The skirt is short. Very short. The kind of short that makes mirrors feel judgmental and photographers feel blessed.

You look at yourself one last time in the hotel mirror, smooth your hands over the fabric, tilt your head, and smile.

Perfect.

Toto is sitting in the armchair near the window, phone in one hand, glasses low on his nose, pretending to read something important. Pretending.

Because he has looked at your legs at least four times in the last thirty seconds.

You catch him on the fifth. “Problem, Mr. Wolff?”

His eyes lift slowly. Too slowly. “No.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

“You look like your strategy model just crashed.”

“My strategy model is fine.”

You turn slightly, just enough for the skirt to shift higher. Toto’s jaw tightens. Very satisfying.

“I can change,” you say sweetly.

“No.”

The answer comes too fast.

You grin. “No?”

“No.”

“You didn’t even pretend to think about it.”

“I am an efficient man.”

“You are a predictable man.”

His mouth curves. “With you? Never.”

You walk toward him, boots clicking softly against the floor. His gaze follows you with the focus of a man watching a qualifying lap on fresh softs.

You stop between his knees and adjust his collar. “Will this cause a scandal?”

“Yes.”

“Will Bradley cry?”

“Yes.”

“Will you do anything about it?”

Toto leans back, looking up at you like you are the best mistake he has ever made.

“No.”

You beam. “That’s my man.”

His hand finds the back of your thigh, warm and steady, just beneath the edge of the skirt.

“Careful,” he murmurs.

You bend closer. “You first.”

He exhales through his nose, half laugh, half warning. “You enjoy making my life difficult.”

“I keep you young.”

“You keep Bradley medicated.”

“Same thing.”

By the time you arrive at the paddock, the cameras are already hungry. The first flash comes before you even step fully out of the car. Then another. Then twenty.

You feel Toto behind you, tall and calm, his hand settling at your waist as if he is personally signing the scandal into existence.

The paddock turns. George sees you first. His eyes go from your face to your outfit, then immediately up to the sky like he is asking for divine intervention.

“Nope,” he says. “I am not commenting.”

Kimi appears beside him, looks once, and turns around. “I saw nothing.”

“You both saw everything,” you say.

George points at Toto. “Your girlfriend is trying to get the FIA involved.”

Toto looks bored. “The FIA has no jurisdiction over skirts.”

“They will after today.”

You smile at George. “You like it?”

“I like keeping my contract, so I will say you look very nice and also I have a race to prepare for.”

Kimi nods. “Smart answer.”

You blow them both a kiss.

George mutters, “Mascot behavior.”

Toto’s hand slides slightly lower on your back. “Strategic emotional support asset,” he corrects.

From behind, Bradley appears with a coffee and the expression of a man already experiencing a migraine in preview mode. He sees you. Stops. Blinks once. Then looks at Toto.

“No.”

You grin. “Good morning, Bradley.”

“No.”

“You don’t even know what I’m going to do.”

“That is exactly why I’m saying no.”

Toto raises an eyebrow. “She is wearing a skirt.”

“She is wearing a headline.”

You glance down. “A cute headline.”

Bradley points at you with his coffee. “That skirt is going to have its own hashtag by lights out.”

“Great,” you say. “Organic engagement.”

Bradley turns to Toto. “Please tell me you understand the optics.”

Toto looks at you. At your legs. At your smile. Then back at Bradley.

“I understand them.”

“And?”

“And I like them.”

Bradley closes his eyes. Somewhere nearby, James Allison walks past, takes one look at the scene, and keeps walking.

“No,” James says without stopping. “I’m an engineer. This is outside my department.”

“You’re all cowards,” you call after him.

James raises his coffee in surrender.

The paddock has always stared at you, but today it stares with commitment. You feel eyes on your legs, on Toto’s hand, on the way he walks just close enough for everyone to know exactly where he stands.

Beside you. Always.

A few journalists whisper. A photographer nearly walks backward into a tyre trolley. One mechanic from another team forgets what he is carrying and has to be redirected by his colleague.

Then Lando appears, because apparently chaos has a subscription service. He slows down dramatically when he sees you.

“Oh,” he says.

Toto’s face immediately loses all humor.

“Careful.”

Lando lifts both hands. “I was going to say nice shoes.”

“No, you weren’t,” you say.

“No, I wasn’t.”

You laugh. Lando grins at you. “Respectfully, this paddock has suffered enough. You can’t just arrive looking like that next to him. It confuses the young drivers.”

Toto looks at him. “You seem easily confused.”

“I drive for McLaren. Emotional confusion is part of the job.”

You snort. Lando points at your skirt. “Anyway, if Mercedes gets tired of being scandalous, we offer papaya.”

“I look terrible in orange.”

“You don’t.”

Toto’s arm tightens around your waist. “She does.”

You look up at him. “Toto.”

“You said you hate orange.”

“I do, but I enjoy being complimented.”

“I compliment you.”

“You glare at men who compliment me.”

“Yes.”

Lando nods. “Healthy. Mature. Very post-divorce.”

Toto’s smile is sharp enough to cut carbon fiber. “You have somewhere to be?”

“Far away from your midlife crisis? Probably.”

You gasp, delighted. “Oh, that one made Twitter.”

Lando winks. “I read the classics.”

Toto leans down slightly. “She is not my midlife crisis.”

Lando’s grin softens just a little. “Yeah,” he says. “We know.”

And then he disappears before Toto can decide whether silence counts as murder.

*

The race begins with noise, heat, and the kind of tension that makes even your jokes come out quieter. At first, you stand beside Toto in the garage screens, arms crossed, watching the timing gaps.

You understand enough now to follow the strategy. Enough to know when Toto’s jaw tightens. Enough to know when George is managing tyres. Enough to know when Kimi is about to get told something deeply unhelpful like “push now.”

The opening laps are messy. A virtual safety car. One bad pit stop from Ferrari. A Red Bull complaining about traffic. Normal Sunday religion.

Toto stands behind the monitors, headset on, one hand resting on the table, completely focused.

You watch him more than the race. That is your own problem. There is something unfair about him like this. Controlled. Commanding. Untouchable to everyone else. Yours in every way that matters.

After lap twenty-two, the race settles. Mercedes is in a decent position. Nobody is actively ruining Toto’s blood pressure for once.

You glance around. Bradley is away dealing with journalists. George is on track. Kimi is on track. James is in engineering mode.

Toto is standing behind his chair. Perfect.

You step closer. He notices without looking away from the screen.

“What are you doing?”

“Watching the race.”

“You were already watching the race.”

“I want a better seat.”

His eyes flick to you. Then to the chair. Then back to you. There is one second of silence. One small, dangerous second where he could choose wisdom.

He does not. Toto Wolff, team principal, billionaire, grown adult, public figure, man who should absolutely know better, sits down. And lets you slide onto his lap.

The garage freezes. Truly freezes. A race engineer looks at the screen with such intensity he might burn through it. Someone drops a pen. Someone else whispers, “Oh my God.”

Toto adjusts his headset calmly. You settle sideways on his lap, one arm around his shoulders, legs angled neatly enough to keep the skirt from becoming a national incident. Mostly.

His hand rests on your thigh. Casual. Protective. Possessive.

The cameras find you within five seconds. You know because Bradley’s voice comes through somewhere behind you.

“No. No, no, no. Absolutely not.”

You turn your head and smile at him. He looks pale.

“Toto,” Bradley says, voice strangled. “There are cameras.”

Toto keeps watching the timing screen. “I know.”

“Broadcast cameras.”

“I know.”

“International broadcast cameras.”

“I know.”

You lean into Toto’s shoulder. “He knows, Bradley.”

Bradley looks like he wants to resign and become a florist. James removes his glasses and rubs his face. “I miss when our biggest problem was tyre temperature.”

George’s radio crackles faintly. “Why is everyone laughing on the pit wall?”

Nobody answers. The silence that follows is suspicious.

You bite your lip. Toto’s mouth twitches. “Don’t laugh,” he murmurs.

“You started this.”

“I sat down.”

“You gave me permission.”

“You took initiative.”

“You like initiative.”

His hand squeezes your thigh once. “I do.”

You shift slightly, getting comfortable. His breath changes. Only a little. Enough for you to notice.

You smile against his shoulder. “Problem?”

“Behave.”

“I am watching the race.”

“You are sitting on my lap during the race.”

“And?”

“And your skirt is very short.”

“That sounds like a design feature.”

His jaw moves. You love when he is trying not to react. It is your favorite hobby.

Lap thirty-one. George gains a place. The garage cheers. You clap softly, still on Toto’s lap, and kiss his cheek.

The camera catches that too.

Bradley makes a sound behind you that might be the death of hope. Toto says nothing. He just turns slightly and presses a kiss to your temple.

The paddock, the internet, and every gossip account in existence probably combust at the same time.

You lean closer to his ear. “Do you think they’re still calling me an accessory?”

His fingers trace a small, slow circle over your knee. “They can call you whatever they want.”

“And what do you call me?”

His eyes stay on the screen. “Mine.”

Your stomach flips. Ridiculous. One word from him and you are done. Absolutely pathetic.

You lower your voice. “Careful, Mr. Wolff.”

His thumb stills. “Why?”

“Because when we get on your jet tonight…”

He turns his head slightly. Just enough. His eyes meet yours. Dark. Focused. No longer on the timing screen.

You smile, innocent as sin. “I have plans.”

His fingers tighten against your thigh. The race keeps happening. Somewhere. Probably.

“What kind of plans?” he asks quietly.

You lean closer until your lips brush his ear.

“The kind Bradley doesn’t need to schedule.”

His jaw tightens. You continue, whispering just enough to ruin his concentration. “The kind where you stop pretending you’re calm.”

Toto inhales slowly. “Tread carefully.”

You smile. “The kind where that black shirt does not survive the flight.”

His eyes close for half a second. Tiny. Barely visible. A victory.

Then he opens them and looks back at the screen like a man trying to remember he runs a Formula 1 team. “You are dangerous.”

“You knew that before you took me home.”

“I underestimated the operational risk.”

You nearly laugh into his neck. “Want me to stop?”

“No.”

The answer is immediate. Again.

You grin. Toto turns his head slightly, his mouth near your ear now. “When we get on that jet,” he says, voice low and rough, “you will behave until we are in the air.”

Your breath catches. He continues, calm enough to be cruel. “Then you can tell me every single one of those plans properly.”

Oh. Well. Your brain leaves the paddock. Possibly the continent.

You blink at the timing screen. “Copy.”

His mouth curves. “Good girl.”

Your heart performs a qualifying lap.

Behind you, James says, “I am going to pretend I heard none of that.”

Bradley sounds like he is seconds from spiritual collapse. “I am calling communications. And legal. And maybe a priest.”

You sit up straighter. “Bradley, relax. We are helping engagement.”

“You are creating a scandal.”

Toto’s hand settles more firmly around your waist. “She creates many things.”

James stands up. “No. I draw the line. I am leaving.”

You laugh so hard you have to hide your face against Toto’s shoulder. Toto, traitor that he is, looks deeply pleased with himself.

The race ends with George and Kimi on podium, and Mercedes avoiding disaster. A miracle.

The bigger miracle is that Bradley has not fainted. The second Toto stands, he keeps you close, one hand at your waist while cameras flash from every angle.

You know what the photos will look like. You on his lap. His hand on your thigh. Your mouth near his ear. His face calm, but his eyes giving him away.

By midnight, every social platform will have opinions. By morning, there will be articles.

Toto Wolff’s Girlfriend Causes Stir in the Mercedes Garage. Young Partner Sits On Mercedes Boss’s Lap During Grand Prix. Paddock Romance Or PR Nightmare?

You can already see the comments.

She’s embarrassing him. He’s embarrassing himself. She knows exactly what she’s doing. He should know better.

You glance at Toto as you walk back through the paddock. He looks completely unbothered. Actually, worse. He looks happy. Warm. Proud. Like the whole world can point and laugh, and he will still pick you every time.

“You know this is going to be everywhere,” you say.

“Yes.”

“You’re really not worried?”

“No.”

“Not even a little?”

He stops near the Mercedes hospitality entrance and looks down at you. His fingers brush your chin gently. “I spent too much of my life worrying about what people think.”

Your smile softens. “And now?”

“Now I worry whether you had lunch.”

You roll your eyes, but your chest goes warm. “You are impossible.”

“You love me.”

“I do.”

His expression softens. Still, after all this chaos, those words do something to him. Every time.

You step closer and fix the collar of his shirt. “Also, I did have lunch.”

“Good.”

“And I’m still thinking about the jet.”

His eyes darken instantly.

“Toto?”

“Yes?”

“You are blushing.”

“I am not.”

“You are.”

“I am planning logistics.”

You laugh. “Is that what we call it now?”

His hand slides to the small of your back. “Careful.”

You rise on your toes and press a kiss to his cheek. “Never.”

Bradley appears from nowhere, holding his phone like a weapon. “Please tell me there will be no more incidents today.”

You look at Toto. Toto looks at you. You both look at Bradley.

“No promises,” you say.

Bradley turns around and walks away. James, passing by with coffee, mutters, “Smart man.”

Toto watches them go, then leans down close to your ear. “Jet leaves in two hours.”

Your stomach flips again. You look up at him, smiling sweetly. “Plenty of time to create one more headline.”

Toto’s laugh is quiet, dangerous, and entirely yours. Then he takes your hand and leads you inside, while the paddock watches, whispers, judges, and burns with curiosity.

Let them.