I cry a lot, but I am so productive

Text Messages: Gianpiero Lambiase & Peter “Bono” Bonnington

Bono: Mercedes has completely lost its mind.

GP: What happened?

Bono: I honestly do not know where to begin.

GP: Car issue?

Bono: No.

GP: Strategy?

Bono: Worse.

GP: What did they do?

Bono: Shov has spent the morning conducting what he calls an intelligence-gathering exercise.

GP: About the car?

Bono: No.

GP: A competitor?

Bono: No.

GP: Then what?

Bono: Ana’s fiancé. Shov is trying to identify him.

GP: Right.

Bono: There is a betting pool.

GP: That’s it?

Bono: What do you mean, that’s it?

GP: You said Mercedes had completely lost its mind!

Bono: It has.

GP: Because Andrew Shovlin is gossiping?!

Bono: He is not merely gossiping.He has a candidate list.It includes middle eastern royalty , an aerospace engineer, David Coulthard and a shipping magnate.

GP: Mate.

Bono: Solomon refuses to participate because the same people ran a betting pool when he and Mina started dating.

GP: How much money is involved?

Bono: No Money. Only Honour. 

GP: You made this sound like they had fitted an experimental suspension component without testing it.

Bono: Why would you think that?

GP: You said the team had lost its mind.

Bono: They have.

GP: Bono, this is a betting pool.

Bono: Run by senior engineering personnel during a race weekend!

GP: I thought you were about to tell me somebody had decided to change the brake balance system in a way the driver could only compensate for by altering his technique through three corners.

Bono: What?

GP: Or that they had brought a rear-wing configuration nobody had properly modelled because Max could probably manage the instability.

Bono: Why would anyone do that? Why would anyone put a driver in a car with an unmodelled stability problem?

GP: Because they thought Max could handle it.

Bono: That is not an answer.

GP: It was usually the answer.

Bono: Usually?

GP: Sometimes it was, “The simulator correlation is inconclusive, but Max will tell us what it does.”

Bono: With him in the car?

GP: That is generally how drivers provide feedback.

Bono: After it had been properly tested, right?

GP: Define properly.

Bono: GP.

GP: Bono.

Bono: You cannot use a world champion as a live correlation tool!

GP: Red Bull can. I spent years objecting to it.

Bono: And they did it anyway?

GP: Sometimes.

Bono: Why?

GP: Because Max could manage it.

Bono: Stop saying that as though it makes it acceptable!

GP: I did not say it was acceptable.

Bono: You said it like it was normal.

GP: At Red Bull, it was. Nobody is going to crash because Andrew thinks Ana is marrying a prince.

Bono: There are productivity implications.

GP: There were hospital implications with some of Red Bull ideas.

Bono: Some?

GP: You do not need the archive.

Bono: I think I do.

GP: You do not.

Bono: Max is going to be driving for us next year.

GP: Yes.

Bono: I need to know what he has been conditioned to consider normal.

GP: That is fair. He considers a lot of things normal that are not normal.

Bono: Such as?

GP: Driving around mechanical problems rather than reporting them immediately.

Bono: Why?

GP: Because he thinks if he can compensate, it is not yet a problem.

Bono: No.

GP: Yes.

Bono: Absolutely not.

GP: Good luck.

Bono: If anyone at Mercedes suggests putting an untested component on Max’s or Kimi’s cars because they can probably manage it, I will murder them.

GP: That seems excessive.

Bono: You just described using Max as a crash-test computer!

GP: A very advanced crash-test computer.

Bono: Nobody is doing that to Kimi or Max next year.

GP: Good.

Bono: You sound surprised.

GP: I am adjusting to Mercedes.

GP: Now, about the betting pool.

Bono: What about it?

GP: Has anybody guessed Max?

Bono: Shov listed him.

GP: Then he has solved it.

Bono: He has ranked him below David Coulthard due to “personality incompatibility.”

GP: Please send me a picture of the list.

Bono: No.

GP: Why not?

Bono: Because I came here to complain, not encourage you.

GP: You have failed.

Bono: You were supposed to be appalled.

GP: I was.

Bono: At the betting pool?

GP: No.

Bono: Then you were not appalled by the correct thing.

GP: My threshold is different.

Bono: Apparently your threshold is attempted manslaughter by aerodynamic development.

GP: That is dramatic.

Bono: You started this conversation thinking Mercedes had done something dangerous.

GP: Because you said you did not know where to begin.

Bono: I did not.

GP: The beginning was, “Andrew has a betting pool.”

Bono: It required context.

GP: Mate.

Bono: I regret texting you. Do you think Shov will ever work out it is Max?

GP: Not if he has marked him as personality incompatible. Let him suffer.

Bono: Finally, something we agree on.

***

Circuit of The Americas, Austin - 16 October 2025 

The front entrance to the paddock was already crowded by the time they reached the Circuit of the Americas.

Not properly crowded.

Thursday did not carry the compressed chaos of a race day. There were fewer fans, fewer cameras and no drivers being funnelled through barriers toward scheduled media appearances.

But there were enough people.

Enough photographers waiting beneath the assumption that anyone important would enter through the most visible gate.

Enough journalists scanning arriving cars for a glimpse of Toto Wolff beside his daughter whose engagement ring had become one of the week’s dominant stories.

Enough phones held at angles that allowed their owners to claim they had not been filming until something worth recording happened.

Toto looked through the window of the car. Then at Ana. “I can take the back entrance with you.”

“No.”

“Anastasia.”

“They are expecting you at the front.”

“They can continue expecting me.”

“That would draw more attention.”

He knew she was right. That did not mean he liked it.

Nikolai sat in the front passenger seat, already speaking quietly through his earpiece to the second security officer waiting inside the service entrance. His posture remained relaxed, but Ana had learned enough about him to recognise the difference between relaxed and prepared.

Prepared meant his shoulders were slightly farther back.

Prepared meant he checked every reflection in the window.

Prepared meant he had already mapped three different routes from the vehicle to the Mercedes hospitality unit and rejected two of them.

The car slowed. Toto looked at her again.

“You go directly to engineering.”

“Yes.”

“You stay with Nikolai.”

“Yes.”

“You do not leave the Mercedes area without telling someone.”

“Yes.”

“You eat.”

Ana turned her head. “I ate toast.”

“You held toast.”

“I consumed approximately forty percent.”

“That is not breakfast.”

“It is literally breakfast because I ate it in the morning.”

Toto exhaled.

Nikolai’s mouth moved almost imperceptibly. Ana suspected he was suppressing a smile. “You are enjoying this,” Toto said to him.

“No, sir.”

“You are lying.”

“Yes, sir.”

The car stopped briefly at a junction inside the circuit grounds.

One route continued toward the main paddock entrance.

The other curved around the rear of the hospitality structures toward the restricted service access.

Toto’s car door would open at the front.

He would walk through the cameras.

They would call his name.

Ask whether he knew who Ana’s fiancé was. Ask whether he approved. Ask whether the ring had been purchased with family money. Ask whether her engagement affected Mercedes.

Ana would remain in the car.

 The plan was efficient.

Toto still looked as though he wanted to object.

“I will see you inside, Papa,” Ana said.

He studied her face. 

She knew what he saw. The shadows beneath her eyes. The makeup she had applied with slightly more care than usual because exhaustion was interpreted differently in women and because any photograph of her looking tired would become evidence of fear, heartbreak, illness or secret pregnancy before lunch.

He saw the coffee cup she had brought from the hotel. It was empty. He did not know about the second one Nikolai had reluctantly permitted her to purchase in the lobby. Probably.

Toto noticed most things. “Anastasia.”

“I am not going to disappear between the service entrance and engineering.”

“That was not what I was going to say.”

“What were you going to say?”

He hesitated. That made her look at him more carefully. “Call me if you need me.”

Ana reached across the gap between them and touched his wrist. “I will.”

Toto nodded.

The car stopped again. His door opened.

Noise entered immediately.

Voices. Camera shutters. Someone calling, “Toto, one question about Ana!”

Another asking whether the engagement announcement had distracted the team.

Toto’s face transformed before he stepped out into the version of himself built for cameras. 

He closed the door behind him.

The car moved again.

Ana watched through the tinted glass as her father disappeared into the small crowd gathered around the main entrance.

Nikolai listened to something through his earpiece. “Rear access is clear.”

The service entrance was narrow and visually unremarkable. There were concrete barriers and temporary fencing. A row of equipment cases stood beneath an awning.

But blessedly, it did not have photographers. 

One accredited Mercedes staff member waited beside the security gate to confirm Ana’s access, even though everybody involved knew exactly who she was.

Procedure remained procedure. Ana appreciated that.

The Texas heat met her immediately. Not yet at its afternoon worst, but dry and bright enough that the sunlight felt physically intrusive after the controlled dimness of the vehicle.

She adjusted the strap of her accreditation. Nikolai checked the path ahead. Another security officer fell several metres behind them. Nobody spoke.

That was another thing she appreciated about Nikolai.

He did not attempt conversation merely because silence made other people uncomfortable.

They passed between the rear of two hospitality buildings, crossed a narrow operational lane and entered the Mercedes structure through a staff door beside catering.

She moved through the internal corridor, past a logistics room, around the rear staircase and directly toward engineering.

No detour through hospitality. No stop at Toto’s office. No attempt to greet the executives gathered near the front.

The engineering office was already active when she entered.

Monitors glowed beneath the artificial lights. People spoke in low voices. 

Thursday meant preparation rather than reaction. Run plans. Correlation checks. Weather modelling. Track-evolution assumptions. Simulation comparisons. Questions that could be given numbers.

Solomon was waiting beside her workstation. He had a tablet in one hand and a coffee in the other. He held it out to her. Ana took it. “Nikolai has instructions to prevent additional caffeine,” she said.

“This one is medicinal.”

Nikolai muttered something in Russian. Ana caught only the word for engineers. It did not sound complimentary. She set down her bag and sat.

Solomon remained beside her. “Track-temperature forecast has shifted upward by three degrees for Friday afternoon. The asphalt model from last year is overpredicting front-left degradation by approximately six percent, but we do not yet know whether that is the revised surface treatment or the tyre construction.”

“Simulation?”

“Rerun at Brackley. First output expected in forty minutes.”

“Wind?”

“Direction is stable. Gust probability through Turns Two to Six has increased.”

“Crosswind at Eleven?”

“Less significant than forecast yesterday.”

Ana opened the model on her central screen. “Driver-in-loop correlation?”

“Kimi completed the final session before midnight. Valtteri’s data is clean. Kimi’s steering trace is less consistent through the low-speed sequence, but he was tired.”

Ana scanned the figures. “Anything else?”

Solomon hesitated for exactly half a second.

Ana looked up. “Operationally relevant anything else.”

“Security has expanded the restricted-access list. Bradley has circulated the revised protocol. No one enters this office without clearance, including senior management. The press office is receiving requests for confirmation of your fiancé’s identity,” he said.

“They will decline. Internal?”

“A great deal of speculation. Shov has begun what he describes as an evidence-based investigation.”

“Of course he has.”

“Bono appears to be suffering.”

“That is unfortunate.”

“He is also the only reason Shov has not yet created a whiteboard.”

“That is beneficial.”

“James is involved.”

Ana stared at him.

Solomon’s face remained grave.

“James Allison?”

“Yes.”

Ana inhaled through her nose. “Why?”

“I believe there is a wager.”

“Regarding my fiancé.”

“Yes.”

“What are the stakes?”

“The loser has to present the winner’s preferred wind-tunnel methodology at the next technical leadership conference.”

For a moment, the two of them simply sat with the horror of senior engineers being exactly as ridiculous as junior engineers, only with more authority.

“That is worse than money,” Ana said at last. “Anything else genuinely important?”

“The overnight package review is ready.”

“Send it.”

“I already have.”

Her inbox refreshed. The relevant file appeared at the top.

Ana opened it. And worked. The first twenty minutes passed without interruption. Then forty.

The circuit around them became busier, but the engineering office remained contained.

People entered with specific questions and left with specific answers.

Ana corrected an assumption in the ride-height simulation. Rejected a proposed modification to the Friday run plan because the data it was intended to gather could be obtained without sacrificing the comparative baseline. She drank the coffee Solomon had given her.

Nikolai watched her do it with disapproval. She ignored him.

Work did not make George Russell disappear. It did not make the burner phone less real. It did not alter what her father had told her over breakfast. 

But work did reduce the available space around the words. There was less room for them between tyre models and correlation errors.

Less room for the image of George shouting while police restrained him when someone needed her to choose between two test programmes.

A system could fail. A person could sabotage it. A model could begin with false assumptions.

But systems did not claim to love you while denying that you belonged to yourself.

At eleven fourteen, somebody knocked twice against the open door.

Ana looked up.

Nico Rosberg leaned against the frame, dressed as if he had arrived for a television appearance rather than a covert cross-paddock delivery.

He smiled at the room. “Good morning.”

Ana glanced at the clock. “You are four minutes early.”

“I know. It is one of my many strengths.”

Nico stepped inside. His gaze moved briefly to Nikolai.

Then to the second security officer beyond the glass wall.

His smile faded by a fraction. “You are ready?”

“Yes.” Ana opened the lower drawer beside her workstation and removed the photobook.

It was wrapped in dark blue paper. No ribbon. Ribbons created unnecessary volume and were often crushed during transport.

Photographs of Roscoe from across Lewis’s career. At races. In hotel rooms. In the paddock. Asleep in garages and motorhomes and on clothing he had not been invited to occupy. Some images had come from Lewis’ family. Most had come from various Mercedes’ staff. Others had come from friends. A large number from people within Formula One who had never posted them publicly. 

Nico had contributed as well. Including one photograph of Roscoe sitting beside him years earlier, both of them looking mutually suspicious.

“You brought it?” he asked.

Ana held it up.

“I said I would.”

“You also said you might send it through Ferrari security.”

“That was before Alexandra offered to facilitate entry.”

Nico nodded toward Nikolai.

“And the delegation?”

“Nikolai is coming.”

“I had assumed.”

“I am coming,” Solomon said flatly. 

Ana turned towards him. Solomon looked down at Ana’s left hand. The sapphire caught the artificial light.

His expression did not change. “People are going to be stupid.”

Ana blinked.

Nico looked delighted. “Direct,” he said.

Solomon continued, still in the same even tone. “Nobody gets particularly stupid when I am standing next to you.”

“That is because you are enormous,” Nico said.

Solomon glanced at him.

Nico smiled. “Compliment.”

“It is occasionally useful,” Solomon allowed.

Ana looked up at him.

Solomon was, in fact, enormous.

Taller than Toto. Broader than most security personnel. Built on a scale that made normal office furniture appear mildly experimental. 

But Solomon had also spent years being one of the gentlest people in engineering and one of the only men in Brackley capable of making an entire room reconsider an unwise joke merely by standing up. “You are not security,” Ana said. “You also have a meeting in thirty-four minutes.”

“With you. I can read the updated package while waiting.”

“That is inefficient.”

“It is less inefficient than allowing someone to ask you a stupid question, resulting in Nikolai committing an international incident.”

Nikolai’s eyes moved toward him. Solomon met the look calmly. Nikolai said nothing. Ana suspected he did not disagree.

Nico looked between them. “You make giving someone a sentimental gift sound like a military extraction.”

“It is Ferrari hospitality,” Ana said.

“Fair.”

They left through the rear of the Mercedes building.

Ana carried the book against her side. Nikolai walked half a step behind her. Solomon took the outer position beside Nico. 

The paddock outside was brighter and louder than the engineering office. Golf carts moved between hospitality units. Broadcast crews established positions for afternoon programming. Team staff crossed the lane carrying laptops, garment bags, equipment and coffee.

Thursday was the day the paddock assembled itself in public.

People noticed Ana. She could feel it before she saw them looking.

Their attention moved first to her face. Then inevitably downward. The ring caught the Texas sunlight with every movement of her hand. The star inside the sapphire was difficult to see at a distance, but the diamonds were not.

A photographer near the corner of another hospitality unit turned.

Nikolai adjusted their path before the camera lifted.

Nico moved slightly closer on Ana’s other side.

Solomon did not move closer. He did not need to. He was already there, a quiet wall in Mercedes kit, carrying a tablet and looking as though he might politely ask someone to reconsider their choices and then not need to ask twice.

They approached the Ferrari hospitality unit.

Red structures dominated that section of the paddock, polished and deliberate even while half the surrounding spaces were still being prepared.

Fred Vasseur stood outside speaking to two Ferrari staff members.

He saw Nico first. Then Solomon. His eyebrows lifted slightly, because most people did react to Solomon eventually.

Then he saw Ana. His attention dropped to her left hand.

Fred ended his conversation with a brief gesture and walked toward them.

“Ana.”

“Fred.”

He kissed the air beside each of her cheeks with the comfortable familiarity of someone who had known her too long to be intimidated by Toto’s presence elsewhere in the paddock.

Then he took a small step back.

His gaze went openly to the ring. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you.”

“It is beautiful.”

Ana looked down at it.

The sapphire’s star appeared faintly beneath the direct light. “Yes.”

Fred smiled. “And very subtle.”

“That was sarcasm, wasn’t it?”

“Yes. I do hope though, that now I won’t need to break up any more fights over you next year.”

Nico’s eyebrows had risen. “What fight?”

Ana looked at him. “No.”

Fred smiled. “In 2019, Max nearly hit Charles because Charles took Ana to dinner.”

Nico stared at her.

Ana stared at Fred. “Thank you,” she said flatly.

“You are welcome.”

Nico looked delighted. “Why have I never heard this?”

“Because it is not important.”

“Max nearly punched Leclerc over you!”

“He did not punch him.”

“Only because I intervened,” Fred said drily.

Nico was visibly attempting to process the information. “Was this before you and Max were together?”

“Yes.”

“So he was jealous.”

“Yes.”

Fred looked pleased with the accuracy of this summary. Ana did not.

His attention dropped again to the ring, but this time his expression softened. “Really,” he said, quieter now. “I am happy for you.”

Ana held his gaze.

Fred had seen her in paddocks since she was young. Seen her beside Toto before she belonged professionally to Mercedes. Seen her study in corners during race weekends. Seen the early years when people assumed her presence was nepotism and the later years when those same people requested her opinion with careful respect.

He also knew enough about Max to understand what the ring meant. Survival past Baku. A future they had both nearly lost.

“Thank you,” she said again.

This time, there was no sarcasm.

Fred nodded.

Ana considered him for exactly two seconds. Then said, “You are invited.”

Fred blinked. “To what?”

“The wedding.”

Nico’s head turned sharply toward her.

Fred looked at Ana as if he was not entirely sure he had translated the words correctly. “I am?”

“Yes.”

For once, Fred did not immediately have a joke. “Oh,” he said.

Ana adjusted the book against her side. “Please do not eat any of our flower decoration though.”

Nico made a sound so abrupt it was almost a cough. “What?” 

Ana kept her attention on Fred. “At Susie and Papa’s wedding,” she said, with the calm precision of someone entering evidence into the record, “Fred consumed part of the floral arrangement.”

Fred opened his eyes. “It was not part of the arrangement.”

Nico stared at him. “You ate wedding flowers?”

Fred looked offended. “One flower.”

Ana corrected, “Three.”

“They were on the table,” Fred argued. “At a wedding. Near dessert. That is an understandable ambiguity!”

Ana nodded once. “This is why the condition exists.”

Fred looked at her for a long moment. Then his face softened in a way that made the teasing recede. “I would be honoured,” he said.

Ana inclined her head slightly. “Good.”

Fred looked at Nico. “Are you invited?”

“Yes,” Nico said immediately.

Ana looked at him.

Nico smiled. “I assume.”

“You are.”

“Good. I would have been wounded otherwise.”

“You would have been insufferable.”

Before the bickering could continue, Alexandra Saint Mleux appeared through the entrance as if summoned by Ana’s refusal to let the conversation become worse.

She wore the expression of someone trying not to look overly pleased with the small operation she had agreed to facilitate. “There you are,” she said warmly.

Her eyes moved from Ana to Nico, then to Nikolai, then up—noticeably up—to Solomon.

“You brought an escort.”

“This is Solomon,” Ana said. “He is not security,” Ana added.

Solomon gave her a look.

Ana amended, “Officially.”

Alexandra’s smile twitched.

“And Nikolai.”

Alexandra smiled politely at him.

Nikolai nodded.

“He will stay with Ana,” Nico explained.

“I assumed.”

Alexandra looked toward the entrance. “Lewis is upstairs. There are not many people inside yet, but Ferrari security has your names.”

Fred said, “I told them not to make this difficult.”

Ana looked at him. “Thank you.”

Alexandra led them through.

Ferrari hospitality was quieter inside than the paddock lane. The air conditioning was aggressive. Conversations softened beneath the enclosed ceiling. A few Ferrari staff members looked up as the group entered.

Recognition passed across their faces. Then curiosity.

Ana knew what they saw.

Mercedes team kit. Nico Rosberg. Security. The ring. An unlikely procession moving through Ferrari space on a Thursday morning.

Alexandra did not pause long enough for anyone to question it. She took them toward the stairs.

Nikolai checked the route automatically. Nico leaned closer to her.

“Do you think Lewis knows we are coming?”

“I didn’t tell him, so no.” 

“Good.”

At the top of the stairs, Alexandra stopped outside a private lounge. “He is in there.”

Ana adjusted her grip on the book.

For the first time since leaving engineering, uncertainty moved through her.

Lewis had lost Roscoe. That was nothing Ana could repair.

No model that could explain why an animal who had given him years of uncomplicated love had been required to leave before Lewis was ready.

She had spoken to him during the final medical decisions. Answered questions about oxygen deprivation and neurological function because he had needed someone to give him facts.

Now she had a book.

Paper. Photographs. A physical object that could not alter the outcome.

Alexandra opened the door. Lewis sat near the window with his phone in one hand and a mug on the table before him. He looked up.

His expression moved first into surprise. Then warmth.

“Nico.”

“Hello.”

“Ana.”

Lewis stood.

His gaze took in the others behind them, then returned to Ana.

“What is all this?”

“A security breach,” Nico said.

Alexandra closed the door behind them. “A carefully authorised security breach.”

Lewis smiled faintly.

Ana stepped forward. “This is for you.”

She held out the book. 

Lewis looked at the dark blue wrapping. Then at her. “What is it?”

“It is better if you open it.”

He took it carefully. The weight seemed to surprise him.

Lewis removed the paper slowly. The cover beneath was simple. Green Linen. An inscription in the centre. 

ROSCOE

Lewis went still. His thumb moved across the name.

He did not open it immediately. When he did, the first photograph showed Roscoe as a puppy.

Too large in the head. Too small in the body.

Looking directly into the camera with the expression he would retain for the rest of his life: certain that everything in front of him belonged to him unless explicitly proven otherwise.

Lewis laughed once. The sound broke at the end. “Oh, man.”

He turned the page.

Roscoe asleep across Lewis’s chest. Roscoe beside a suitcase. Roscoe in the paddock wearing ear protection. Roscoe occupying a Mercedes office chair while two engineers worked around him.

Lewis looked up. “Where did you get these?”

“I asked for contributions across the paddock,” Ana said quietly. “Most of them came from Mercedes staff though. Nico also contacted some of them.”

Lewis looked at Nico. Nico shrugged with deliberate lightness. “You have known many people.”

“And Roscoe collected more contacts than you did,” Ana added.

Lewis looked back at the book. Another page.

Roscoe beside Toto. Roscoe staring suspiciously at George’s former side of the garage. Roscoe with Angela. Roscoe on a private plane. Roscoe wearing a tiny team shirt.

A handwritten note accompanied each set of photographs. Memories from people who had known him. Dates where they could be confirmed. Locations. Small stories.

The time he stole catering from a senior executive. The day he refused to leave Lewis’s driver room during a storm. The afternoon he slept through an entire strategy meeting and woke only when someone opened cheese.

Lewis reached the photograph of Roscoe beside Nico.

He looked up. “He hated you.”

“He did not hate me.”

“He absolutely hated you.”

“He distrusted me.”

Despite the tears beginning to gather in his eyes, Lewis laughed. “You wrote that?”

Nico leaned over.

Beneath the photograph was a short note in Nico’s handwriting.

He watched me for forty-three minutes without blinking. I respected the commitment.

Lewis shook his head.

He turned another page. Then another.

Ana watched his expression change with each one.

Pain. Recognition. Affection. The kind of grief that did not become smaller but briefly made room for gratitude beside it.

Near the back was a photograph Ana had chosen herself.

Lewis on the floor of a hotel room. Roscoe asleep with his head across Lewis’s ankle. Neither aware of the camera.

Lewis stopped there. His hand rested against the edge of the page.

“He always had to be touching me,” he said quietly. “Even if it was just one paw.”

The room remained silent.

Lewis closed the book carefully.

Not all the way. His fingers stayed between the pages as though he was not prepared to lose the place.

He stepped toward Ana and pulled her into a hug. Ana stiffened automatically for less than a second. Lewis did not hold her tightly. He gave her enough space to withdraw. She did not.

Her arms came up around him.

“This is…” His voice failed. He tried again. “Thank you.”

“You do not have to thank me.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Nico helped with the collection.”

Lewis reached one arm toward Nico without releasing Ana.

Nico stepped into the awkward half-embrace. “I knew I would be dragged into this eventually,” he said.

Lewis laughed against Ana’s shoulder. When he finally moved back, his eyes were wet.

“There are copies of all the digital files,” she said. “The drive is inside the rear cover. They are categorised by year, although some dates are estimated.”

Lewis opened the back panel and found the small drive secured there. “Of course they are categorised.”

“It would be inefficient otherwise.”

“And there is an index,” Nico said.

Lewis looked at Ana. “There is an index?”

“Yes.”

“Of the dog photographs?”

“Yes.”

Lewis picked up the book again. “I’m going to read every page.”

“That is its intended purpose.”

“And probably cry.”

Ana checked the time. She had been away from engineering for twenty-six minutes.

The next technical review began in fourteen. “I need to return.”

Lewis nodded. “Of course you do.” He smiled. “Go.”

She looked at the book once more.

“You can contact me if any dates are incorrect.”

Lewis stared at her. “Ana.”

“Yes?”

“I am not going to submit corrections to the Roscoe memorial book.”

“You may notice errors.”

“If I do, I will live with them.”

Nico placed a hand lightly between her shoulder blades and turned her toward the door. “We are leaving before she starts a version-control system.”

“There already is one,” Ana said.

Lewis laughed hard enough that he had to put the book down.

Alexandra opened the door for them.

Before Ana stepped out, Lewis called her name.

She turned. He held the book against his chest. “Really,” he said. “Thank you.”

Ana looked at him.

At the grief still visible in his face.

At the object she had worried would be inadequate because it could not fix anything.

Perhaps usefulness did not always require repair. Sometimes preserving something mattered too.

“You are welcome,” she said.

***

Text Messages: Victoria Verstappen & Max Verstappen

Max: They arrested George again.

Victoria: Thank god.

Max: Police traced the burner. They found it at his house. And he breached house arrest.

Victoria: So he is staying in custody now?

Max: They are asking for remand.

Victoria: That better mean yes.

Max: I said the same thing.

Victoria: How is Ana?

Max: Tired. Angry. Pretending she is mostly tired.

Victoria: And you?

Max: Pissed off.

Victoria: Also tired?

Max: Yes.

Victoria: Leg?

Max: Annoying.

Victoria: Very medical assessment.

Max: It is healing.

Victoria: Good.

Max: Walking boot now.

Victoria: Ohhhh. Freedom!

Victoria: You are still not allowed to drive.

Max: Why does everyone keep saying that?

Victoria: Because you keep thinking about it.

Max: I have not even asked.

Victoria: That is almost more worrying.

Max: Why.

Victoria: Because normally you would have asked before they finished putting the boot on.

Victoria: Anyway.

Victoria: I’m coming over tomorrow.

Max: Why?

Victoria: Because I am your sister.

Max: That has never required an appointment before.

Victoria: Correct.

Max: So why are you warning me.

Victoria: Courtesy.

Max: Suspicious.

Victoria: You are impossible.

Max: What time.

Victoria: Late morning.

Max: Okay.

Victoria: Do you need anything?

Max: No.

Victoria: Food?

Max: No.

Victoria: Coffee?

Max: I have coffee.

Victoria: Something for the leg?

Max: I have doctors.

Victoria: You are deeply unpleasant to shop for.

Max: I do not need anything.

Victoria: Actually I am bringing things.

Max: What things.

Victoria: Things.

Max: That means something bad.

Victoria: No.

Max: Vic.

Victoria: Do not worry about it.

Max: Now I am worried about it.

Victoria: You should not be.

Max: What are you bringing?

Victoria: Some ideas.

Max: For what?

Victoria: Next season.

Max: What about next season?

Victoria: Merch. I have concepts.

Max: I hate that sentence.

Victoria: You haven’t seen them. There are caps.

Max: Obviously.

Victoria: Shirts.

Max: Very original.

Victoria: Hoodies.

Max: Groundbreaking.

Victoria: Children’s stuff.

Max: Okay.

Victoria: Ha.

Max: What.

Victoria: You care about the children’s stuff.

Max: Kids wear merch.

Victoria: Exactly.

Max: That is normal.

Victoria: Sure.

Victoria: Anyway I have ideas that are less ugly than normal driver merch.

Max: That is a low bar.

Victoria: Correct.

Max: What colours?

Victoria: You’ll see tomorrow.

Max: Orange?

Victoria: Some.

Max: Good.

Victoria: Navy.

Max: Good.

Victoria: Some white.

Max: Fine.

Victoria: And before you complain, I am not putting your face on everything.

Max: Thank god.

Victoria: Maybe just one thing.

Max: No.

Victoria: Vintage style.

Max: No.

Victoria: You haven’t even seen it!

*** 

Meanwhile on Twitter: Wait, who are these?!!?

@/paddocklens: Dr Anastasia Wolff seen crossing the COTA paddock toward Ferrari hospitality with Nico Rosberg and two unidentified men.

attached video

@/gridgirlies: Why is this procession so intimidating.

@/sectoroneplease: Because one of the unidentified men is approximately the size of a small building.

@/f1conspiracies: WHO IS THE MASSIVE MAN NEXT TO ANA.

@/mercedesarchive: He is wearing Mercedes kit. So probably Mercedes staff.

@/f1conspiracies: That does not answer why he looks like he could carry an entire front wing by himself.

@/gridgirlies: Ana is what, five foot five, Nico is normal-sized and then there is this MAN?!

@/paddocklens: The second unidentified man is not wearing team kit and appears to remain close to Wolff throughout the walk.

@/f1conspiracies: SECURITY.

@/sectoroneplease: That is actually plausible.

@/gridgirlies: Look at the way he keeps checking behind them. That is security.

@/f1conspiracies: WHY DOES ANA NEED PRIVATE SECURITY TO VISIT FERRARI.

@/gridgirlies: Okay but who is the giant Mercedes man.

@/ringwatchf1: New fiancé candidate.

@/sectoroneplease: No.

@/ringwatchf1: You cannot stop me.

@/f1conspiracies: Wait. Tall. Mercedes. Clearly trusted. Walking beside her. Could be the fiancé.

@/gridgirlies: He does have future-husband shoulders.

@/sectoroneplease: What are future-husband shoulders?

@/gridgirlies: Those.

@/paddockdetective: Working on identifying the Mercedes staff member.

Please stop declaring him Ana Wolff’s fiancé based solely on his shoulders.

@/oldgridfan: Nico Rosberg is also there.

Why is nobody discussing that?

@/f1conspiracies: BECAUSE WE ARE DISTRACTED BY THE GIANT.

@/rosbergdefenceleague: Ana and Nico have known each other forever.

This is probably nothing.

@/ringwatchf1: Or Nico is the fiancé.

@/everyoneelse: NO.

@/rosbergdefenceleague: Nico is married.

@/ringwatchf1: Details.

@/sectoroneplease: Very significant details.

@/ferrariupdates: Alexandra Saint Mleux appeared to meet the group at the entrance and escort them inside.

@/gridgirlies: ALEXANDRA IS INVOLVED.

@/f1conspiracies: Ferrari women’s network operation.

@/sectoroneplease: Or she simply allowed them into hospitality.

@/f1conspiracies: Why would Ana need Alexandra to get into Ferrari?

@/ferrariupdates: Because she works for Mercedes.

@/gridgirlies: Logic is ruining this.

@/paddocklens: Fred Vasseur also spoke briefly with Wolff outside Ferrari hospitality and appeared to congratulate her while looking at the ring.

@/ringwatchf1: FRED KNOWS.

@/paddockdetective: Identification update: 

The Mercedes staff member appears to be Solomon Becker, Dr Wolff’s deputy within the systems group.

@/gridgirlies: SOLOMON. That is an excellent name for a giant engineer.

@/f1conspiracies: DEPUTY. So he works directly under Ana. Secret workplace romance?

@/paddockdetective: Further correction before this escalates: Solomon Becker is married.

@/gridgirlies: Oh.

@/f1conspiracies: Are we sure?

@/paddockdetective: Yes.

@/gridgirlies: So not the fiancé.

@/ringwatchf1: Unless this is a very complicated situation.

@/everyoneelse: NO.

@/paddockdetective: Also, apparently, Becker played rugby when he was younger.

@/f1conspiracies: That explains the shoulders.

@/sectoroneplease: You investigated a senior Mercedes engineer deeply enough to find his rugby history because he walked beside Ana once.

@/paddockdetective: I regret the path that brought us here.

@/gridgirlies: What position?

@/paddockdetective: Lock.

@/f1conspiracies: OF COURSE.

@/sectoroneplease: I hate that this makes perfect sense.

@/mercedesarchive: For those asking, Solomon Becker has worked with Ana for years and is widely described as one of her most trusted senior colleagues.

@/f1conspiracies: Fine. Massive trusted deputy. Not fiancé. Case temporarily closed.

@/ringwatchf1: Temporarily?

@/f1conspiracies: I preserve flexibility.

@/bodylanguagef1: The civilian-clothed man remains unidentified, but his movement strongly suggests professional protection rather than personal involvement.

@/gridgirlies: He never looks at the cameras directly. He looks at everyone around the cameras. That is scary.

@/sectoroneplease: That is his job.

@/f1conspiracies: That guy is definitely former military.

@/sectoroneplease: You have no evidence.

@/f1conspiracies: He turns corners like he expects an ambush. He also moved between Ana and a photographer without visibly changing pace.

@/gridgirlies: Now return to why they were going to Ferrari.

@/f1conspiracies: Secret meeting.

@/ferrariupdates: With Nico Rosberg?

@/f1conspiracies: Exactly.

@/oldgridfan: Nico and Lewis reconciliation summit.

@/gridgirlies: Maybe Ana is mediating.

@/f1conspiracies: Ana doing conflict resolution between Nico and Lewis would last six minutes.

She would produce a flowchart and tell them both they were inefficient.

@/sectoroneplease: Probably true.

@/lewisupdates: Lewis was reportedly inside Ferrari hospitality at the time.

@/gridgirlies: OH.

So they were going to see Lewis.

@/f1conspiracies: Why is Ana bringing Nico to see Lewis?

@/oldgridfan: 2016 apology tour.

@/sectoroneplease: It is 2025.

@/oldgridfan: Long-form healing.

@/ringwatchf1: Could Lewis be the fiancé?

@/everyoneelse: NO.

@/ringwatchf1: Why not?

@/gridgirlies: There is no evidence.

@/f1conspiracies: Maybe Nico introduced them.

@/rosbergdefenceleague: Ana has known Lewis for years.

@/f1conspiracies: Maybe Nico is helping plan the wedding.

@/gridgirlies: Nico would absolutely send a twelve-page document about optimal ceremony timing.

@/sectoroneplease: Ana would already have one.

@/ferrariupdates: Ana was also carrying a dark blue wrapped object.

@/gridgirlies: A GIFT.

@/f1conspiracies: For Lewis?

@/lewisupdates: Possibly.

@/oldgridfan: Maybe it is engagement-related.

@/sectoroneplease: Why would Ana give Lewis an engagement gift?

@/f1conspiracies: Maybe Lewis is best man.

@/everyone: YOU DO NOT KNOW THE GROOM.

@/f1conspiracies: Maybe he’s the maid of honour!

@/paddockdetective: Current verified facts: 

Dr Wolff walked to Ferrari hospitality.

Nico Rosberg accompanied her.

Solomon Becker, her deputy, accompanied them.

Becker is married, has children and previously played rugby.

A man believed to be part of her security detail accompanied the group.

Alexandra Saint Mleux escorted them inside.

Fred Vasseur congratulated Dr Wolff.

Dr Wolff carried a wrapped item.

Everything else is speculation.

@/gridgirlies: You forgot Solomon is enormous.

@/paddockdetective: That is visually evident.

@/f1conspiracies: Add former lock.

@/mercedesarchive: The funniest possible outcome is that Ana was simply delivering something to Lewis while everyone online performed a criminal-background check on Solomon Becker.

@/gridgirlies: Imagine being Solomon.

You walk your exhausted boss across the paddock and twenty minutes later Twitter knows you are married and your rugby position.

Group Chat: 2025 Team Principals

 (Members: Toto Wolff, Andrea Stella, Fred Vasseur, Andy Cowell, Ayao Komatsu, Alan Permane, James Vowles, Jonathan Wheatley, Flavio Briatore, Gerhard Berger)

James Vowles: So. Are we all pretending we have not seen the ring?

Andrea Stella: I had hoped we might preserve one group chat that did not become gossip.

Flavio Briatore: No.

Ayao Komatsu: That hope was optimistic.

Andy Cowell: Whose ring?

James Vowles: Ana’s.

Andy Cowell: Oh.

Alan Permane: You had not seen it?

Andy Cowell: I have been working.

Flavio Briatore: Bad excuse.

Jonathan Wheatley: It is difficult to miss.

Andrea Stella: Particularly once every Formula One account began estimating the carat weight.

James Vowles: Fourteen minimum.

Ayao Komatsu: Why do you know that?

James Vowles: Research.

Alan Permane: You mean Twitter.

James Vowles: Research conducted by Twitter.

Fred Vasseur: It is a very large ring.

Flavio Briatore: Toto.

Toto Wolff: No.

Flavio Briatore: I have not asked anything yet.

Toto Wolff: You were going to.

Flavio Briatore: Who is she marrying?

Toto Wolff: No.

James Vowles: That is not a person.

Toto Wolff: It is the answer you are getting.

Jonathan Wheatley: Do you know?

Toto Wolff: Yes.

Ayao Komatsu: How long have you known?

Toto Wolff: Long enough.

Fred Vasseur: That sounds like not very long.

Andrea Stella: It does.

Toto Wolff: I am not discussing my daughter’s private life with this group.

Flavio Briatore: Then why are you here?

Toto Wolff: I ask myself that every day.

James Vowles: I am putting money on that Qatari prince.

Alan Permane: Which Qatari prince?

James Vowles: The one she is friendly with. He is a software engineer or something. Studied at Cambridge or Oxford, I think. He also once bought her an emerald necklace. 

Andrea Stella: Royal, educated and theoretically capable of purchasing that ring…

James Vowles: Exactly.

Flavio Briatore: Too obvious.

Alan Permane: Who do you think?

Flavio Briatore: Old money. Private. Possibly Swiss.

Ayao Komatsu: That is not a name either.

Flavio Briatore: Names are limiting.

Jonathan Wheatley: Could be someone in motorsport.

James Vowles: No. Ana would never.

Fred Vasseur: Why not?

James Vowles: Because she has taste.

Gerhard Berger: It is Max.

James Vowles: WHAT?

Ayao Komatsu: What?

Andy Cowell: Excuse me?

Jonathan Wheatley: Max who?

Flavio Briatore: Do not be stupid. There is only one Max relevant to this chat.

Andrea Stella: Max Verstappen?

Gerhard Berger: Yes.

James Vowles: No.

Gerhard Berger: Yes.

James Vowles: No.

Fred Vasseur: Yes.

James Vowles: FRED?

Fred Vasseur: Yes.

James Vowles: YOU KNEW?

Toto Wolff: Gerhard.

Gerhard Berger: It was very obvious, Toto. 

Toto Wolff: You were not supposed to say that.

Gerhard Berger: You did not tell me it was secret.

Toto Wolff: Her fiancé’s identity is very obviously secret.

Andrea Stella: I would like to return to the part where Max Verstappen is engaged to Ana Wolff.

Ayao Komatsu: Same.

Jonathan Wheatley: Since when?

Toto Wolff: That is also private.

Flavio Briatore: He is joining Mercedes and marrying your daughter.

Toto Wolff: Those are two separate developments.

James Vowles: Are they?

Toto Wolff: Yes.

James Vowles: Entirely separate?

Toto Wolff: Not entirely.

Ayao Komatsu: Oh my God.

James Vowles: VERSTAPPEN MOVED TO MERCEDES TO GET YOUR DAUGHTER.

Toto Wolff: That is not what I said.There were many reasons for the move.

Flavio Briatore: And one of them was Ana.

Toto Wolff: I am reasonably certain that also played a part.

Alan Permane: Reasonably certain?

Toto Wolff: He was not subtle.

Jonathan Wheatley: Max is rarely subtle.

Andrea Stella: Not in the car. Apparently also not in contract negotiations.

James Vowles: Did he put “marry team principal’s daughter” in the objectives section?

Toto Wolff: No.

Flavio Briatore: Missed opportunity.

Ayao Komatsu: When did you actually find out?

Toto Wolff: After he signed.

James Vowles: AFTER?

Andy Cowell: You signed Max Verstappen and only afterward discovered he was with Ana?

Jonathan Wheatley: That seems like due diligence failed somewhere.

Toto Wolff: They had been very private.

Andrea Stella: How private?

Toto Wolff: I did not know that Ana was even seeing somebody. 

James Vowles: This is the funniest thing that has ever happened to you.

Toto Wolff: It is not.

James Vowles: You negotiated one of the largest driver moves in modern Formula One while Max was secretly sleeping with your daughter.

Toto Wolff: James.

James Vowles: Engaged to. Secretly engaged to your daughter.

Toto Wolff: They were not engaged when he signed.

Flavio Briatore: So the contract came first. Traditional.

Ayao Komatsu: How did you find out?

Toto Wolff: He showed up at midnight at my apartment after Russell happened. 

Alan Permane: And he survived that?!?

Toto Wolff: I am not a homicidal lunatic, Alan. 

Fred Vasseur: I knew they were a thing in 2019 by the way. Max nearly hit Charles over Ana. 

James Vowles: WHAT?

Ayao Komatsu: Please elaborate.

Toto Wolff: Fred.

Fred Vasseur: It was years ago. Charles went on a date with Ana.

James Vowles: Charles Leclerc went on a date with Ana?

Fred Vasseur: One date.

James Vowles: Why did nobody tell me any of this?

Fred Vasseur: I arranged it. I thought a very smart woman would only be good for Charles. Charles liked her. Ana agreed to dinner. Max found out.

Jonathan Wheatley: How?

Fred Vasseur: Charles told Pierre. Pierre told someone. Someone told Max. Formula One.

Andrea Stella: An efficient information network.

Fred Vasseur: Max confronted Charles. He asked why Charles had taken Ana out. Charles said because she had said yes. Max said she did not mean it. Charles said Ana was capable of deciding for herself. That part was sensible.

James Vowles: And then?

Fred Vasseur: Then Charles asked why Max cared.

Alan Permane: Dangerous question.

Fred Vasseur: Very. Max did not answer. Charles realised. Then he laughed.

Andrea Stella: Also dangerous.

Fred Vasseur: Extremely. Max grabbed him. Charles shoved him. I had to pull them apart before one of them hit the other.

James Vowles: You have been sitting on this story for six years?

Fred Vasseur: It was embarrassing for everyone. Ana did not know.

Toto Wolff: She knows now. Max confessed eventually.

James Vowles: He confessed that he nearly punched Charles because Charles took Ana to dinner?

Toto Wolff: Yes.

James Vowles: And she still agreed to marrying him?!

Toto Wolff: Yes.

Andy Cowell: So Max was already jealous in 2019.

Fred Vasseur: Jealous is too mild. He was homicidal.

Andrea Stella: How long have they actually been together?

James Vowles: Was it before 2019? After?

Toto Wolff: James.

James Vowles: I am narrowing the range!

Ayao Komatsu: He is applying engineering methodology.

Toto Wolff: He is being nosy.

Flavio Briatore: Same thing.

Jonathan Wheatley: Does Max know we know?

Toto Wolff: He knows Gerhard knows. He knows Fred knows. He does not know the entire group now knows because Gerhard cannot keep his mouth shut.

Gerhard Berger: I can keep secrets.

Toto Wolff: You revealed this one in under four minutes.

Gerhard Berger: I kept it until someone asked.

Andrea Stella: Nobody asked you directly.

Gerhard Berger: James was guessing princes. It was painful.

James Vowles: The prince was a strong theory!

Fred Vasseur: Apparently not.

James Vowles: I still require time to process Max Verstappen as Ana’s fiancé.

Alan Permane: Why?

James Vowles: Because she is Ana.

Ayao Komatsu: And he is Max.

James Vowles: Exactly.

Andrea Stella: That clarified nothing.

James Vowles: She is all precision and silence and terrifying competence. And he is…

Jonathan Wheatley: Also precision and terrifying competence?

James Vowles: But louder.

Toto Wolff: Not with her.

Fred Vasseur: That was almost affectionate.

Toto Wolff: Do not make it strange.

Flavio Briatore: You like him.

Toto Wolff: He is my driver.

James Vowles: He is your future son-in-law. And your employee.

Toto Wolff: Yes.

James Vowles: You have to be the boss of your future son-in-law.

Toto Wolff: I am aware.

Ayao Komatsu: Performance reviews will be interesting.

Andrea Stella: “Excellent pace. Strong race execution. Please stop leaving your shoes in the doorway in my daughter’s house.”

Jonathan Wheatley: “Needs improvement in media relations and family boundaries.”

Fred Vasseur: “Contract renewal conditional upon marriage behaviour.”

Toto Wolff: You are all not as funny as you think you are.

Flavio Briatore: Will you call him Max at work and son at home?

Toto Wolff: I will not call him son anywhere.

Gerhard Berger: Yet.

Toto Wolff: Gerhard.

Gerhard Berger: What?

James Vowles: Imagine the first team-order disagreement.

Max: No.

Toto: I am not asking as your team principal.

Max: Ana said you cannot use family pressure in sporting decisions.

Andrea Stella: Ana would absolutely have drafted that boundary in advance.

Gerhard Berger: Your daughter is terrifying.

Toto Wolff: She would probably enjoy hearing you say that.

James Vowles: Does Susie know?

Toto Wolff: Of course.

Flavio Briatore: Did she know before you?

Toto Wolff: She suspected something.

James Vowles: INCREDIBLE.

Andrea Stella: Did everyone know except you?

Toto Wolff: No.

Fred Vasseur: Max knew.

Gerhard Berger: Ana knew.

James Vowles: Susie knew.

Jonathan Wheatley: Potentially the ring designer.

Toto Wolff: I hate this group.

James Vowles: Did Lewis know?

Toto Wolff: Eventually.

James Vowles: Before you?

Toto Wolff: No.

James Vowles: Small victory.

Jonathan Wheatley: When is the wedding?

Toto Wolff: No.

Flavio Briatore: Where?

Toto Wolff: No.

James Vowles: Are we invited?

Toto Wolff: Absolutely not.

James Vowles: That was immediate.

Toto Wolff: Because Ana wants a private wedding.

Fred Vasseur: Understandable.

Gerhard Berger: I can keep the location secret.

Toto Wolff: You cannot even keep the groom secret.

Andrea Stella: For clarity, are we all agreeing this does not leave the chat?

Toto Wolff: Yes.

Ayao Komatsu: Obviously.

Alan Permane: Agreed.

Jonathan Wheatley: Of course.

Andy Cowell: Yes.

Fred Vasseur: Yes.

Flavio Briatore: Fine.

James Vowles: Yes. But I need everyone to understand how difficult this will be for me personally.

Toto Wolff: You will survive.

James Vowles: I spent eight hours building that Qatari-prince theory!

Fred Vasseur: Poorly.

***

Text Messages: Dr. Anastasia “Ana” Wolff & Max Verstappen

Ana: The police traced the burner.

Max: George?

Ana: Yes. They recovered it from his house. He has been arrested again.

Max: Is he staying there this time?

Ana: The prosecution is seeking remand.

Max: That is not what I asked.

Ana: It is the answer currently supported by the available information.

Max: Nastya.

Ana: They have the physical phone. The technical trace is confirmed. He breached house arrest. His solicitor supplied the burner and is also being investigated. It is substantially less likely he will be released again.

Max: Less likely is not no.

Ana: No. Apparently George became agitated when they arrested him. The report describes repeated possessive statements concerning me.

Max: What did he say?

Ana: He said I belonged to him. He referred to you as having taken me from him. He does not know it is you.

Max: That is not the part I care about. Did he threaten you again?

Ana: Yes.

Max: And me?

Ana: The unidentified fiancé.

Max: So yes.

Ana: Yes.

Max: Fuck him.

Ana: The police have him.

Max: They had him before.

Ana: They did not have the phone before.

Max: He should never have been allowed home.

Ana: I agree.

Max: I hate that you are there and I am here.

Ana: I know. Me too.

Max: I have Driven now.

Ana: Why?

Max: Your mother gave it to me.

Ana: I know that. I meant why are you changing the subject.

Max: Because I am pissed off and I cannot do anything useful from Monaco. So I am going to read all about you as a teenager instead.

Ana: There is nothing embarrassing about me in that book.

Max: That sounds confident.

Ana: Susie gave it to me to read before she had even finished the first draft.

Max: So you censored it.

Ana: No.

Max: You definitely censored it.

Ana: I corrected factual inaccuracies.

Max: That is Ana language for censorship.

Ana: It is not.

Max: Did you remove anything embarrassing?

Ana: No.

Max: Nothing?

Ana: Nothing I considered relevant.

Max: Aha.

Ana: That does not mean what you think it means.

Max: Currently I am stuck on the fact that Susie thought you were Toto’s Russian girlfriend the first time you talked on the phone.

Ana: God. Do not remind me.

Max: This is incredible.

Ana: It was not incredible at the time. Papa had recently dated Miss Austria.

Max: I KNOW. THAT IS ALSO IN THE BOOK.

Max: I cannot believe Toto once dated Miss Austria.

Ana: He had a midlife crisis after the divorce.

Max: How old was he?

Ana: Too young for an actual midlife crisis.

Max: So just a crisis.

Ana: Essentially.

Max: And the crisis involved dating Beauty Queen Contenders?

Ana: The crisis involved dating blondes and trying to kill himself on the Nürburgring.

Max: Sorry. WHAT.

Ana: You know about the Nürburgring.

Max: I know about the crash. I did not know you classify it as part of the same phase as dating Miss Austria.

Ana: It was adjacent. He was newly divorced, emotionally unstable and behaving irrationally.

Max: By driving around the Nürburgring and dating beauty queens.

Ana: Yes.

Max: Honestly respect.

Ana: No.

Max: A little.

Ana: No.

Max: Fine.

Ana:He also bought a ridiculous house.

Max:What do you mean ridiculous.

Ana:You will see.

Max:See what.

Ana:The house.

Max:Why would I see the house?

Ana:Papa still owns it. I expect that eventually we will take a trip to Switzerland and you will see it. 

Max:Of course he does.

Ana:He almost never sells property.

Max:But why was it ridiculous?

Max:Okay but what was ridiculous about it.

Ana:It was much too large for two people.

Max:How large.

Ana:I do not remember the exact square metreage.

Max:How many bedrooms?

Ana:Too many.

Max:That is not a number.

Ana:I think nine.

Max:NINE.

Ana:Potentially ten depending on whether you count the room beside the library.

Max:There was a library.

Ana:Yes.

Max:Of course there was a library.

Ana:And an indoor pool.

Max:Of course.

Ana:And a wine cellar.

Max:Normal rich person stuff.

Ana:And a turret.

Max:What.

Ana:A turret.

Max:What the hell. A TURRET.

Ana:Yes.

Max:Like a castle turret.

Ana:Essentially.

Max:Toto bought a castle.

Ana:It is not technically a castle.

Max:IT HAS A TURRET, NASTYA.

Max:Your father bought a house with a turret after getting divorced and dating Miss Austria.

Ana:Yes.

Max:This is the most divorced-man behaviour I have ever heard.

Max:Do you like it?

Ana:Parts of it.

Max:Which parts?

Ana:The library.

Max:Obviously.

Ana:The garden is beautiful.

Ana:The turret. I have my room in there.

Max:YOU HAD A TURRET ROOM.

Ana:Yes.

Max:And you did not lead with that?!

Max:What did you do in it?

Ana:Read.

Max:Of course.

Ana:And hide from Papa’s girlfriends. It was useful.

Max:This is unbelievable.

Ana:Why.

Max:Because now I am picturing eleven-year-old you living in a Swiss pseudo-castle, hiding in a turret while Toto dates beauty queens.

Ana:That is not entirely inaccurate.

Max:And judging them.

Ana:I did not judge all of them.

Max:Only Miss Austria.

Ana:Primarily.

Max: Was Miss Austria nice at least?

Ana: Not especially.

Max: You did not like her?

Ana: No.

Max: Why?

Ana: We did not get along.

Max: Nastya.

Ana: She treated me like an inconvenient extension of Papa rather than a person.

Max: Ah.

Ana: And she kept touching my hair without permission.

Max: Absolutely not.

Ana: Yes.

Max: I hate her already.

Ana: You have never met her.

Max: Does not matter.

Ana: It was fifteen years ago.

Max: Still.

Ana: She also called me Natasha twice.

Max: Okay now I really hate her.

Ana: Papa corrected her.

Max: Good.

Ana: Very sharply.

Max: Better.

Ana: He eventually stopped dating her.

Max: Because of you?

Ana: I do not know.

Max: You definitely know.

Ana: I know he became increasingly irritated every time she tried to exclude me from something.

Max: There it is.

Ana: He would have ended it anyway.

Max: Maybe.

Ana: Definitely.

Max: You sound very confident.

Ana: He was already bored.

Max: This is unbelievable.

Ana: Why?

Max: Because now I am picturing Toto in some terrible post-divorce era dating beauty queens and driving the Nürburgring like he had a death wish.

Ana: That is pretty much what happened.

Max: And little Ana just standing there judging all of it.

Ana: I was average height.

Max: You probably stared at Miss Austria until she left.

Ana: I did not.

Max: Did you ever tell Toto you did not like her?

Ana: Not directly.

Max: What did you say?

Ana: I asked him whether physical attractiveness was sufficient justification for tolerating poor conversational compatibility.

Max: ELEVEN

Ana: Yes.

Max: You said that to your father about his girlfriend.

Ana: I was asking a legitimate question.

Max: I love you so much.

Max: What did he say?

Ana: That adult relationships were complicated.

Max: Translation: please stop analysing my terrible rebound.

Ana: Probably.

Max: This is better than the book already.

***

Circuit of The Americas, Austin - 16 October 2025 

Bono had known Andrew Shovlin for a very long time.

Long enough to recognise the particular expression Andrew wore when he encountered a technical problem he intended to solve.

That expression usually meant trouble.

It meant several hours of data analysis. It meant a whiteboard covered in increasingly illegible equations. It meant someone from simulation being dragged away from a perfectly good sandwich because Shov had developed a theory about rear suspension behaviour and apparently no human need was more important than confirming whether the third run on Friday morning had hidden two tenths in sector two.

Bono respected that expression. He feared it, occasionally.

But he respected it.

Today…Today was worse.

This was the expression Andrew Shovlin wore when he had discovered gossip.

Bono first became aware of the problem when Shov appeared beside his workstation holding two coffees and wearing the deliberately innocent look of a man who had never once been innocent in his life.

“Do you know any Middle Eastern princes?” Shov asked.

Bono did not look up from the run plan. “No.”

“Any European princes?”

“No.”

“Minor aristocracy?”

“No.”

“Billionaires?”

“I work in Formula One, Shov. Unfortunately, I know several.”

Andrew placed one of the coffees beside him.

It was not a peace offering. It was bait. 

“Any who might be secretly engaged to Ana?”

Bono stopped reading. Slowly, with the grim resignation of a man who had seen the first warning light appear on an engine that was about to catastrophically fail, he lifted his head.

“Why do you care?”

“I have a bet with James.”

Bono stared at him. “You have a bet.”

“A professional wager.”

“With James Allison.”

“Yes.”

“About Ana’s fiancé.”

“Yes.”

“For money?”

“No.”

Bono paused. That was somehow worse. “What does the winner get?”

Shov’s mouth tightened slightly. Ah. There it was.

Bono knew that expression too.

That was the expression of a man who knew that what he was about to say would sound absurd to normal people and had decided to say it anyway because, unfortunately, he was surrounded by engineers and therefore normal people were not relevant.

“Andrew.”

“It’s nothing important.”

“What?”

“The loser has to present the winner’s preferred wind-tunnel methodology at the next technical leadership review.”

Bono stared at him. For several seconds, all he could hear was the steady hum of the engineering room around them. Then he said, “You have wagered professional humiliation.”

“It is not humiliation if the methodology is sound.”

“Whose methodology is sound?”

“Mine.”

“And James thinks his is.”

“Obviously.”

“So one of you is going to stand in front of the entire technical leadership group and argue for an approach he fundamentally disagrees with because he lost a bet over the identity of Ana Wolff’s fiancé.”

“Yes.”

“You are engineers in your fifties. You hold senior leadership positions in one of the most technologically advanced organisations in motorsport. And you have chosen to behave like teenagers?”

Shov’s answer came without a trace of shame. “Yes.”

Bono looked at him. Shov looked back.

He had the relaxed posture of a man who intended to remain there until he got what he wanted or until someone more senior forcibly removed him. Unfortunately, the people more senior than Andrew were already participating in the same bet.

Bono glanced around the Mercedes engineering room.

There were at least twenty people within hearing distance. Four of them were already pretending not to listen. One of the performance engineers had stopped typing entirely. Someone in strategy had leaned slightly to the left, as though two extra centimetres would transform shameless eavesdropping into an accidental acoustic event.

“You have work to do,” Bono said.

“So do you.”

“I am doing mine.”

“So am I.”

“You are investigating Ana’s engagement.”

“I am gathering data.”

“You are gossiping.”

Andrew looked offended. “It is only gossip before it becomes an evidence-based conclusion.”

From the opposite side of the room, a mechanic called, “I bet it’s a Middle Eastern prince.”

Andrew pointed at him immediately. “Current leading theory.”

“It is not the Middle Eastern prince,” someone else said.

Andrew turned in his chair with alarming speed. “Do you know something?”

“No.”

“Then why did you say it?”

“Because someone in aero thinks it’s a Middle Eastern prince, and they’re always wrong when they become emotionally invested.”

“That is slander,” someone from aero called without looking up.

“It is pattern recognition!”

Bono looked back down at the run plan.

He was not participating. He knew who the fiancé was.

He had known long enough that the initial shock had worn down into the quieter disbelief of watching two intensely private, stubborn, emotionally catastrophic people somehow construct a functioning relationship without anyone in the paddock noticing for nearly a decade.

But that was different.

Knowing was one thing. Surviving Shov in full investigative mode was another.

Andrew took a drink of coffee. “Someone in Brackley thinks it’s an engineer.”

Bono looked up despite himself. “Which engineer?”

“Not specified.”

“That narrows it down to approximately nobody.”

“Exactly.”

“Solomon,” Andrew called suddenly, “do you know anything?”

Solomon Becker looked up from his laptop.

The laptop looked, as it often did, like it belonged in a Barbie Dreamhouse when held in Solomon’s hands. The man was enormous. Broad-shouldered, calm, and currently wearing the expression of someone who had spent a decade regretting every time Formula One engineers had been allowed access to his personal life.

Over ten years earlier, when Solomon and his wife had first become a couple, half of Brackley had developed an intense and frankly inappropriate need to determine when it had started, who had made the first move, and whether their increasingly frequent shared lunches constituted evidence.

There had been spreadsheets. There had been odds. There had, according to legend, been a flowchart created by someone in vehicle dynamics, complete with arrows, confidence intervals and one extremely controversial branch titled suspicious croissant exchange.

Solomon had discovered the betting pool after Mina casually mentioned that three separate engineers had asked whether she preferred Italian or Spanish wedding venues.

He had never forgiven any of them.

Now he looked at Shov. Then at Bono. Bono gave him a small, apologetic shrug.

Solomon’s expression clearly said: Do not involve me.

Bono respected that. Shov did not.

“Solomon knows,” Andrew said.

Solomon immediately turned back to his monitor.

“He definitely knows.”

“He has worked with Ana for years,” Bono said. “That does not mean he knows who she is marrying.”

Solomon’s hands paused over the keyboard for a fraction of a second.

Bono noticed.

Andrew noticed too. Unfortunately. “Aha.”

Solomon did not look up. “No.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You said aha.”

“Aha is not legally binding.”

“It is incriminating,” Solomon said.

Andrew leaned back in his chair, delighted. “You know.”

Solomon looked at him very slowly.

“Andrew.”

“Yes?”

“I have a full day of work, three meetings, and a wife who will make my life unbearable if I end up in another relationship betting pool.”

“This is not about your relationship.”

“No. It is about Ana’s. That makes it more dangerous.”

“Why?”

Solomon looked over the top of his laptop. “Because she has admin privileges.”

The room went briefly silent.

That, Bono thought, was possibly the most compelling argument anyone had made all morning.

Then another voice came from farther down the row. “I heard it’s David Coulthard.”

Bono closed his eyes.

Andrew looked delighted. “Source?”

“Twitter.”

“That is not a source.”

“It is the primary research database for this investigation.”

Bono turned toward Andrew. “You are the trackside engineering director of a Formula One team, and you are running a betting pool on the identity of a twenty-seven-year-old woman’s fiancé.”

“Yes.”

“Do you hear yourself?” Bono asked.

“Perfectly.”

“And?”

“And I want to win.”

The performance engineer nearest them started laughing.

Bono looked at him.

They immediately bent over their laptop again and began typing with the manic intensity of someone suddenly very interested in tyre degradation modelling.

“Who is your current leading candidate?” Bono asked, already regretting it.

Andrew hesitated. “I have several.”

Bono rubbed both hands over his face. “Name them.”

Andrew brightened, as if this was the part he had been waiting for since he walked in.

“Right. So. Aerospace engineer.”

“No.”

“Defence contractor.”

“No.”

“Swiss biotech heir.”

“That is not even Formula One adjacent.”

“Could be adjacent.”

“Adjacent to what?”

“Money.”

Bono stared at him.

Andrew continued, undeterred. “CERN physicist.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because Ana does not date particle accelerators.”

“Monaco-based shipping magnate.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because you are just saying words now.”

Andrew ignored him and counted off on his fingers. “Private equity.”

“No.”

“Oil and gas.”

“No.”

“Royal family again.”

“You already said Middle Eastern prince.”

“Different royal family.”

“Which one?”

“Any of them.”

Bono exhaled slowly through his nose. “You are not narrowing this down. You are listing industries.”

“That is how elimination works.”

“That is not how elimination works.”

“It is in early-stage hypothesis generation.”

“It is in a nervous breakdown.”

Andrew leaned forward. “Ana is very private.”

“Yes.”

“So the fiancé is likely private.”

“Yes.”

“So not a driver.”

Bono paused. Only half a second.

But Andrew saw it.

Bono knew he saw it because Andrew’s eyes sharpened with sudden, terrible interest. “Why did you pause?”

“I did not pause.”

“You paused.”

“I breathed.”

“Suspiciously.”

“Breathing is not suspicious.”

“It is when you do it in the middle of a denial.”

“I have denied nothing.”

“Exactly.”

Bono stared at him. “Do you ever listen to yourself?”

“Frequently. I find myself persuasive. Not a driver,” Andrew said again, slower now. “Too visible.”

“That has never stopped anyone in Formula One before.”

Andrew waved that away. “Not a team principal.”

“For the love of God.”

“Too obvious.”

Andrew ticked off on his fingers again. “So: aerospace, defence, finance, royalty, intelligence, academia, shipping, biotech.”

Bono held up a hand. “Stop.”

Andrew stopped.

Bono pointed at him. “You have just described half of Europe.”

“Yes.”

“And you think this is narrowing it down. It is a list of professions.”

“It is a framework.”

“It is nonsense.”

From across the room, someone said, “It is probably the Middle Eastern prince.”

Andrew nodded. “Still viable.”

“It is not viable,” Bono snapped.

Several heads turned.

Andrew’s expression transformed.

Slowly. Horribly. Triumphantly. “Oh?”

Bono froze. Shit.

Andrew leaned back, very pleased with himself. “Interesting.”

“No.”

“You sounded extremely certain there.”

“I am certain Ana is not secretly engaged to a Middle Eastern prince.”

“Why?”

“Because life is not a bad Netflix series.”

“That is not proof.”

“It should be.”

Someone else called, “Could be a good Netflix series.”

“It would be terrible,” Bono said.

“Would watch it,” said the mechanic.

“Same,” said someone from strategy.

Bono looked around the room in despair. “Do none of you have work?”

There was an immediate and suspiciously synchronized return to laptops, screens and printed data sheets.

Andrew, unfortunately, remained exactly where he was.

“What about a driver?” he said.

Bono did not move.

Andrew smiled.

“Let’s explore the driver branch.”

“There is no driver branch.”

“There is.”

“No there is not.”

“Formula One is mostly driver branches. It’s practically a shrubbery of terrible decisions.”

Bono took off his headset and set it down with exaggerated care. “Andrew.”

“Yes?”

“I am going to say this once. Ana’s private life is none of our business.”

Andrew nodded solemnly.“Absolutely.”

“You do not mean that.”

“I mean it ethically.”

“But not practically.”

“Correct.”

Bono picked up his coffee and took a drink.

It was cold. Of course it was.

Andrew steepled his fingers. “Let us consider drivers.”

“No.”

“Current grid?”

“No.”

“Former grid?”

“No.”

“Endurance?”

“No.”

“Rally?”

“No.”

“IndyCar?”

“No.”

“Formula E?”

“No.”

“Historical?”

Bono stared.

Andrew shrugged. “You said no to David Coulthard too quickly.”

“I am begging you to hear yourself.”

Andrew looked toward Solomon. “Solomon, would Ana date a driver?”

Solomon did not look up. “Ana would date someone competent.”

“That rules out half the grid,” someone muttered.

Bono choked on his coffee.

Andrew pointed in the direction of the voice. “See? Useful contribution.”

“No,” Bono said sharply. “Not useful.”

“Does he work at Mercedes?” Andrew asked.

Bono looked at him. “What?”

“The fiancé.”

“I am not answering that.”

“That is an answer.”

“No it is not.”

“It is a refusal to deny.”

“It is a refusal to participate.”

“Which suggests participation would be revealing.”

Bono stared at him with the exact expression he usually reserved for radio failures during qualifying.

“You are insufferable.”

“And yet often correct.”

“Rarely.”

“Occasionally.”

“By accident.”

Andrew smiled. “Is it someone at Mercedes?”

Bono said nothing.

Shov’s smile widened.

“Not an engineer then.”

“I did not say that.”

“But you objected too quickly when I said engineer. That suggests proximity but not category.”

Bono looked at him in horror. “This is why you should use your powers for car development only.”

Andrew snapped his fingers. “Someone with Mercedes proximity but not an engineer.”

“No.”

“Driver management?”

“No.”

“Executive?”

“No.”

“Reserve driver?”

“No.”

“Customer programme?”

“No.”

“Sim driver?”

Bono gave him a long look.

Andrew gasped softly. “Interesting.”

“No.”

“That one was more offended.”

“Because you are now dragging innocent people into this.”

“Innocent people do not exist in Formula One.”

“Fair,” said someone behind them.

Bono kept his voice low. “Enough.”

Shov looked at him for a moment.

The lightness did not disappear entirely, but it receded.

Around them, engineers very suddenly discovered fascinating things on their monitors.

Bono had spent years inside Formula One. He knew the culture. The teasing, the betting, the absurdity, the way gossip moved faster than technical directives and usually with less accuracy. He knew that most of this was harmless in intention.

He also knew Ana.

He knew the way she had been watched lately. Discussed. Followed. Named too often by people who did not understand that curiosity could become another form of intrusion when enough of it gathered in one place.

He knew that George Russell had made her privacy unsafe.

Andrew must have seen something in his face, because he sat back.

“All right,” he said quietly.

Bono held his gaze for another second.

Then he sat down again.

The room breathed out. 

For approximately four seconds.

Then someone from the far corner whispered, far too loudly, “So not the Middle Eastern prince?”

Bono closed his eyes.

Andrew put both hands flat on his knees, visibly fighting for his life.

Solomon made a sound that might have been a cough or a laugh.

Bono turned in his chair. “I am going to start assigning extra debrief work to anyone who says Middle Eastern prince again.”

Silence. Good.

He reopened the laptop.

The run plan was still there.

Blessedly factual.

Blessedly uninterested in anyone’s engagement.

Andrew stood, picking up his coffee with the air of a man tactically retreating rather than conceding defeat.

“Fine,” he said. “I will refine the candidate list elsewhere.”

Bono looked at him.

Andrew looked innocent again.

Bad sign.

“Shov.”

“Yes?”

“If this ends up on another whiteboard, I will tell James you admitted his methodology has merit.”

Andrew’s face changed instantly. “You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.”

“That is disproportionate.”

“So is interrogating half of Brackley about Ana’s fiancé.”

Andrew considered this. Then nodded once. “Fair.”

He took two steps toward the door. Stopped. Turned back.

“One question.”

“No.”

“It’s not about the fiancé.”

“No.”

“It’s about whether I should include David Coulthard in the exclusion model.”

Bono stared at him.

Andrew smiled faintly. “That was a joke.”

“It was not a good one.”

“No.”

“Leave.”

Andrew left.

Bono looked at the run plan and decided that rear suspension behaviour had never looked so peaceful in his entire life.