the tailored suit he was donning could only be described as aggressively purple.

"You must be the man responsible for stealing one of our top performers away from the office.”

Frank glanced sideways at you before looking back at the man in front of him.

“If this is her away from the office, I can’t imagine what she was like before me.”

The man only hummed at that, running his eyes over Frank intently.

"Keith." You said with a smile. "This is Frank."

You turned to Frank. "Keith is one of the partners here."

Frank immediately offered his hand. "Nice to meet you."

Keith recoiled so quickly it was almost comical, his expression bordering on genuine alarm.

“Keith doesn’t do handshakes.” You explained to Frank, your eyes twinkling with amusement. “Too many germs transferred.”

Frank slowly lowered his hand. “Ah.”

“You know Keith." You continued. "Frank’s an emergency doctor.”

The look on Keith’s face could now only be described as one of horror. “In a hospital?”

Frank blinked. “… yes.”

Keith took a step back. “Riddled with germs aren’t they? You come in with a minor issue and risk not coming out again.”

“Well actually-“

"I've watched a lot of documentaries on this you know."

Frank brows knitted. "On hospitals?"

Keith sighed. "On bacteria." His eyes wandered over Frank's frame, taking another step back like Frank himself was one walking mass of germs.

"We take hygiene very seriously." Frank insisted, now genuinely fascinated by the man in front of him.

Keith looked entirely unconvinced. “I think I just heard someone calling my name." He gestured vaguely behind him, large gold rings gleaming from his hand. "I best see to that."

Without another word, he straightened his already perfectly straight jacket, nodded once in your direction, gave Frank an extremely wide berth and disappeared seamlessly into the crowd.

Frank watched him leave before he turned to you slowly. “What just happened?”

You bit your lip, trying and failing to contain your laughter. “You my friend just got Keith’d.”

“Uh huh. I'm going to need you to elaborate."

"He genuinely believes handshakes are one of society's greatest health risks."

"I gathered that."

"And honestly? He’s one of the more normal partners.”

He looked back towards the crowd, searching for Keith as though hoping you'd somehow been joking. He glanced back at you, his eyes narrowing as he watched the way your lips tremored as you tried to hide your amusement.

“You’re loving this just a little too much.”

You shrugged innocently. “What can I say? I like seeing you sweat a little.”

He pursed his lips and shook his head as he slid his hand back into yours.

"Why do I feel like I've walked into a trap?"

You grinned. "I did try and warn you."

Frank couldn't fight the smile as he looked down at you. "Let's get you a drink."

Almost on cue, Amy appeared beside you carrying two flutes.

"You look hot." She said by way of greeting, her eyes running over your dress approvingly. "And as discussed, we are having at least three of these before anyone has to socialise." She continued, before finally noticing Frank. "Oh good, hot doctor made it."

"So that's sticking, is it?"

"Absolutely." She said instantly, holding out a glass out for him to take.

Frank shook his head. "No thanks I'm driving."

She raised a brow but didn't push further. "Suit yourself." Was all she said before turning to you and offering you the second one.

"Thanks Ames." You took it eagerly. "Where's Jake?" You asked as she clinked her glass lightly against yours.

"Hiding."

You took a long sip before letting out an exaggerated sigh as you looked out over the sea of clients beginning to drift your way.

"I'm afraid that the networking is about to begin."

Frank followed your gaze.

"....can I join Jake?"

-

It didn't take long for Frank to begin to notice a pattern.

Every conversation with a client seemed to start the same way. Someone would catch sight of you from across the room and make a beeline in your direction, their face lighting up with easy recognition before you'd even exchanged a word. There was always a handshake, always a smile, and almost always a comment about how good it was to see you again.

It didn't seem to matter whether they were a long-standing client or someone you'd only worked with briefly. There was a warmth to every interaction that extended well beyond professional courtesy, a clear fondness for you that transcended a normal client relationship.

He understood maybe half of what people were discussing with you. Commercial disputes, judicial appointments, financing arrangements, it all blurred together in a way that made him feel like he was back at med school.

And yet despite being able to add nothing to the conversation, you introduced him to everyone you spoke with, effortlessly weaving him into conversations before he had the chance to feel like an outsider. Every few minutes your hand would find his arm or your fingers would slip into his for a moment as though checking he was still there, small unconscious gestures that somehow made the crowded room feel considerably less overwhelming.

Frank found himself lingering half a step behind you as the evening wore on. Not because you were leaving him out or he wasn't interest, but because he was entranced by watching you work.

Watching the way you instinctively adapted to whoever was standing in front of you. One client needed reassurance, another wanted to feel clever, another appreciated blunt honesty. Without appearing to think about it, you seemed to adjust your approach to each of them, asking exactly the right questions, remembering details about their families, steering conversations so subtly that nobody else seemed to notice they were being guided.

It wasn't that you became a different person. The woman he knew was still there. You still laughed at the right moments, still rolled your eyes whenever someone said something out of line, still smiled with that same warmth that had made Frank fall in love with you in the first place.

But beneath it sat something else. He'd only seen glimpses of it once before when you'd calmly stepped between Javadi and an aggressive patient. Back then he'd assumed it had simply been the adrenaline of the moment. Now, watching you navigate conversation after conversation with effortless precision, he realised that hadn't been the case at all. This was simply who you were at work.

It reminded him, unexpectedly, of a trauma bay. You assessed the situation, worked out what people needed and found the solution before anyone else had realised there was a problem.

Frank felt a small smile tug at the corner of his mouth.

He'd spent months wondering why you'd always watched him treat patients with an expression he could never quite put into words. Whenever he'd looked up, you'd simply smile back at him, your eyes full of something that had always made him feel a little taller.

Standing here now, he finally understood. This was what you'd been seeing all along.

And then as it grew later, Frank started to meet some of your coworkers.

He wasn't blind. He noticed the lingering glances almost immediately. Most people looked at you with the easy admiration reserved for someone they respected. However, there were the handful of men whose interest was just a fraction too obvious.

Frank was so used to it by now that it didn't bother him. Especially because every single time, without fail, your attention drifted back to him, your shoulder constantly brushing against his as if to remind him that you were there.

Frank stood beside you as a senior partner laughed a little too hard at something you'd said.

"Brilliant as always."

"Thank you."

"Although I have to admit, I'm still surprised every time I hear you speak."

"Surprised?"

"Someone your age speaking with that level of confidence." He took a sip of his whisky, turning to Frank with a smirk on his face like they were both in on a joke you weren't a part of. "These young lawyers always think they know everything."

Your smile hardened just a fraction. Frank recognised that smile instantly, because it was the exact same one he used on patients who were being difficult.

"Well, luckily competence isn't age dependent."

The partner laughed. "I suppose it's not."

"Oh no, it's definitely not." You continued, your tone remaining perfectly conversational. "As evidenced by several members of the profession."

The man's smile faltered ever so slightly.

Frank nearly choked on his drink as he tried to disguise the laugh threatening to escape.

"Well..." The partner cleared his throat. "I won't keep you from everyone." He nodded awkwardly before disappearing into the crowd a moment later.

Frank stared after him before slowly turning back towards you.

"What?" You asked when you saw the look on his face.

"You just eviscerated him."

"I simply made an observation."

A laugh burst out of Frank loud enough that two nearby lawyers turned to look.

Over the course of an hour, Frank watched one solicitor confidently explain your own litigation strategy back to you, only for you to ask two perfectly reasonable questions that left him stumbling over his own argument, a senior associate interrupt you three separate times before eventually realising you knew more about the issue than he did and one particularly arrogant partner repeatedly refer to you as "sweetheart" as he launched into some political tirade no doubt egged on by the bourbon on his breath.

Frank had almost intervened, until you beat him to it by asking a simple, seemingly innocent question. Then another, and another, until suddenly the partner's entire argument unravelled around him without you breaking a sweat.

It was one of the most attractive things Frank had ever seen.

"You enjoy this." Frank murmured in your ear as the partner wandered off looking mildly bewildered.

You looked up from your champagne. "What?"

He nodded towards the crowd, where another animated debate appeared to be breaking out near the windows.

"This." You followed his gaze before looking back at him. "The way you all circle each other for five minutes pretending to have a perfectly pleasant conversation before you start professionally gaslighting one another."

You let out a surprised laugh. "It's all part of the fun."

Frank raised a brow. "It's practically psychological warefare."

This time your laughter escaped properly, bright and unrestrained enough that several nearby conversations faltered for a moment as people turned to look.

Without thinking, Frank slipped an arm around your waist, smiling to himself as you instinctively leaned into his side.

“Have I ever told you that you’re the sexiest woman on the planet.” He murmured into your ear.

Your eyes flashed dangerously. “Careful Dr Langdon.” You answered. “I’ll be pulling you into a stationary cupboard if you’re not careful.”

Frank’s fingers sunk into the flesh of your hip. “You’re making that sound like a bad thing.”

A flash of aggressively purple fabric stopped either of you from saying anything further. Except this time, Keith's pace was quicker than before, his brow furrowed deeply enough that even Frank could tell something had gone wrong.

"Keith, is everything alright?" You asked, straightening slightly as you studied him.

"There's an issue with the Henderson settlement." He spoke quietly, glancing over his shoulder. "Bruce is quite.... worked up."

You followed his gaze to one of your top clients pacing beside the windows, his phone pressed tightly to his ear while one hand rubbed anxiously at the back of his neck.

"We can handle it." You said calmly. "Why don't we head upstairs and sort it out?"

Frank saw the instant relief that flashed across Keith's face.

"Yes, I think that would be best."

You looked up at Frank, your expression softening again. "You going to be ok without me for a little bit?"

He smiled. "I'll manage."

You smiled back, your hand brushing lightly over his side before giving him a reassuring squeeze. "I won't be long, I promise."

"Take all the time you need."

You held his gaze for another second before nodding, then fell into step beside Keith, already asking him quiet questions about what had happened as the two of you crossed the room.

Frank watched as the client relaxed instantly at the sight of you, his shoulders dropping and frown lines softening just a fraction. He found himself smiling as the three of you disappeared through the office doors.

It was then that Frank realised he was completely on his own. For the first time that evening, there was no reassuring squeeze of your hand waiting for him, no familiar face to anchor him to the room. Without you, his safety net, he felt like a fish out of water - flailing and vulnerable out in the open for everyone to prey on.

He huffed, running a hand through his hair as he wandered over to the bar after deciding that standing in the corner made him look like a puppy waiting for its owner to come back.

As he waited for a soda, he found himself watching the crowd with quiet amusement. If there was one thing he'd learnt tonight, it was that lawyers somehow managed to make drinking alcohol look like a competitive sport.

"I hope tonight hasn't been too painful."

Frank turned to see that a young guy in a grey tailored suit had slid in beside him at the bar.

"Oh no not painful, just not my usual scene." Frank answered.

The guy laughed politely. "You're not a lawyer I'm guessing?"

"God no." Frank answered immediately. "No offense." He added quickly.

"None taken."

Frank shifted lightly. "I'm a doctor so this-" He gestured around to the room. "-is all pretty new to me."

"Huh." The guy answered, studying him for a moment. "Hey boys." He called out, gesturing to people behind Frank. "Come over here."

Frank turned just as a group of three guys of a similar age wandered over. All of them were practically clones of each other, tailored suits, expensive watches, too much gel in their hair.

"Reception's dating a doctor." The first guy announced, gesturing towards Frank with his glass of whiskey.

The other three broke out into a chorus of chuckles.

"Typical."

"That's so Reception."

"I told you guys."

Their voices overlapped as they studied Frank like he was some sort of science experiment that had been dropped in their lap.

Frank frowned slightly. "Reception...?"

The first guy grinned and said your last name slowly, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"When we first started here the partners all kept mistaking her for the receptionist."

"To be fair, she didn't exactly help herself." One of the others chimed in, causing the group to chuckle.

"So I crowned her Reception." He explained, gesturing to himself like it was the greatest accomplishment. "And it's stuck ever since."

Frank looked at him for a long second as he felt irritation burr up within him. He could tell exactly what type of guys these four were.

"I'm sorry, who are you?" He queried.

"Harvey." The first guy answered. "And this here is Louis, Ross and Mike."

Frank snorted before he could stop himself. "That's a good one."

Harvey blinked. "What's a good one?"

Frank stared at him for a moment, then at the other three who were looking at him completely unamused. "Nothing." He shook his head. "She's just never mentioned any of you."

Frank watched the way Harvey's smile tightened just enough at that to give him away. He recovered quickly however, shrugging one shoulder with exaggerated nonchalance.

"She's probably still getting over the fact I knocked her off her perch and billed higher than her this month."

"Yeah." Frank said casually. "I'm sure that's it."

Harvey's jaw clenched for a moment. "So... Fred was it?"

"Frank."

"Right." Harvey nodded, taking a sip of his drink. "You're a surgeon?"

"I'm a resident at PTMC in the emergency department."

"Ah." A knowing glance passed between the four men.

"So... not a surgeon." One of the others remarked.

"I thought Reception would have aimed slightly higher than that." Harvey continued, causing the others to laugh again.

Frank let out a humourless chuckle, looked down at the ice floating in his soda before swirling the glass once.

"So Harvey." He spoke, glancing up at him. "When did she do it?"

Harvey's grin was still seared onto his expression. "Do what?"

"Reject you."

The question landed with enough force that the group fell completely silent as Harvey's smile dissipated completely.

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me."

For several long seconds neither of them spoke.

"Frank!"

Amy's voice cut through the tension before it had the chance to become something uglier. Frank looked over his shoulder to find her weaving confidently through the crowd, one hand wrapped around a man's wrist as she all but dragged him behind her.

"Amy." Frank greeted. "Nice to see a friendly face."

Her eyes flicked from Frank to Harvey and back again, clocking the tension instantly.

"Have Harvey and his minions been bothering you?"

Harvey opened his mouth but Amy didn't give him a chance to speak.

"Ignore him." She continued smoothly. "He's been in love with your girlfriend since they started here and he's salty because she never has and never will look twice at him."

Frank smiled into his drink. "Don't worry, I worked that one out on my own pretty quickly."

Harvey scoffed. "Please."

"No, seriously Harv, it's getting a bit sad at this point."

The guy beside her winced. "It is a little sad mate."

Harvey held Frank's gaze for another moment, as though searching for some cutting response that would restore a little of his wounded pride.

"Come on." He finally muttered to the others. "We've wasted enough time."

Louis shot Frank one final look before following him, Ross and Mike trailing behind without another word.

"I swear they travel in a pack because individually they'd have to develop personalities." Amy muttered as she watched them go.

"It's definitely a corporate survival mechanism." Frank observed, causing her to laugh.

It was then that she realised she hadn't actually introduced the poor man she'd been dragging around all evening.

"Oh." She reached back and grabbed his hand properly this time. "Frank, this is Jake."

"Nice to finally meet you." Frank offered his hand.

"You too. I've been waiting to meet the guy who fixed my girlfriend's ankle." Jake grinned as he shook his hand.

"And I've been waiting to meet the guy who got stuck in traffic so long I had time to flirt with his girlfriend's co-worker."

Jake chuckled at that.

"Speaking of your girlfriend." Amy interjected. "What do you say we go rescue her?"

Frank nodded immediately. "Lead the way."

Stepping away from the crowded function room for Frank was like taking a full breath after hours spent underwater. The steady drone of conversation and clinking glasses faded behind them, replaced by the quieter atmosphere of the office corridors. The bright overhead lighting was so clinical it almost made Frank feel at home.

"So, this your first work function?" Jake asked.

"Is it that obvious?"

"You've still got hope in your eyes."

Frank laughed. "I take it you've done this before."

"A few times. I've learnt to disappear whenever Amy is distracted."

"I can still hear you." Amy said without looking behind at him.

"I know."

As they rounded the corner, your voice drifted towards them.

"No what I'm saying is its a Friday night and you're harassing my client."

Amy glanced over her shoulder with a grin on her face, her brows wiggling. "She's in scary mode."

"Yes you are." You continued after a moment.

They reached your office just in time to see you pacing slowly behind your desk, your phone pressed against your ear.

"And may I remind you that attempting to contact someone when they have legal representation, which you very well know about, is a violation of the conduct rules."

There was a pause.

"No, I'm not threatening you."

Frank shoved his hands into his pockets, as he watched the way your mouth twitched ever so slightly.

"I'm simply reminding you of your obligations as a solicitor."

Another pause.

"Yes so what I suggest you do is leave my client alone and send me an email which I will respond to on Monday and then go and enjoy the rest of your evening."

You rolled your eyes as you tapped your stiletto impatiently. "Ok, goodnight."

You huffed as you chucked the phone onto your desk, running a hand through your hair before finally noticing the three amused faces standing in your doorway.

Your face softened when you spotted Frank. "Oh, hi."

You then turned to Amy, your eyes narrowing slightly.

"Where the hell have you been?"

"Hiding."

"Hiding?" You repeated.

"Keith cornered one of the senior partners to explain the history of hand sanitiser."

Jake nodded solemnly. "Forty-three minutes."

"It was forty-five." Amy corrected him.

"That tracks." You sighed.

"Everything all good?" Frank asked.

"Yeah all sorted." You nodded.

"Great. Then what do you say we ditch this thing and go get some actual food?" Amy suggested.

"I've been waiting for one of you to say that for the last hour." Jake groaned.

"The food here is a tad..." Frank trailed off.

"Snobby?" Jake piped up.

"Inedible?" You suggested.

"Alien-esque?" Amy offered.

"All of the above." Frank answered.

You grinned. "I think leaving sounds incredible." You picked up your phone and slipped it into your clutch. "Let me just go tell Keith and Bruce it's all sorted and then we can get the hell out of here."

"You hear that?" Amy said, looping her arm through Jake's. "Freedom."

Jake looked heavenward. "At last."

-

The four of you had squeezed into a booth at a diner around the corner, the tension of the evening immediately melting away as the waitress dumped plates of fries and burgers in front of you.

You spent the entire time recapping the evening, laughing at the idiosyncrasies of Keith, dissecting the body language of coworkers and explaining to Jake and Frank which coworkers were clearly having affairs or secretly hated eachother.

Frank learnt that Jake was a teacher at a nearby primary school, supporting Amy while she finished law school. He also understood why you loved both of them so much - because out of all people he'd met tonight, they were not only nice, but they were normal.

The drive home after was quiet. The city lights blurred past outside the window, your heels kicked off in front of you as you sipped on a coke zero.

"So." You finally said. "How was your night?"

He glanced at you out of the corner of his eye.

"I worked a sixteen-hour trauma shift last week."

"Mm."

"I'd rather do that again."

You laughed as you glanced out of the window at the river as you crossed over a bridge.

"I met Harvey." Frank said after a moment.

Frank saw you tense ever so slightly out of his peripheral vision. "My condolences." You huffed.

"Was he horrible?"

"Nothing I couldn't handle."

You looked at him for a moment before quietly reaching across the centre console and resting your hand over his.

"Thank you for coming."

He intertwined his fingers with yours without taking his eyes off the road.

"Thank you for letting me."

The car fell silent for a moment. “Do you think I’ve got any chance of convincing Keith to come in for his germaphobia?”

You snorted. “I think you’ve got a higher chance of him rolling around in mud.”

Frank nodded. “Yeahhh that’s what I figured.”

-

By the time you got home, it was past midnight.

"Tea?" Frank offered.

"Please." You answered as you made a beeline for the bedroom. By the time you wandered back out, your dress had been traded for one of his old med school sweatshirts that almost reached your knees.

Frank watched you from his spot near the kettle as you ambled into the kitchen.

"Don't judge me." You said without looking around at him as you opened the pantry cupboard.

"I wasn't."

"You were about to."

"I was simply wondering how somebody can eat canapes, dinner, ice cream and still be looking for snacks."

"I've had a stressful evening." You defended as you reached up and grabbed your favourite chocolate that Frank always kept in supply for you.

"That's as good a defence as any."

Frank busied himself with tea prepping as you rounded the kitchen island to slide onto one of the bar stools.

"You know what I enjoyed the most about tonight?" He said after a few moments.

You looked over at him expectantly. "What?"

"Seeing you work.”

You smiled faintly, your blinks slowing as tiredness crept up on you. “Explain.”

“I don’t know how to explain it I just-“ He shook his head. “I already knew how clever you are, knew how you can argue circles around people."

"I wasn't-"

"You were."

A reluctant smile tugged at your lips. He took your silence as permission to continue.

"I knew how brilliant you are, but I haven't seen you immersed in your work like that before. How you became this other version of yourself...and then seeing you with that stressed out client. The way he just….relaxed the second he saw you."

He locked eyes with you. "I know that look. I've seen it so many times when I've walked into a room at work."

You didn't answer straight away. Instead, you leaned forward against the kitchen bench, studying him with an expression he'd come to know so well.

"I've watched you at work so many times for that exact reason." You said quietly. "Seeing you just...come alive."

"I get it now." Frank answered as he passed you a mug of tea.

"You know." He said eventually, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "I'd go with you to one of these things again."

You raised a brow. "Really?"

"Really."

"Bold of you to assume you'd get another invite."

Frank chuckled, leaning over the counter to take one of your hands in his. Your smile softened as you stared down at your entwined hands.

"You'd really come again?" You asked quietly.

"Absolutely."

"Even after Harvey?"

"Even after Harvey."

Your eyes brightened as you squeezed his hand tightly. Then you cocked your head almost shyly. “Why?"

His answer came so simply that it almost caught you off guard.

"I get to see you."

A puzzled crease formed between your brows. "You see me every day."

He shook his head.

"Not like that."

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“Juice knows too,” Tig accuses suddenly.

Across the room, Juice immediately chokes on his beer, “I don’t know shit.”

“You are literally smilin’.”

“I smile naturally!”

“Nobody smiles naturally like that.”

You bite your lip hard to stop laughing.

Tig points aggressively between the two of you. “See? Conspiracy.”

“You’re dramatic,” you tell him.

“You’re suspicious.”

And honestly? He’s right.

The tattoo happens on a Thursday afternoon.

Tiny. Delicate.

A small black lowercase “a” inked just over your ribcage beneath your left breast.

Simple enough that most people would never notice it.

But you know what it means.

And more importantly—you know what it’s going to do to Tig.

You stare at it in the mirror afterward while the tattoo artist wraps the area carefully.

“You nervous to show him?”

Your face warms instantly.

“Is it obvious?”

The artist grins. “Girl, men lose their minds over this kinda thing.”

You laugh nervously.

Because the truth is, you aren’t trying to brand yourself for Tig or anything insane like that.

It’s smaller than that. Softer. More private.

Tig has become woven into your life so completely that sometimes you catch yourself reaching for him before you even realize it.

You wear his shirts to sleep in. You know how he takes his coffee. You automatically save him the pickle from your burgers because he steals them anyway. You love him in all the tiny unconscious ways that matter.

And maybe this tattoo is one too.

Just a little piece of him you get to keep close.

You spend the entire ride to the clubhouse second-guessing yourself.

What if he hates it? What if he thinks it’s stupid? What if it freaks him out because of the age gap thing he still spirals about occasionally?

Tig’s forty-nine. You’re twenty-five.

Most days he acts okay with it now.

Other days he looks at you like he still can’t understand why you picked him. Like he’s waiting for you to wake up and realise there are easier men to love.

Poor bastard still doesn’t understand the problem was never loving him. The problem was trying not to.

You find him outside the clubhouse working on his bike.

His sleeves are shoved up his forearms, grease staining tattooed hands, dark hair curling slightly at the nape of his neck from the heat.

Your chest squeezes painfully.

God.

You love this man.

Tig glances up when he hears your footsteps, nd immediately smiles.

That soft crooked smile that still catches you off guard because it looks so different on a face built to intimidate people.

“There’s my girl.”

Your stomach flips. Every time.

“You busy?”

“Nah.” Tig wipes his hands on a rag. “What’s goin’ on with you today?”

You hesitate.

Which immediately puts him on alert.

His brows furrow. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah.” You laugh nervously. “I just… got something.”

“A present?”

“Kinda.”

Tig looks delighted instantly because this man reacts to affection like a neglected rescue dog.

“For me?”

You nod.

He stands fully now, towering over you with open curiosity.

“What is it?”

Your pulse starts hammering.

“I need you not to freak out.”

His expression changes immediately.

“Why would I freak out?”

“You say that like you’re emotionally stable.”

“That’s rude.”

“It’s also true.”

Tig narrows his eyes suspiciously.

Then his face shifts abruptly.

“Oh my God.”

You blink. “What?”

“You got pregnant.”

You stare at him in horror.

“What?!”

“I knew you were actin’ weird!”

“Tig!”

“Well what else am I supposed to think when somebody says don’t freak out?!”

Despite yourself, you start laughing.

Tig looks deeply unconvinced.

“You’re not pregnant?”

“No!”

“Okay.” He exhales heavily. “Good. Jesus Christ.”

“You looked one second away from cardiac arrest.”

“I’m too old for babies.”

“You literally have children.”

“Yeah, but I had energy then.”

You laugh harder. Tig’s shoulders visibly relax at the sound.

Then he cups your jaw automatically, thumb brushing your cheek.

“So what is it?”

Your heart melts a little. Every time he touches you like you’re precious, it melts a little more.

You glance around quickly.

Nobody nearby. Good.

Then you take his hand carefully.

Tig watches you with growing confusion as you guide his palm beneath the hem of your shirt toward your ribs.

The second his rough fingertips brush the fresh tattoo— He freezes.

Actually freezes.

His eyes snap to yours instantly.

“What…”

Very carefully, you lift your shirt just enough for him to see it.

The tiny black “a.”

Right above your ribcage. For him.

Tig stops breathing.

You physically watch the realisation hit him.

His hand trembles slightly against your skin.

“Sweetheart,” he says weakly.

Suddenly you’re nervous.

“I know it’s small but I just—I wanted—”

Tig looks at the tattoo again.

Then at you.

Then back at the tattoo like his brain cannot process what it’s seeing.

“That’s my initial.”

“Well.” Your voice goes shy unexpectedly. “Yeah.”

He stares for another full five seconds.

“You tattooed me on your body?”

You burst out laughing.

“When you say it like that, you sound horrified.”

“I ain’t horrified!”

“You kinda look horrified.”

“I’m emotionally overwhelmed!”

That only makes you laugh harder.

Tig looks completely wrecked by both the tattoo and the sound of your laughter simultaneously.

Which honestly feels pretty on-brand for your relationship.

“C’mere,” he says suddenly, voice rough.

Then he grabs your waist and hauls you against him.

You squeak as he buries his face immediately against your neck.

“Oh my God,” he mutters. “You got my letter on you.”

You grin into his shoulder. “Your letter?”

“Mine.”

Possessive bastard.

“You like it that much?”

Tig pulls back just enough to look at you.

And the expression on his face steals your breath completely.

Pure love. Overwhelming, disbelieving love.

Like he genuinely cannot fathom this happened.

“Baby,” he says softly, “I woulda cried if Juice wasn’t nearby.”

You blink in surprise.

“Tig…”

“I’m serious. Still might.”

That hits you straight in the chest.

Because Tig doesn’t talk about feelings easily. Not the big ones. Not the vulnerable ones.

But you can see all of them now anyway, written all over his face.

You touch his beard gently.

“You really like it?”

“Sweetheart, I was already in love with you.” He laughs helplessly. “Now I might actually die.”

Your face warms.

Then Tig looks back down at the tattoo again and visibly short-circuits for a second time.

“Jesus Christ.”

“What now?”

“It’s right by your ribs.”

“Yes?”

“That’s…” He gestures vaguely. “That’s hot.”

You snort loudly.

“There it is.”

“What?”

“The emotional moment ruined by you being horny.”

“I contain multitudes.”

Unfortunately for both of you, that’s exactly when Juice walks outside.

He takes one look at Tig clutching you dramatically and immediately groans.

“Oh no. What happened now?”

Tig points at you like he’s personally offended by your existence.

“She tattooed me on herself.”

Juice blinks once.

Then slowly breaks into the biggest grin imaginable.

“No way.”

Your face burns.

“It’s tiny!”

“Show me.”

“No!”

Tig looks offended that Juice had the audacity to want to see you, despite the obvious smugness oozing from him.

“Tig, show me.”

“Don’t encourage him!”

Too late.

Tig already looks insanely smug now.

Like a man who just won the lottery emotionally.

“She got my initial right here,” he says proudly, touching near your ribs without actually exposing the tattoo.

Juice makes a choking sound.

“Oh, he’s NEVER shutting up about this.”

“I absoluuuuutely am not.”

“You’re gonna tell every single person in Charming.”

“I might buy her jewellery.”

You stare at Tig. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“I don’t know.” Tig shrugs helplessly. “Feels important.”

Juice wheezes laughing.

“Holy shit, he’s in LOVE love.”

Tig flips him off instantly without looking away from you.

Then his expression softens again. Completely involuntarily.

Like it always does with you.

“You sure you wanted this?” he asks quietly after a moment. “Permanent’s a big thing.”

The vulnerability hidden underneath the question is obvious.

You smile softly.

“Tig.”

“Yeah?”

“I was pretty sure about you way before the tattoo.”

Something in his face cracks wide open at that.

Then he kisses you.

Slowly at first. Like he’s still overwhelmed.

One large hand spreads carefully over your ribs, fingertips brushing lightly near the fresh ink while he kisses you with devastating tenderness.

And when you smile against his mouth— Tig groans quietly like you’re ruining his life in the best possible way.

“Can’t believe you did this,” he murmurs against your lips.

You grin. “You gonna survive?”

“Probably not.”

“Dramatic.”

“You branded yourself with my initial, sweetheart. I earned dramatic.”

You laugh again.

It happened on an ordinary afternoon at the SAMCRO clubhouse.

You were sitting beside him on the old couch in the corner while the guys argued loudly over a card game nearby. The room smelled like cigarettes, engine grease, and beer. Music hummed low from the speakers overhead.

You’d been reading something on your phone.

Chibs had an arm stretched lazily across the back of the couch behind you.

Then, without thinking, his fingers brushed your shoulder. Just a passing touch, barely even there.

But you froze instantly.

Then leant. Not away from him. Toward him. Like your entire body had unconsciously leaned into the contact before you even realised it happened.

Chibs felt it immediately.

The way you went still afterward too, almost embarrassed by your own reaction.

His eyes narrowed slightly.

Interesting.

He tested it again a few minutes later.

This time his hand settled briefly against the back of your neck while he leaned over to grab his drink.

Again—that tiny unconscious lean.

Like a flower turning toward sunlight.

And Christ.

Something about that hit him square in the chest.

After that, he started noticing it everywhere.

How startled you looked whenever someone hugged you first. How you melted a little anytime someone squeezed your shoulder. How your expression softened whenever Chibs touched you casually. A hand at your back. A squeeze of your knee. His fingers brushing yours when he handed you a drink.

Tiny things. Normal things.

But you reacted to them like someone who’d spent years surviving on scraps.

That realization sat ugly in Chibs’ chest.

Because nobody should look quietly grateful for basic affection.

The confirmation came a week later.

You’d fallen asleep beside him on the clubhouse couch sometime after midnight and most of the guys had cleared out already, leaving the room quieter than usual.

Chibs sat half-reclined while you slept curled against his side beneath one of the old blankets.

At some point in your sleep, you shifted closer.

Then closer again.

Until eventually you were practically folded into his chest, one hand lightly clutching his shirt. Like you needed the contact.

Chibs looked down at you for a long moment.

Your face looked softer asleep. Peaceful.

And there was something so trusting about the way you held onto him that it made his chest ache.

Without really thinking about it, he brushed his fingers gently through your hair.

You made the tiniest sound. Content.

Not awake enough to hide your reaction.

And that—that did something dangerous to him.

Because suddenly Chibs wanted to give you every soft thing the world had apparently denied you.

From then on, touching you became intentional.

Not inappropriate. Never pushing.

Just… Present. Consistent. Careful.

Chibs started greeting you with a kiss to your temple. Started pulling you gently against his side whenever you sat near him. If you stood beside him too long, his hand would settle automatically at the small of your back.

And every single time, he watched that same soft look cross your face. Like your body was learning something it hadn’t trusted before.

That touch could be safe. That affection didn’t have to be earned.

“You’re hoverin’ again,” Tig informed him one afternoon.

Chibs glanced up from where he leaned against the garage counter.

Across the yard, you stood talking quietly with Juice.

“You sayin’ that like it’s a bad thing.”

Tig snorted. “You look like a guard dog.”

“Maybe I am.”

Tig followed his gaze toward you.

Then his expression shifted slightly.

“Oh.”

Chibs looked over.

You were laughing softly at something Juice said, but your fingers were hooked absentmindedly in the sleeve of Chibs’ flannel where he’d draped it over a chair earlier.

Holding onto it without seeming to realise.

Tig noticed too.

“Well,” he muttered. “That’s kinda adorable.”

Chibs didn’t answer.

Because he was too busy trying to ignore the warmth blooming in his chest.

The thing about touch starvation was that it didn’t disappear all at once.

It unraveled slowly.

Like your body had to learn not to brace anymore.

At first, you startled whenever Chibs touched you unexpectedly. Then you started seeking him out unconsciously. Leaning against him during crowded nights. Sitting close enough that your knees touched. Resting your head briefly on his shoulder when you got tired.

And eventually—eventually you started touching him first.

That nearly killed him.

The first time your hand found his while walking through a crowded parking lot, Chibs almost forgot how to breathe.

You didn’t even seem aware you’d done it. Just reached for him automatically. Trustingly.

His rough fingers closed carefully around yours.

You looked up then, suddenly realizing.

“Oh—sorry—”

“Don’t.”

His voice came out rougher than intended.

You blinked.

Chibs squeezed your hand gently.

“Never apologize for touchin’ me, lass.”

The expression that crossed your face afterward haunted him for weeks.

You started spending more nights at the clubhouse after that.

Mostly because being around Chibs had become dangerously comforting.

He always seemed to know exactly what you needed without asking. If you looked overwhelmed, he’d pull you quietly beside him. If you seemed anxious, his hand would find your back automatically. If you got sleepy during movie nights, he’d open an arm for you without a word.

And every single time, your body relaxed almost instantly. Like he’d become safety.

One rainy evening, you ended up half-curled in his lap while the club watched some terrible action movie.

You hadn’t meant to. You’d just started out leaning against him. Then his arm settled around your waist. Then somehow your legs ended up draped over his.

The guys barely reacted anymore. By now everyone had noticed the strange gravitational pull between you and Chibs.

Juice grinned from the opposite couch. “You two are disgustingly old married.”

“Watch it,” Chibs muttered.

You laughed softly against his shoulder.

And Chibs— Jesus Christ.

That sound.

He’d burn cities down for that sound.

The problem was, somewhere along the line, affection had become something else.

For both of you.

It happened slowly enough neither of you noticed at first.

Until suddenly Chibs was thinking about you constantly. Missing you when you weren’t around. Memorising the shape of your smile.

And you—

You had started craving his touch specifically. Not just affection. His affection.

The way his large hands always held you carefully. The way his beard brushed your temple when he kissed your head. The way he always touched you like you were precious instead of fragile.

It terrified you a little. How badly you wanted it. Wanted him.

The realisation finally hit one late night in the garage.

You sat on one of the workbenches while Chibs cleaned grease from his hands nearby. The room was quiet except for distant music from the clubhouse.

You’d had a rough day. Anxiety had been chewing at you for hours.

Chibs noticed immediately, of course.

He always noticed.

Without a word, he stepped between your knees and rested his hands lightly on your thighs.

Grounding. Warm.

Your entire body relaxed so fast it was almost embarrassing.

Chibs saw it happen.

Saw the tension leave your shoulders. Saw your eyes drift shut briefly.

And something in his expression changed.

“Sweetheart,” he said quietly.

You opened your eyes.

“What?”

His thumb brushed gently against your knee.

“Who made ye think ye had to live without bein’ touched?”

The question hit like a punch.

Because suddenly your throat hurt.

You looked away quickly.

“No one.”

“Aye. Someone.”

His voice stayed soft. Patient.

You swallowed hard. “It’s not a big deal.”

Chibs’ hands tightened slightly.

“It is to me.”

That almost undid you completely.

Because nobody had ever said that before. Nobody had ever looked angry on your behalf for something so invisible.

Your eyes burned suddenly.

“I just…” Your voice cracked embarrassingly. “I got used to people not really wanting me around unless they needed something.”

Chibs went very still.

Then, gently, “Come here.”

You were already right in front of him, but somehow he still pulled you closer until your forehead rested against his chest. One arm wrapped tightly around your back. The other cradled your head. And for a moment he just held you.

Nothing else. No teasing. No jokes.

Just warmth. Steady and unwavering.

“You listen to me now,” Chibs murmured against your hair. “There has never been a moment since I met ye that I didnae want ye around.”

Your breath hitched.

Chibs tilted your face up gently.

His eyes were devastatingly sincere.

“Ye walk into a room and I look for ye first.”

Oh.

Oh no.

Your heart stumbled violently.

“Chibs…”

“I’m not done.” A faint smile touched his mouth. “Ye curl against me like ye belong there, and Christ, lass, I think ye do.”

Emotion climbed so fast into your throat it hurt.

Because you knew. You knew then.

The feeling that had been building for months finally had a name.

Love. Quiet. Terrifying. Absolute.

Your fingers curled lightly into his shirt.

“I think I’m in love with you.”

The words slipped out barely above a whisper.

Chibs stared at you for half a heartbeat.

Then kissed you.

Deep enough to steal the air from your lungs. Tender enough to make your chest ache.

His hands framed your face like he couldn’t bear not touching you while he kissed you slow and thorough and full of every unspoken thing between you.

When he finally pulled back, both of you were breathing unevenly.

Chibs rested his forehead against yours.

“There’s my girl,” he murmured softly.

Circuit of the Americas, Austin - 15 October 2025

By Wednesday afternoon, Jane Nelson, junior F1 journalist, fresh from uni a year prior, had learned three things: 

First:  the Formula One paddock was far less glamorous when half of it was still being assembled.

Second:  Mercedes had somehow managed to turn one engagement into a classified military operation.

Third:  mechanics were much harder to interrogate when they were carrying wheel guns.

She stood at the edge of the Mercedes hospitality area with her accreditation hanging from her neck, notebook in one hand and phone in the other, watching temporary flooring being laid beneath a white awning.

Austin race week had started, technically.

But only technically.

The drivers were not all there yet. Most of the senior management certainly was not. Toto Wolff had not arrived. Ana herself was nowhere near the circuit, and nobody seemed willing to confirm exactly when she would be. Bradley Lord wasn’t there either. 

That eliminated Jane’s obvious targets.

So she adjusted.

Journalism, after all, was largely the art of asking the same question to progressively less appropriate people until someone accidentally answered it.

A Mercedes mechanic emerged from behind a partition carrying two boxes of cables.

Jane recognised him.

Leo Moretti. Garage mechanic. Seven years with the team. Frequently visible in background photographs. Once appeared in a Mercedes social media video assembling a front wing while Valtteri Bottas attempted to distract him.

Potentially useful.

“Leo,” Jane called.

Leo stopped.

He looked at her.

Then at the boxes in his arms.

Then back at her.

“Hi.”

“Jane Nelson, F1 Journal.”

“I know.” His tone suggested this was not necessarily good news.

“Can I ask you something quickly?”

“You already have.”

Jane smiled. Leo did not.

“About Dr Wolff’s engagement.”

“No.”

“You don’t even know what I was going to ask.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Do you know who she’s engaged to?”

Leo shifted the boxes slightly higher against his chest. “Yes.”

Jane straightened.

“You do?”

“Yes.”

Her pulse jumped. “And?”

“And I know who you are.”

“Can you tell me anything?”

“No.”

“Nothing?”

“She is engaged.”

“We know that.”

“Then I have been helpful.”

Before Jane could respond, Leo walked around her and disappeared into the garage.

She stared after him. Then wrote in her notebook: 

LEO MORETTI — knows. Unhelpful. Possibly enjoys being unhelpful.

Five minutes later, she found another mechanic kneeling beside a freight case. “Sorry,” Jane began.

The man looked up immediately. “No.”

“You don’t know what I’m asking.”

“Engagement?”

Jane paused.

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Do you know?”

“Maybe.”

“Is the fiancé someone in Formula One?”

The mechanic smiled.

Not broadly.

Just enough to make it clear that he knew something and had no intention of sharing it. “Have a nice afternoon.”

Jane watched him roll the freight case away.

UNKNOWN MECHANIC — either knows or has discovered psychological warfare.

The engineers were more difficult to locate.

Most were still travelling, working remotely, or hidden behind laptops in temporary offices where journalists were not welcome.

But Solomon Becker was there.

Jane spotted him near the rear of the garage, speaking to two technicians beside a bank of equipment cases.

He was impossible to miss.

Solomon had played professional rugby before an injury ended his career in his early twenties. He had then completed an engineering degree and joined Mercedes long before Ana had become a permanent presence in the team.

He was enormous.

Not merely tall.

Broad enough that he made most Formula One personnel look miniature.

His Mercedes polo stretched across shoulders built in a different sporting era, and he had the stillness of someone who did not need to move quickly to make people move around him.

More importantly, he was Ana’s deputy.

Jane had prepared for this.

She knew the internal history. Solomon had been with Mercedes longer than Ana. He was older than Ana. He had more traditional paddock experience than Ana.

And Ana was his boss.

That, Jane thought, had to mean something.

Perhaps not resentment exactly. But friction. A sense of being passed over.

A willingness, at the very least, to be slightly less loyal than the younger engineers who appeared to regard Ana as some combination of technical oracle and patron saint of the Mercedes AMG Petronas Formula 1 Team.

Jane waited until the technicians left.

Then approached. “Mr Becker?”

Solomon turned. His expression was neutral. “Yes?”

“Jane Nelson, F1 Journal.”

“I know who you are.”

She was beginning to dislike that sentence. “Could I ask you a few questions?”

“You can try.”

Not the same thing as permission, she noticed. “I’m working on a piece about Dr Wolff’s engagement.”

Solomon’s expression changed almost imperceptibly.

Closure. Jane recognised it too late.

“The team has confirmed she’s engaged,” she continued. “But nobody seems willing to offer any further information.”

“That sounds like an answer.”

“It’s an official answer.”

“It is still an answer.”

Jane smiled carefully. “Of course. But there’s obviously considerable public interest.”

“There is often considerable public interest when it concerns her.”

The words were calm. The tone was not.

Jane adjusted again.

“You’ve worked with Dr Wolff for a long time.”

“Yes.”

“Longer than she’s been Head of Systems.”

“Yes.”

“And you’re her deputy.”

“Yes.”

“Which gives you a fairly unique perspective on her.”

Solomon looked at her.

Jane felt, briefly, as though she had stepped into an interview she had not realised she was attending.

“What perspective do you expect me to have exactly?”

There it was. The opening. Jane leaned into it. “Well, you’ve been at Mercedes longer than she has. You’ve seen the department evolve. I imagine her promotion must have changed the dynamic considerably.”

Silence. Not an encouraging silence.

Jane pressed on anyway. “You had seniority. More experience within the team. Then Dr Wolff became your direct superior at a very young age.”

Solomon’s face did not move.

Jane heard herself speaking and knew, distantly, that she should stop. She did not. “I suppose what I’m asking is whether everyone in the department was as immediately supportive as they now appear to be.”

Solomon folded his arms. It was not an aggressive gesture. It did, however, make him look approximately the size of a reinforced loading door. “You came here to ask about her engagement.”

“Yes.”

“But now you are asking whether I resent her career?”

“I wouldn’t use the word resent.”

“You were hoping I might.”

Jane’s grip tightened slightly around her notebook. “I’m interested in internal perceptions.”

“No, you are looking for disloyalty.”

“That isn’t fair.”

“Neither was your question.”

Jane opened her mouth.

Solomon continued before she could speak. “Ana did not become my boss because someone gave her a decorative title.”

“I didn’t suggest that.”

“You suggested I might believe it. It is what you implied.”

His voice remained level. That somehow made it worse. “She earned that position,” Solomon said. “She earned it before she received it. Half the department was already going to her for decisions before the organisation chart caught up.”

Jane said nothing.

“She is younger than I am,” he continued. “She also sees systems in ways I do not. She can hold six interacting failures in her head at once and identify the seventh before anyone else has accepted the first exists.”

Jane glanced toward the garage.

Several people were now pretending not to listen.

Solomon noticed too. He did not appear bothered.

“You assumed,” he said, “that because I am older, male and have been here longer, I must feel diminished by working for her.”

“I said nothing about her being a woman.”

“You did not need to.”

Jane flushed.

Solomon unfolded his arms. “I am her deputy because she trusts me to challenge her when necessary and execute decisions when she cannot be present. That is not an insult to me.”

“I understand.”

“I do not think you do.” The reply was immediate.

Jane looked down briefly at her notes, then back up. “I may have phrased the question badly.”

“You calculated badly.”

That sounded like something Ana might say. Perhaps he had spent too much time around her.

Or perhaps this was simply how engineers communicated when they had decided they disliked you.

Jane tried one final route. “So you won’t comment on the engagement.”

Solomon’s expression hardened. “I think the press has written enough stories about her this year.”

The words landed differently. Protective.

Jane thought of George Russell. The leaked medical details. The photographs outside Jack Wolff’s school. The endless speculation about Ana’s role inside Mercedes. The stories that had framed her as unstable, calculating, privileged, cold.

She lowered her notebook slightly. “I’m not trying to harm her.”

“I am sure many people tell themselves that.”

“That’s unfair.”

“So were several of the headlines you lot wrote about her.”

Jane had no answer to that.

Solomon glanced toward the garage, clearly finished. Then he looked back at her. “She gave you a statement.”

“A very limited one.”

“She is entitled to limits. You should respect them.”

He walked away before she could reply.

Jane stood where he had left her, feeling approximately six inches shorter than she had ten minutes earlier.

Behind her, someone cleared his throat. She turned.

Leo Moretti was standing beside a stack of tyres, holding a bottle of water.

He had clearly heard enough. “That went well,” he said.

Jane narrowed her eyes. “You knew it wouldn’t.”

“Yes.”

“You could have warned me.”

Leo took a drink. “You asked whether he resented Ana.”

“I did not use those words.”

“You didn’t need to.”

Jane gave him a look.

Leo smiled.

It was the first genuine expression she had received from any Mercedes employee all afternoon.

“So all of you are just completely loyal to her?” Jane asked.

Leo’s smile disappeared. “Completely?”

“That sounded too dramatic.”

“It was your word.”

“Fine. Protective.”

Leo considered that. Then shrugged. “She protects us.”

“How?”

“You think she only builds systems for cars?”

Jane waited. 

Leo glanced toward the temporary offices. “When management wants impossible deadlines, she takes the meeting. When someone makes a mistake, she fixes the process before she looks for someone to blame. When an engineer has a sick child, she rearranges the whole rota and acts like it was always the plan. When one of the mechanics had a panic attack in Singapore, she sat on the floor behind the garage with him until he could breathe.”

Jane stared.

Leo’s face closed again. “You did not hear that from me.”

“Of course.”

“I mean it.”

“I won’t use it.”

He studied her for a moment, deciding whether he believed her.

Apparently, he did. Slightly. “People think she does not care because she does not always care the way they expect,” Leo said. “That is their mistake.”

Jane looked down at the blank page beneath Solomon’s name. “And the fiancé?”

Leo laughed like the question itself was ridiculous. “You are not going to get it out of Mercedes.”

“Does everyone know?”

Leo screwed the cap back onto his water bottle. “Some people know.”

“And the others?”

“The others know enough not to ask.”

“Is he in Formula One?”

Leo’s smile returned. “Have a nice afternoon, Jane.”

He walked away.

Jane stood alone beside the garage, surrounded by people who were either carrying equipment, pretending not to watch her, or openly enjoying her failure.

Her phone buzzed.

A message from her editor.

Anything?

Jane looked toward the Mercedes offices.

Then typed: 

They all know something. Nobody will say anything. Accidentally insulted Ana’s deputy. Nearly died.

The reply came quickly.

Can you prove the fiancé is in the paddock?

Jane looked up just as Solomon crossed the garage again. He caught her watching. Raised one eyebrow.

Jane immediately looked back at her phone. No.

A second message followed. Keep trying.

Jane sighed.

Then opened Twitter.

She drafted the post carefully.

Meanwhile, for everyone asking: 

No, the Formula One press corps does not know who Dr Anastasia Wolff is engaged to.

She paused.

Added: 

And believe me, we have asked.

That, at least, was indisputably true.

***

 Circuit of the Americas, Austin - 15 October 2025

By Thursday afternoon, Ted Kravitz had developed a personal grievance against the phrase no comment.

Not a professional grievance.

Professional grievances were useful. They sharpened questions. Gave shape to interviews. Made good television.

This had become personal.

“No comment” had been delivered to him by a Mercedes garage technician while carrying tyre blankets.

By an engineer sitting on an equipment case.

By a hospitality coordinator with a clipboard and the sort of pleasant, fixed smile that meant she had been briefed.

By a mechanic who had laughed before saying it.

That one annoyed him most. Laughter implied knowledge. Knowledge implied a story.

A story implied that someone, somewhere, had decided Ted Kravitz was not getting it.

He stood at the edge of the Mercedes garage, notebook tucked beneath one arm, watching freight cases being rolled into place beneath bright white lights.

Wednesday at a Grand Prix was usually useful.

Drivers arrived in stages. Mechanics emerged from briefings. E Engineers moved through the paddock with enough gaps between formal obligations to be intercepted. Everyone was tired from travel and not yet fully armed with Thursday-level media discipline.

But it also meant no drivers. No Toto Wolff. No Bradley Lord. No Ana Wolff.

No useful senior management who could be cornered near catering with a microphone and the suggestion that they had already answered the question elsewhere.

Only staff.

And Mercedes staff had apparently been trained in defensive engagement-announcement protocol.

Ted looked down at his notes.

DR ANASTASIA WOLFF — ENGAGED.

That was all they had.

Not approximately all. Literally all.

A ring had been seen when she arrived in Austin.

Mercedes had confirmed the obvious. 

Ana had posted one controlled photograph.

Large blue star sapphire. Double diamond halo. A caption that confirmed the engagement and offered absolutely nothing else.

No name. No proposal story. No date. No location. No photograph of the fiancé. Nothing.

Ted had worked in Formula One for long enough to know that secrets were rarely secret.

They were merely badly distributed information.

Usually someone knew.

A trainer.A travel coordinator. A former teammate. A mechanic who had shared a lift at the wrong time. A family friend with poor media instincts.

Formula One was a travelling village with enormous budgets and no meaningful walls.

People knew who had argued. Who had left early. Who had arrived together. Who had changed hotels. Who had stopped following whom on Instagram.

Yet somehow Anastasia Wolff had become engaged without the Sky Sports Formula One team identifying the man.

Ted found that professionally offensive.

He walked farther into the garage area and stopped beside a Mercedes mechanic tightening the lid on a transport case.

“Afternoon,” Ted said.

The mechanic looked up. “Afternoon.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“You usually do.”

“Dr Wolff’s engagement.”

“No.”

“I have not asked the question yet.”

“You are going to ask who.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

Ted waited.

The mechanic waited too. “Do you know?” Ted asked.

The mechanic’s mouth twitched. “Have a good afternoon, Ted.”

There it was again.

The smile. The knowledge. The refusal.

Ted watched him disappear behind a partition.

“Infuriating,” he muttered.

“Who is?”

Ted turned.

Natalie Pinkham stood behind him holding a coffee, sunglasses pushed onto the top of her head.

“All of Mercedes.”

“That narrows it down.”

“They know.”

“Some of them know,” Natalie said.

“They all look like they know.”

“That is because you keep asking them questions while staring as though you are trying to access their childhood memories.”

“It normally works.”

“Not today.”

Ted gestured toward the garage. “Have you had anything?”

“Nothing.”

“From anyone?”

“Nothing useful.”

“Not even a description?”

“No.”

“Age?”

“No.”

“Nationality?”

“No.”

“Paddock or outside paddock?”

“No.”

Ted looked genuinely wounded.

Natalie took a drink. “One person told me Ana looked happy.”

“That is not intelligence.”

“It is nice.”

“I am not collecting nice.”

“That may be your problem.”

Ted ignored that. “Have you spoken to anybody from engineering?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“One said the ring suited her.”

“That is even less useful.”

“Another said they hoped the press would leave her alone.”

Ted’s expression changed slightly.

That was different. Not useful, exactly. But revealing.

Mercedes had always been protective of Ana. More protective this season than before. Understandably.

The year had been appalling.

Max Verstappen had signed for Mercedes.

That had been the first shock.

Ted had not expected it.

Not really. There had been rumours for years. There were always rumours. Toto Wolff had wanted Max before. Max had been linked to Mercedes every time Red Bull looked unstable. 

Pundits enjoyed putting him in silver because it created interesting hypothetical title battles and easy headlines.

Ted had always assumed Max would remain with Red Bull until he simply walked away from Formula One.

Then the announcement came.

Max to Mercedes.

A seismic move made official before Spa, before the Baku crash, before the entire season acquired the shape of a criminal investigation.

George Russell’s Mercedes future had vanished. Max had been chosen. George had lost the seat.

And not long after the move became public, George had assaulted Ana.

The forced kiss. The wrist injury. The internal investigation. The suspension. The departure.

It had been ugly enough before the rest of it.

Before Russell’s camp hat leaked Ana’s autism diagnosis to the press.  That had created several days of performative shock from people who had never met her and very little surprise from anyone who had.

Ana had always been precise. Literal. Direct. Uninterested in social performance unless it served a purpose.

She avoided interviews whenever avoidance was possible. She did not cultivate a media profile. She did not sit for soft-focus features about women in engineering.

When Mercedes put her forward for technical media, she answered questions about the car and left.

If a producer attempted to turn the conversation toward her childhood, her father, her personal life or what it felt like to be a woman in Formula One, Ana redirected it back toward systems, failure analysis and design architecture with such efficiency that the interview usually ended before anyone realised they had learned nothing personal.

She simply did her work. And everyone knew she was very, very good at it.

That was the public identity she had chosen.

Not mysterious heiress. Not Toto Wolff’s difficult daughter. Not symbol. Engineer.

The leaked diagnosis had not transformed how most paddock people saw her. It had merely named something many had already understood.

Some journalists handled it responsibly. Others treated it as an explanation for every expression she had ever made.

Ted had disliked that immediately.

Cold became autistic. Blunt became autistic. Private became autistic. Brilliant became autistic.

Every characteristic flattened into one disclosed fact nobody had ever had the right to release.

The leak had felt punitive. Designed to strip Ana of control over how she was known.

And then… Baku had happened.

Ted looked past Natalie toward the dark panels stacked at the rear of the garage.

He remembered the crash too clearly. One of the worst Formula One accidents he had ever seen.

Not because of fire and not because the car had flown high enough to create a single spectacular image.

Because of the violence and the setting.

Baku’s old city section was beautiful until a car hit it. Then the age of the place became horrifying.

Century old Stone. Narrowness. Unforgiving. 

The Red Bull had gone into the wall with such force that the television pictures had stopped making sense.

Debris everywhere. A detached wheel. Carbon fibre exploding through the narrow street.

Then the car lodged against the centuries-old castle wall at an angle no racing car should ever occupy.

Stillness.

Ted had been watching the monitor in the Sky compound.

Someone beside him said Max was moving. Ted had not seen it.

For several long seconds, he thought Max Verstappen was dead.

Not injured.

Dead.

He had covered serious accidents before.

He knew the difference between the concern one expressed on air and the fear that arrived privately before any information did.

The private fear had been immediate and absolute.

The impact was too severe. The car too destroyed. The silence too long.

Later, when they learned Max had survived, Ted had felt an almost embarrassing rush of relief.

Then the details began to emerge.

Suspected sabotage. Paid mechanics. Communications. George Russell’s name appearing again.

George had not merely lost a seat and reacted badly. He had assaulted the daughter of the man who replaced him. He had exposed private medical information about her. Then Max, the driver taking that seat, had nearly died in a crash investigators believed had been engineered.

Ted did not know every fact.

None of them did. The legal process kept much of it constrained.

But he knew enough to have formed an opinion.

The phrase George drama had become obscenely inadequate.

Drama was a team-radio argument. Drama was contract negotiation. Drama was two drivers refusing to yield on track.

This was assault, retaliation, possible sabotage and a crash that could have murdered someone.

There were still people in the paddock who spoke about George as though he had suffered a breakdown.

Ted disliked the framing.

It made Russell sound passive. As though events had happened through him rather than because of decisions he had made.

Natalie was watching him. “You’ve gone quiet.”

“Thinking about Baku.”

Her expression sobered.  “Worst crash I’ve seen in years.”

“I thought he was dead.”

Natalie looked down at her coffee. “So did I.”

Neither of them spoke for a moment.

Around them, the garage continued to assemble itself. Drills. Metallic clatter. Crew moving in and out. The practical rhythm of a sport that always continued, no matter what had happened at the previous race.

Ted looked toward the paddock entrance.

Security was noticeably heavier that weekend. Not dramatically enough for the average television viewer to identify immediately.

But Ted had been doing this too long not to notice. More credential checks. More people positioned at access points. Less tolerance for anyone lingering between hospitality units. Additional private security around Mercedes.

A second check near the garage entrance that had not been present at earlier races. More scrutiny around temporary passes.

He had assumed it was fallout from Baku. Perhaps concern around Max’s future move. Perhaps the continuing legal case.

Perhaps the increased public attention around Ana following the engagement announcement.

There were more than enough explanations.

He had asked.

Nobody had answered.

“Security’s tighter,” he said.

Natalie nodded. “I noticed.”

“Mercedes especially. Have you heard why?”

“No.”

“George?”

“Possibly.”

“Max?”

“Possibly.”

“Ana?”

Natalie looked at him. “Also possibly.”

Ted frowned.

Three possible explanations and not one confirmed fact.

It was intolerable.

He tried another engineer. Nothing. A garage coordinator. Nothing. A tyre technician who smiled far too broadly. Nothing.

A communications assistant who recited the official line so cleanly that Ted suspected she had practised it in the mirror.

“Dr Anastasia Wolff is engaged. Mercedes will not comment further on her private life.”

“Yes,” Ted said. “I know the statement.”

“Then you have the answer.”

“No, I have two sentences.”

“These are the sentences available.”

Then she walked away. Ted stared after her.

Natalie appeared beside him again. “You look like you are about to challenge the statement to a duel.”

“It is winning.”

“Perhaps accept defeat.”

“Never.”

Sky’s work area was already filling with cables, cases and people coordinating coverage for a weekend with too many storylines.

Max’s move to Mercedes. The state of Red Bull and Gerhard Berger as their new Team Principal. The Baku investigation. The engagement. The tighter security. The championship.

Under ordinary circumstances, any one of those could have carried an entire Thursday programme.

Instead, they had all collided.

Ted found Craig Slater near the Sky unit, speaking to a producer.

Craig looked over as Ted approached. “Anything?”

“No.”

“Nothing?”

“Not one useful fact.”

“Mechanics?”

“Laughing.”

Craig grimaced. “I got one to say it was ‘good news.’”

“That is useless.”

“I know.”

“Have we asked the factory?”

“Of course.”

“And?”

“The official statement.”

Ted recited it with bitter precision. “Dr Anastasia Wolff is engaged. Mercedes will not comment further on her private life.”

“That one.”

“Whoever wrote it should be prosecuted.”

“For what?”

“Obstruction of journalism.”

Craig smiled. “Any theories?”

“Within Sky?”

“Generally.”

Ted opened his notebook. “Mick Schumacher.”

“Possible.”

“David Coulthard.”

Craig stared.

“No.”

“Twitter has reasons.”

“Twitter always has reasons.”

“A prince.”

“Which one?”

“Several.”

“That is not encouraging.”

“Max.”

Craig looked at him. Ted looked back.

It remained the theory nobody in serious media wanted to say too loudly without evidence.

Because once said, it became enormous.

Max Verstappen. Ana Wolff.

The newly announced Mercedes driver and the team principal’s daughter.

The driver George had lost his seat to.

The woman George had assaulted after that move became public.

The two people sitting at the centre of the ugliest story Formula One had seen in years.

It would explain the secrecy.

The extraordinary protectiveness.

The way Mercedes employees laughed instead of denying it.

It would also create the largest personal Formula One story in years.

Craig lowered his voice. “Do you believe that?”

Ted looked toward the Mercedes garage.

“I believe Max’s move makes more sense if he trusted the people around the team beyond simply trusting Toto.”

“That is not the same thing.”

“No.”

“Do you think Ana influenced the decision?”

“I think she may have made Mercedes feel safer.”

“For Max?”

“Possibly.”

Craig considered that.

“But engaged?”

Ted tapped the pen against his notebook. “There have been signs.”

“Such as?”

Ted thought about the strange overlap of their lives. Max’s increasing proximity to the Wolff family. The way he defended Ana with a ferocity that had always seemed deeply personal. The way Mercedes personnel reacted whenever both names appeared in the same question.

Nothing conclusive.

Everything suggestive.

“We do not have enough,” Ted said.

Craig nodded.

It was the responsible answer.

Ted looked toward the Mercedes unit.

Somewhere in that garage, people knew.

Perhaps the entire engineering group.

Perhaps only a handful.

But they had collectively decided that this was not a Formula One story until Ana said it was.

Ted respected that. Deeply.

He was still going to keep asking.

***

Group Chat: The Old Wolves

(Members:  Jenson Button, Sebastian Vettel, Nico Rosberg, David Coulthard, Mark Webber, Fernando Alonso) 

Jenson Button: Has everyone seen Ana’s engagement ring?

Mark Webber: Just now.

Nico Rosberg: Yes.

Sebastian Vettel: No.

David Coulthard: Unfortunately.

Fernando Alonso: I have seen it in person.

Jenson Button: Of course you have.

Jenson Button: shared a screenshot

Jenson Button: That is not a normal ring.

Mark Webber: Good grief.

Sebastian Vettel: Oh.

Nico Rosberg: Exactly.

Mark Webber: How large is that sapphire?

Nico Rosberg: Jewellery Twitter thinks at least fourteen carats. Possibly more.

David Coulthard: Jewellery Twitter?

Jenson Button: A surprisingly organised branch of Formula One Twitter.

Nico Rosberg: They have identified the cabochon cut, double diamond halo,, visible asterism and probable bespoke setting.

Mark Webber: You have clearly spent too much time reading this.

Nico Rosberg: I have jetlag.

Jenson Button: Same. Also, they are far more competent than most technical analysts.

Sebastian Vettel: Asterism?

Nico Rosberg: It is a star sapphire. The light creates a star across the stone.

Mark Webber: That is very Ana.

Jenson Button: Apparently she names engineering projects after stars.

Nico Rosberg: Project Altair.

Sebastian Vettel: Max knew exactly what he was doing.

Jenson Button: More importantly. David.

David Coulthard: No.

Jenson Button: I have not asked anything yet.

David Coulthard: I know where this is going.

Mark Webber: Do you?

David Coulthard: Yes.

Nico Rosberg: Twitter believes you may be Ana’s mysterious fiancé.

Sebastian Vettel: What?

Jenson Button: The argument is very compelling.

David Coulthard: It is not.

Jenson Button: Scottish racing driver. Toto Wolff married a Scottish racing driver. Perhaps it is a Wolff family tradition. Twitter has described it as “hereditary Scottish racing-driver attraction.”

Sebastian Vettel: That is definitely not how heredity works.

Fernando Alonso: It is funny, though.

David Coulthard: It is not funny.

Mark Webber: It is extremely funny.

Nico Rosberg: You are currently polling above several princes.

David Coulthard: Why are there several princes?

Jenson Button: Long story.

Mark Webber: You should be proud.

David Coulthard: I would like to be removed from the poll.

Nico Rosberg: You seem unusually upset by this.

David Coulthard: I am not upset.

Jenson Button: You are typing like a man with a guilty conscience.

David Coulthard: I do not have a guilty conscience.

Mark Webber: Do you think Max knows that you once tried to flirt with his fiancee and were interrupted by her father? 

David Coulthard: No.

Mark Webber: Are you certain?

Nico Rosberg: Ana may have told him.

Jenson Button: Imagine Max Verstappen finding out David Coulthard once tried to chat up his fiancée.

Mark Webber: He would think it was hilarious.

David Coulthard: Would he?

Fernando Alonso: Eventually.

David Coulthard: Eventually?

Fernando Alonso: After the glaring.

Sebastian Vettel: Max does have a particular glare.

Nico Rosberg: The one that makes you review your last five decisions.

Jenson Button: David is already reviewing his.

David Coulthard: I reviewed them in 2021. Repeatedly.

Mark Webber: At least Twitter has not found out about that.

David Coulthard: Do not say things like that.

Jenson Button: It would only strengthen the theory.

Nico Rosberg: “Exclusive:  Coulthard and Wolff once discussed vintage helmets for four minutes.”

Fernando Alonso: “Sources describe intense chemistry.”

Mark Webber: “Father intervened.”

Jenson Button: “Scottish love triangle rocks paddock.”

David Coulthard: I hate all of you.

Fernando Alonso: There is something else.

Nico Rosberg: That sounds serious.

Fernando Alonso: It is.

Fernando Alonso: Ana received threats before coming to Austin.

Sebastian Vettel: What kind of threats?

Fernando Alonso: Death threats.

Jenson Button: What?

Mark Webber: Jesus Christ.

Nico Rosberg: Is she safe?

Fernando Alonso: Mercedes increased security. The necessary people at the circuit know.

Sebastian Vettel: Who sent them?

Fernando Alonso: They believe George Russell did.

Sebastian Vettel: Believe?

Fernando Alonso: Police are tracing it. There are reasons they think it was him.

Sebastian Vettel: After everything Russell has already done?

Fernando Alonso: Yes.

Sebastian Vettel: And she is still expected to work while he continues to terrorise her?

Fernando Alonso: George Russell is not here.

Sebastian Vettel: That is not the point.

Jenson Button: Seb.

Sebastian Vettel: This is absurd. George Russell assaulted her. He threatened her. He tried to destroy her career. He nearly killed Max. Now she receives death threats, and everyone simply adds more security and carries on with the weekend?

Fernando Alonso: Nobody is simply carrying on.

Sebastian Vettel: It looks very much like it from the outside.

Nico Rosberg: She refused to stay home, didn’t she?

Fernando Alonso: Yes.

Nico Rosberg: Of course she did.

Sebastian Vettel: That does not make this acceptable.

Fernando Alonso: I did not say it did.

Mark Webber: Does Max know?

Fernando Alonso: Yes. Max is the one who told the drivers.

Jenson Button: All of them?

Fernando Alonso: Most of them. 

Nico Rosberg: Why are you telling us?

Fernando Alonso: Because you and Jenson are here.

Fernando Alonso: And because Ana knows you. If she is alone, she should not remain alone.

Nico Rosberg: Of course.

Sebastian Vettel: Someone should be doing more than watching her walk between hospitality units.

Fernando Alonso: Police are involved. Mercedes legal is involved. Toto is involved. 

Nico Rosberg: Does Ana know you have told us?

Fernando Alonso: No.

Jenson Button: Fernando.

Fernando Alonso: I have not shared details.

Fernando Alonso: And I am telling you because two of you are physically here and can help without making it obvious.

Nico Rosberg: Fair.

Jenson Button: Nothing leaves this group.

Mark Webber: Obviously.

David Coulthard: Agreed.

Sebastian Vettel: Yes.

Fernando Alonso: Especially not the media.

Nico Rosberg: You do realise half the paddock press corps is currently trying to identify her fiancé.

Fernando Alonso: They can continue wasting their time on David.

David Coulthard: Why me?

Jenson Button: Public service.

Mark Webber: You are the decoy.

David Coulthard: I did not volunteer.

Fernando Alonso: Your sacrifice is appreciated.

Sebastian Vettel: How is she actually doing?

Fernando Alonso: She is functioning.

Nico Rosberg: I already have a reason to see her. I can check on her without making it obvious.

Nico Rosberg: She made Lewis Hamilton a photobook after Roscoe died.

She asked me to review it because she was worried she had handled the emotional parts incorrectly.

Mark Webber: That is incredibly thoughtful.

Jenson Button: And heartbreaking.

Sebastian Vettel: She did that while dealing with all of this?

Nico Rosberg: That is Ana.

Sebastian Vettel: I am still furious.

Jenson Button: We can tell.

Sebastian Vettel: Good.

Sebastian Vettel: Because people keep describing her as intimidating and cold and difficult, and meanwhile she is being terrorised by a man who cannot tolerate that she survived him.

***

Text Messages:  Dr. Anastasia “Ana” Wolff & Henry Portman

Henry:I see your engagement is public.

Henry:And the public is handling it with remarkable restraint and dignity.

Ana: Do not remind me.

Henry:I particularly enjoyed the theory that you are marrying a woman who owns a satellite company.

Ana: That is one of the more reasonable theories.

Henry:I knew the ring would cause problems.

Ana: Why?

Henry:I knew any ring selected for you would be alarming.You do not inspire moderation.

Ana: That may be an insult.

Henry:It was affectionate.

Ana: Poorly communicated.

Henry:Story of our relationship.

Henry:Unrelated question.

Ana: That usually means it is related.

Henry:This one genuinely is not.

Henry:Do you think a dog can decide to make you go insane on purpose?

Ana: No.

Henry:The foster dog is conspiring against us.

Ana: How?

Henry:She keeps deciding that she does not understand us.

Ana: Dogs do not generally decide to lose language comprehension.

Henry:This one does.

Henry:Yesterday she understood “come.”

Henry:Today she looked at me as though I had recited maritime law.

Ana: Perhaps your tone was different.

Henry:My tone was desperate.

Ana: That may have been the problem.

Henry:She understands Edward when he opens cheese.

Ana: That is not linguistic comprehension.

Henry:She understands the refrigerator door.

Ana: Conditioning.

Henry:She understands the sound of Archibald receiving attention from three rooms away.

Ana: Jealousy.

Henry:She understands when I say we are going for a walk.

Ana: Contextual pattern recognition.

Henry:But she does not understand “please stop eating my scarf.”

Ana: That may be deliberate.

Ana: What breed is she again?

Henry:I told you. She is a borzoi.

Ana: Have you tried Russian?

Henry:Anastasia. You are a genius.

Ana: I know.

Henry:Slight problem.

Ana: What?

Henry:I DO NOT SPEAK RUSSIAN.

Ana: Edward?

Henry:Also tragically monolingual in all relevant dog languages.

Ana: You both speak French.

Henry:She has shown no interest in French.

Ana: Reasonable.

Henry:That felt unnecessarily hostile to France.

Ana: I will send you a voice note.

Henry:Saying what?

Ana: Basic commands.

Henry:Including stop eating Henry’s clothing?

Ana: That is not a standard command.

Henry:It is in this house.

Ana: What is her name?

Henry:Lady.

Ana: You have a borzoi called Lady.

Henry:She didn’t have a name! It’s not like she listens to that either. 

Ana: Your household sounds like an unsuccessful period drama.

Henry:Edward says the same thing. Except now Lady has eaten part of the period wardrobe.

Ana: I need a list of commands.

Henry:Come. Stay. Sit. Down. Leave that. Drop the scarf. Do not eat the pug.

Ana: Has she attempted to eat Archibald?

Henry:No. But she keeps putting his entire head in her mouth.

Ana: That may be play.

Henry:Archibald disagrees.

Ana: Archibald disagrees with weather.

Henry:He is sensitive.

Ana: He once barked at a stationary pumpkin for twenty minutes.

Henry:It was threatening him.

Ana: It was decorative.

Anastasia Wolff — Voice Message, 0:31

Henry:You included the scarf.

Ana: It seemed operationally necessary.

Henry:How do I pronounce any of this without accidentally declaring war?

Ana: Listen and imitate me.

Henry:That has historically gone badly.

Henry:OH MY GOD.

Ana: What?

Henry:I said the first thing. She came immediately.

Ana: Good.

Ana: She has probably understood contextual cues without understanding the specific English commands.

Henry:Edward has just said nelzya and she dropped his shoe.

Ana: Good.

Henry:Then she looked at him with profound betrayal.

Henry:We have been living with a Russian aristocrat who thinks we are idiots.

**

Text Messages:  Dr. Anastasia “Ana” Wolff & Robert Kubica

Robert: Congratulations.

Robert: On the engagement.

Ana: Thank you.

Robert: I see you managed to keep that part quiet.

Ana: Until photographers noticed the ring.

Robert: It is not a ring designed to remain unnoticed.

Ana: No.

Robert: Max chose it?

Ana: Yes.

Robert: Then I am impressed.

Ana: You sound surprised.

Robert: I know Max can identify the correct line through a corner at two hundred and fifty kilometres per hour.I was less certain about jewellery.

Ana: He conducted extensive research.

Robert: Of course he did. He seems to approach romance like race preparation.

Ana: That is not entirely inaccurate.

Robert: The public seems to be reacting normally.

Ana: They believe I may be engaged to David Coulthard.

Robert: Reasonable.

Ana: It is not.

Robert: Has anyone guessed Max?

Ana: Yes.

Robert: And?

Ana: He is generally ranked as unlikely due to personality incompatibility.

Robert: That may be the funniest possible reason.Formula One remains a very serious sport, I see.

Robert: We should have dinner.

Ana: Yes.

Robert: That was easier than expected.

Ana: Why?

Robert: Usually you reply that you need to inspect your calendar.

Ana: I still need to inspect my calendar.

Robert: There it is.

Ana: But we should have dinner.

Robert: You, Max, me.