moonlightglit

The photo is everywhere by 8:13 in the morning.

By 8:17, Toto’s phone starts vibrating like it is trying to chew its way through the coffee table.

By 8:21, Bradley sends three messages, two missed calls, and one email with the subject line:

URGENT — PLEASE DO NOT SPEAK TO ANYONE

By 8:26, George texts:

George: Mate.

Then, three seconds later:

George: Actually no. Boss. Sir. Respectfully. What the hell.

By 8:30, you are sitting cross-legged on the sofa in Toto’s Monaco penthouse, wearing one of his white shirts, eating strawberries from a bowl and staring at the photo that has apparently sent Formula 1 into collective cardiac arrest.

It was taken on Toto’s yacht.

From far away, clearly with a long lens, because apparently privacy is now an optional concept if a rich divorced team principal kisses his young girlfriend in the sun.

The angle is annoyingly good.

You are sitting on his lap, naked from the waist up, your body pressed into his open shirt. His hands are gripping your ass, firm and possessive, while his mouth is on your breasts. Your head is thrown back, lips parted, eyes half-closed, your face full of bliss — intimate, messy, private, and absolutely catastrophic for PR.

You tilt your head, studying it.

“Well.”

Toto stands by the window with his phone in one hand, wearing dark trousers and a white shirt that is unbuttoned far too low for a morning crisis.

Several buttons are undone. His chest is visible. Part of his stomach too.

The whole thing is irresponsible.

You look from the photo to the real version standing in front of the window and decide the scandal has excellent source material.

He looks over at you. “Well?”

You zoom in. “This angle really makes your shoulders look insane.”

Toto blinks. His phone vibrates again.

“You are commenting on my shoulders?”

“Yes.”

“My phone has not stopped for twenty minutes.”

“Your shoulders are relevant.”

He stares at you for a moment, then starts laughing.

A proper laugh. Low, warm, unbothered. The kind that makes you forget the internet currently thinks you are either a gold digger, a seductress, his midlife crisis, or all three depending on which comment section has the most unemployed people.

“You are unbelievable,” he says.

“You look good.”

“You are missing the point.”

“No, I see the point. Somebody took a private photo of us and sold it to the tabloids. That’s awful.” You take another strawberry. “But you still look good.”

Toto walks toward you, phone still vibrating in his hand.

“You are not upset?”

You look up at him.

Of course you are. A little.

Somewhere beneath the humor, something cold sits in your stomach. Not because of the photo itself. You are not ashamed of loving him, touching him, wanting him. You are not ashamed of being loved by him.

But because the world always tries to turn your relationship into something ugly. A transaction. A joke. A scandal.

They never see how he looks at you when you fall asleep during a film. They never see him silently placing water beside your bed because you forget to drink enough. They never see his hand finding yours under restaurant tables when crowds make you nervous.

They see your age. His money. Your body. His divorce.

And then they think they know everything.

“I’m upset that someone invaded our privacy,” you say honestly. “I’m not upset that people know you touch me like you love me.”

His face changes. The amusement softens into something quieter. Something that belongs only to you.

He puts his phone down on the table, still buzzing like an angry insect, and sits beside you.

“I do love you.”

“I know.”

“I mean it.”

“I know that too.”

He studies your face like he is looking for cracks.

You hate that he always knows where to search. So you do the only reasonable thing. You climb onto his lap before he can start asking serious questions.

His hands come to your waist immediately, steady and warm.

You settle over him, thighs on either side of his hips, the oversized shirt riding up your legs.

Toto looks down. Then back at your face. “Schatz.”

“What?”

“You are distracting me.”

“Good.”

His mouth twitches.

The phone vibrates again. You glance at it. “So is your phone.”

“I prefer your method.”

You smile and lean closer, brushing your lips against his jaw. “I’m fine,” you say.

“You do not have to be fine.”

“I know.”

“And you do not have to pretend because I am not bothered.”

You brush your fingers over his cheek. “You’re bothered.”

His eyebrows lift.

“You just hide it better because you’re a tall Austrian skyscraper with emotional security clearance.”

His mouth twitches. “That is new.”

“I’m expanding my vocabulary.”

His phone vibrates again. You both look at it.

The screen lights up.

SUSIE

Your eyebrows rise. “Oh.”

Toto exhales through his nose.

You reach for a strawberry and pop it into your mouth. “This should be fun.”

“I don’t have to answer.”

“You absolutely have to answer.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to watch.”

He gives you a dry look. “You are enjoying this.”

“I am processing trauma through entertainment.”

“That is unhealthy.”

“I’m twenty. Everything I do is legally questionable.”

His stare says he wants to disagree and cannot.

The phone keeps vibrating.

Finally, Toto picks it up. “Susie.”

You immediately sit straighter on his lap, deeply invested.

The second Susie starts speaking, you can hear her voice from the phone. Not every word. Enough.

Her tone alone could cut through carbon fiber.

Toto closes his eyes for half a second. “Yes, I saw it.”

A pause.

“No, I did not arrange it.”

Another pause. His jaw tightens slightly.

You trace a finger over his open shirt, down the line of exposed skin, because yes, the photo was correct. His body is excellent.

He catches your wrist gently and gives you a warning look.

You smile.

Susie keeps talking. Toto’s expression shifts from patient to bored to mildly deadly.

“No,” he says. “I am not going to apologize for having a private life.”

A longer pause.

You stop teasing him for exactly three seconds. Then you shift slightly in his lap. Not much. Enough.

His hand tightens on your waist.

His eyes flick to yours. Warning. You blink innocently.

Susie says something sharper.

Toto’s gaze lifts to the window, to the bright Monaco morning beyond the glass.

Then his voice turns flat. Cold. Final. “We are not together anymore, Susie. You do not get to manage who I love.”

Your breath catches. The room goes quiet around those words.

You shift again, slower this time, letting your body press against his in a way that makes his jaw clench.

He does not look at you. That is how you know it works. His fingers dig into your hip through the shirt. Grounding. Possessive. A silent command to behave.

You do not. Because you are a problem.

His eyes darken.

Susie continues talking. Toto listens for a moment, expression unreadable, though now there is a very specific tension in his shoulders.

Then he says, “I wish you well. But do not call me to lecture me about my relationship again.”

He hangs up. No raised voice. Just one tap. Silence.

You stare at him.

He places the phone back on the table. It vibrates again almost instantly. He turns it face down.

“Well,” you say softly.

“Well.”

“That was…”

“Necessary.”

You nod.

“Are you okay?”

He looks at you then, and the question seems to surprise him more than the scandal, the photo, the calls, all of it.

His expression softens. “I should ask you that.”

“You already did.”

“And?”

“And I told you I’m fine.”

“And lied a little.”

You make a face and lean closer, resting your forehead against his.

“I don’t like that everyone thinks I’m some stupid young girl you bought after your divorce.”

His arms tighten around you. “You are not stupid.”

“I know.”

“And I did not buy you.”

“I know.”

“You are expensive, though.”

You gasp. “Toto.”

“You once made me pay two hundred euros for face cream.”

“It was a serum.”

“It was small.”

“It was powerful.”

“So are you.”

That shuts you up. His hand moves up your back beneath the shirt, warm and careful.

“You know what I think?” he asks.

“That Bradley is going to need medical leave?”

“Yes. But besides that.”

You smile faintly. “What?”

“I think they are angry because we are not ashamed.”

Your chest warms.

He continues, voice low. “They expect me to hide you. They expect you to look embarrassed. They expect us to behave as if their opinion has power over what happens in this room.”

He glances at the phone. It vibrates again.

He ignores it.

“It does not.”

You look at him for a long moment. “You’re very attractive when you’re arrogant.”

“I am factual.”

“Same thing.”

He finally smiles.

You place your hand on his bare chest. “You know what I think?”

“Hm?”

“I think this angle also made your jaw look good.”

He stares at you. “You are impossible.”

“I’m serious. The photo is scandalous, yes, but visually? Strong composition.”

Toto laughs again, and this time you kiss him. It starts soft. A thank you, a comfort.

Then his hand slides into your hair and the kiss turns warmer, deeper, a kiss that makes the entire internet feel very far away.

You press closer on his lap. His hand drops to your thigh.

Your fingers slide into the open front of his shirt. He breathes in slowly against your mouth.

“Toto,” you whisper.

His hand tightens. “You have a brunch fitting in forty minutes,” he murmurs.

“I hate that you remember my schedule during a crisis.”

“I remember everything.”

“Terrible boyfriend behavior.”

“Excellent boyfriend behavior.”

You kiss him again. Harder this time.

His phone vibrates against the table. Neither of you looks at it.

*

Three days later, Formula 1 hosts one of those glossy sponsor events where everyone pretends they are relaxed while wearing clothes that cost more than some cars.

Monaco glows outside the venue, all gold lights and expensive perfume, yachts lined up in the harbor like the universe has a spending problem.

Inside, the room is full of team principals, drivers, sponsors, influencers, former drivers, current drivers, people who do not know what DRS is but own three watches, and Bradley Lord looking like he has taken three deep breaths and none of them worked.

You arrive with Toto. Obviously.

You are wearing a dress that can only be described as a threat.

Elegant, fitted, cut in all the right places, with a slit high enough to make people suddenly develop religious concerns. Your heels make your legs look endless.

Toto, beside you, wears a dark suit and that calm, expensive expression that tells people he knows exactly what they are thinking and does not care.

His hand rests at your waist as you step into the room.

Immediately, heads turn.

You smile. “Do you think they saw the photo?”

Toto glances around. “I suspect so.”

“Maybe we should ask.”

“No.”

“You’re no fun.”

“I let you wear that dress.”

“You don’t let me do anything.”

His mouth curves. “Correct. I admire aggressively.”

You grin up at him. “That was almost romantic.”

“I can do better.”

“You can try.”

He leans down, lips near your ear. “You are the most beautiful woman in this room.”

Your smile slips into something softer. “See? Better.”

“You are also the most dangerous.”

“And we’re back to flirting.”

“I am a versatile man.”

His hand lowers slightly on your back. Not enough to be obscene. Enough for you to feel claimed.

You lean into him because you can. Because he lets you. Because he likes it. Because the room is already watching, and Toto Wolff has the emotional restraint of a man who threw his PR plan off the yacht.

Before you can answer, Bradley appears in front of you like a summoned PR ghost.

“Good evening,” he says.

“Bradley,” you say cheerfully. “You look alive.”

“Against all odds.”

Toto looks amused.

Bradley’s eyes flick briefly to your dress, then immediately away with the discipline of a man who enjoys employment.

“You both need to be careful tonight.”

You place a hand on your chest. “Us?”

“Yes. You.”

“Toto, he’s accusing us.”

Toto looks at Bradley. “Are you accusing us?”

“Yes,” Bradley says without hesitation.

You laugh.

Bradley holds up his phone. “There are sponsors here, cameras, journalists, drivers, and at least two people from Netflix.”

“Oh,” you say. “So a quiet evening.”

“Toto,” Bradley says, ignoring you, “please remember that after the yacht photo—”

“Private photo,” Toto corrects.

Bradley pauses.

“Yes. After the private photo that became public through illegal and morally bankrupt circumstances, people are watching.”

You tilt your head. “That was almost a legal statement.”

“I have practiced.”

Toto’s hand moves slightly on your waist, calm and firm. “We will behave.”

Bradley looks between you both. “No, you won’t.”

You smile. “No, we won’t.”

Bradley closes his eyes.

From behind him, George appears holding a glass of water. “Is this the crisis circle?”

Kimi steps beside him. “I was told there would be snacks.”

You beam. “Boys.”

George looks at your dress, then at Toto, then at the ceiling.

“I respect my boss and will not comment.”

Kimi nods. “Same.”

“You both are cowards.”

George lowers his voice. “After the yacht photo? Survivalists.”

Kimi adds, “I still have a career.”

Toto’s eyebrows lift. “Wise.”

George looks at him. “Boss, respectfully, that photo has ruined the garage.”

“How?” Toto asks.

“Half the mechanics won’t stop making yacht jokes. Someone labeled the simulator seat ‘private deck.’”

You burst out laughing. Toto looks deeply unimpressed.

Kimi adds, “Also someone asked if lap time improves with emotional support.”

You wipe under your eye. “I love this team.”

Bradley whispers, “I don’t.”

Then Fred Vasseur arrives with James Vowles beside him, because apparently the universe has decided to turn this evening into a tribunal with champagne.

Fred walks over first, smiling like a man who has waited three days for this moment.

“Toto,” Fred says warmly. “You look relaxed.”

Toto’s face goes blank. “Fred.”

Fred looks at you. “You look very nice. Very… headline compatible.”

You grin. “Thank you.”

James glances between you and Toto, visibly trying to decide whether this is a social conversation or a motorsport hazard.

Fred turns back to Toto. “I must say, the yacht... looked comfortable.”

George makes a choking sound. Kimi becomes deeply interested in the floor. Bradley mutters something that sounds like prayer.

Toto only lifts his glass. “It is.”

Fred nods. “Good seating, yes?”

You nearly lose it.

Toto’s mouth twitches despite himself. “Very good.”

James smiles faintly. “You do realize the entire paddock has seen that photo?”

Toto looks at him. “I read the news.”

Fred gestures between you both. “I understand now why Mercedes strategy meetings take so long. You are busy with… weight distribution.”

George walks away. He fully walks away. “I’m done,” he says over his shoulder. “I’m not paid enough.”

Kimi follows him. “Me neither.”

You laugh into Toto’s shoulder. Toto looks at Fred with the kind of patience reserved for badly timed pit stops.

“You have five seconds to enjoy this.”

“I only need three,” Fred says.

James lifts his glass slightly, eyes bright with amusement. “I will say, Toto, impressive.”

Toto’s gaze narrows. “In what way?”

James clears his throat. “A demanding young girlfriend, endless media attention, a paddock scandal every week, and somehow you still look calmer than most of us after a bad pit stop.”

Fred nods solemnly. “This is true. Very impressive stamina.”

Bradley makes a strangled sound. You bite your lip.

Toto does not even blink. “I manage.”

Your eyes snap to him.

Oh. That tone. That calm, dry, lethal tone.

Fred starts laughing. James looks into his champagne like it might save him.

You lean closer to Toto. “You do manage, darling” you say sweetly.

Bradley points at you. “No.”

You blink at him. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to.”

“I am being punished for thoughts now?”

“With you? Yes.”

You place a hand on your chest, deeply offended. “That is very unfair. I was only going to say that Toto is extremely disciplined, very focused, and has excellent stamina.”

Fred’s laughter stops. James slowly lowers his glass. Bradley goes completely still.

Toto’s eyes slide to you. Dangerous. Amused. A small warning.

You smile innocently. “In every area of life, of course.”

Bradley whispers, “Please stop.”

You do not. Because stopping has never been your strongest skill.

“I mean, when Toto decides to satisfy someone, he is very thorough. Patient. Methodical.” You glance up at him, smile sweet as champagne. “He doesn’t rush. He takes his time. Makes sure every little reaction is handled properly.”

Fred’s face changes. James looks like he has just realized there are no safe exits close enough.

Bradley coughs once.

You keep going, because the room has already chosen violence and you are simply honoring the theme. “And honestly, for a man everyone keeps calling old, he has a truly impressive ability to keep going until I forget why I was teasing him in the first place.”

Bradley chokes. Full choke. Red face. Glass down. One hand to his chest.

Fred takes one step back. “No, no, I am Ferrari. I do not need this data.”

James nods immediately. “Williams also declines the data.”

Toto, without changing expression, reaches over and pats Bradley firmly on the back. Once. Twice. A little too hard.

Bradley bends forward, wheezing.

“You okay, Bradley?” you ask sweetly.

He lifts one hand. “Do not speak to me.”

Fred is laughing now, but in the terrified way of a man who knows he has wandered into another team’s private telemetry session.

James turns toward the exit. “I have remembered an urgent meeting.”

“With who?” Fred asks.

“My dignity.”

“Good. I’ll join.”

You smile after them. “But I didn’t even mention his recovery pace.”

Fred stops. James grabs his sleeve. “No. We are leaving.”

They retreat with impressive speed for men in formal shoes.

Toto watches them go, then looks down at you. His hand tightens at your waist.

“You are impossible.”

You tilt your head, all innocence and bad decisions. “And yet very satisfied.”

Bradley coughs again. Toto pats his back one more time.

This time, Bradley grabs his wrist. “Stop helping.”

*

The evening continues exactly like that. People approach. People smile too politely. People glance at you and Toto like you are a live fire hazard.

Some comments are gentle. Some less so. An older sponsor asks Toto if he is “enjoying this new chapter.”

Toto answers, “Very much,” while holding you closer.

A former driver jokes that you have “made him young again.”

You reply, “No, that’s his skincare. I take no credit.”

Toto murmurs, “You bought the skincare.”

“I improved the brand.”

You stay attached to him for most of the evening. Hand on his chest. Fingers around his arm. Hip pressed to his side. Your body leaning into his as if the entire room does not exist.

Toto allows all of it. Worse. He enjoys it.

You feel it in the way his hand finds your waist every time you move. In the way his fingers spread over your bare back. In the way his thumb traces small circles against your hip while he talks to sponsors like he is not currently turning you into a PR disaster with a manicure.

Lando stops by, because naturally he does. He looks at you, then Toto, then your dress.

“Another quiet outfit.”

You smile. “Another unsuccessful rescue attempt?”

He sighs. “I’ve accepted defeat.”

“Good.”

“But the yacht photo?” Lando shakes his head. “That one hurt morale.”

Toto looks at him. “Your morale?”

“The grid’s morale. We were already losing to your bank account, now we have to compete with yacht romance?”

You laugh.

Toto’s arm tightens slightly. “You do not have to compete.”

Lando grins. “See, that sounded humble but felt threatening.”

“It was efficient.”

Lando points at you. “Is he always like this?”

“Worse in private.”

“I believe it.”

Toto’s gaze sharpens. “Careful.”

Lando lifts his hands. “I meant emotionally.”

You snort. “Sure you did.”

Across the room, you spot Susie. She stands near a group of sponsors, elegant and composed, watching for just a moment too long.

Your smile fades slightly.

Toto notices at once. His hand moves from your waist to your lower back, subtle but protective.

“Do you want to leave?” he asks quietly.

“No.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

Susie approaches a few minutes later.

Toto stands a little taller. You stay exactly where you are, close to him, your hand resting lightly against his chest.

Susie looks at you first. Then at Toto.

“Toto.”

“Susie.”

Her gaze flicks between you both. “I see the scandal hasn’t made you more cautious.”

You smile before Toto can answer. “Caution doesn’t really match the dress.”

Susie looks at you. For a second, you expect sharpness. Instead, something polished and irritated passes over her face.

She is trying to hide it. She is very good. Not good enough.

“You’re very young,” she says.

There it is again. The sentence everyone uses when they want to say something else. Too young. Too foolish. Too temporary. Too easy to dismiss.

You feel Toto’s body tense beside you.

But you answer first. “I am.”

Susie blinks, maybe surprised.

You continue, calm and sweet. “And I love him. Both can be true.”

Toto looks down at you.

You don’t look away from Susie. “I know what people think,” you say. “I hear the jokes. I read the comments. I know they think I’m here because of money or attention or whatever makes the story easier for them.”

Your fingers curl gently into Toto’s jacket.

“But I’m here because he makes me happy. And because I make him happy. That’s all.”

For a moment, Susie says nothing. The room moves around you, laughter and music and glasses clinking, but the little circle you stand in feels still.

Then Susie looks at Toto. “He has always been difficult.”

You smile. “Daily.”

Toto’s eyebrow lifts. Susie’s mouth tightens before it almost becomes a smile. Almost.

“Good luck, then.”

You tilt your head. “With Toto?”

“With the world watching.”

You glance up at him. His eyes are on you, warm and certain.

“I’m used to it.”

Susie studies you both for one more second. Then she nods, once. Not approval exactly, not a friendship. Something less sharp than before, though not soft either.

She leaves without another lecture.

Toto exhales slowly. You look up at him.

“Well. Nobody died.”

“Excellent standard.”

“I think your ex-wife doesn’t like me.”

His mouth twitches. “She has complicated feelings.”

“That is rich-people language for ‘she wants to throw me into the harbor.’”

“Possibly.”

You grin. “You’d save me.”

“Obviously.”

“In the suit?”

“I would remove the jacket.”

“Practical.”

“I am always practical.”

“You are dating me.”

His eyes soften. “That was the least practical decision of my life.”

You gasp. “Toto.”

“And the best.”

Your mouth closes. Unfair. Completely unfair.

Then Fred’s voice cuts in from nearby. “I am sorry to interrupt emotional development, but someone is taking photos.”

Bradley appears instantly. “Where?”

Fred points vaguely. “Everywhere. It is Monaco.”

Bradley looks at you and Toto. “Please do not kiss.”

You and Toto look at each other.

Bradley’s eyes widen. “No.”

You smile. “Toto.”

“Yes, Schatz?”

“Bradley said please.”

“That was polite of him.”

“So we should respect it?”

“We should.”

You nod solemnly. Then Toto kisses you.

He cups your face with one hand and kisses you right there in the middle of the sponsor event, surrounded by team principals, drivers, sponsors, cameras, scandal, history, ex-wives, and at least one man from Netflix probably thanking every god of content.

It is not long. It does not need to be. It says enough. You are here. He wants you here. He is not hiding. Neither are you.

When he pulls back, your lips curve into a smile. Bradley makes a tiny, broken sound.

James murmurs, “Bold.”

Fred raises his glass. “To young love and terrible decision-making.”

Lando cheers from somewhere behind him.

George shouts, “I am not involved.”

Kimi says, “I was never here.”

You laugh against Toto’s chest.

Toto’s arm wraps around you, keeping you close, his mouth near your temple. “Still not upset?” he asks quietly.

You look around the room. At the whispers. The cameras. The people pretending not to stare.

Then you look at him. Tall, handsome, composed, completely yours.

Your scandal. Your impossible man. Your boyfriend with the body of an Adonis and the emotional restraint of a man who had thrown his PR plan into the Monaco harbor.

“No,” you say.

His eyes soften. “Good.”

“But I am still mad about one thing.”

His brows pull together. “What?”

You lean closer, lowering your voice. “I think the yacht photo should have captured your abs better.”

For one second, he stares at you. Then he laughs. The sound warms everything inside you.

His hand tightens at your waist. “You are a menace.”

“You love me.”

“I do.”

“Even when I cause scandals?”

“Especially then.”

You grin.

Bradley, still nearby, points at both of you. “I heard that, and I am choosing to ignore it for my health.”

You rest your cheek against Toto’s chest.

“See? Progress.”

Toto kisses the top of your head.

Across the room, cameras flash again.

You know you should behave. You know Bradley is right there. You know half the paddock is watching.

Toto knows it too. That is probably why he does it. His hand slides from your waist down to your ass. Slow. Confident. Public enough to be dangerous.

Then he squeezes. Not hard but just enough. Enough to make your breath catch. Enough to make your eyes widen.

Enough for Bradley to make a sound like his soul has left the building.

“Toto,” Bradley whispers, horrified.

Fred bursts out laughing. James turns away, smiling into his glass.

George, from across the room, says, “I saw nothing!”

Kimi immediately adds, “I saw less.”

Toto looks completely calm. The bastard.

You, despite the high heels, rise even higher on your toes and press a kiss to his cheek. Soft. Sweet. Absolutely shameless.

Cameras flash again. More this time. A little storm of them.

You glance at Bradley, smiling. “Well,” you say brightly, “now our photo will definitely make the front pages.”

Bradley looks like he needs medical assistance. “Why,” he says, voice hollow, “are you like this?”

You lean into Toto, who still has his hand very much where it should not be during a sponsor event.

“Love.”

Bradley closes his eyes. “That is not a legal defense.”

Toto’s mouth curves. “It should be.”

Let them write. Let the articles come. Let the comments explode. Let them call you his mistake, his crisis, his pretty scandal.

You already know the truth. You are the woman he pulls closer when the world stares. And he is the man who kisses you anyway.

...and sometimes he also grabs your ass in front of sponsors. Which, honestly, is very bad for PR. And excellent for morale.

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