SHEXGAL

Maison Étoiles, Monaco - 27 September 2025

The drive from the apartment to the house was short.

Still, Ana felt strangely aware of every minute of it.

Jimmy and Sassy sat in their carriers in the back seat, occasionally voicing their strong opinions about travel arrangements. Jack had been narrating their complaints the entire ride like a wildlife documentary.

“Jimmy seems calm,” he announced.

“He usually is,” Ana said.

“Sassy sounds angry.”

“That is also her natural state.”

Susie laughed quietly from the driver seat.

The car turned through the gates and into the drive.

Ana had seen the house before, of course. During their viewing. During visits. On plans, renderings, and photos sent by contractors.

But this was the first time it was finished.

The first time she saw it the way it was meant to exist.

Sunlight washed across pale stone walls and tall windows that reflected the Mediterranean sky. The garden stretched around the house in neat terraces, the lemon trees already catching the afternoon light.

For a moment Ana didn’t move.

Jack leaned forward from the back seat.

“Whoa.”

Susie smiled.

“Not bad, huh?”

Ana exhaled softly.

It wasn’t just the architecture.

It was the feeling.

Something quiet and steady settled in her chest.

Like a place that had been waiting.

Like… home.

Susie parked the car.

Jack immediately opened his door and ran toward the house before Susie could even remind him not to sprint.

“Jack!” Susie called.

“Sorry!”

Ana lifted the cat carriers out of the back seat.

Jimmy tolerated this with dignity.

Sassy screamed like she was being kidnapped.

Ana adjusted her grip slightly.

“Yes,” she said drily. “Your objections have been noted.”

Inside, the front door was already open.

Voices drifted out.

Freya.

And Toto.

Ana stepped into the entry hall.

“Hello?”

Freya appeared from the living room almost immediately, moving with the purposeful energy of someone who had already taken control of the entire situation.

“Oh good,” she said. “You’re back.”

Jack ran past her toward the kitchen.

“There are lemons outside!”

Ana set the cat carriers down gently. “We’ll put them in one of the guest rooms,” she said.

“Good idea,” Susie agreed.

They carried the carriers upstairs to one of the quiet guest bedrooms. Ana opened the doors of the cat carriers.

Jimmy stepped out immediately and began inspecting the unfamiliar space.

Sassy followed.

She sniffed the air.

Then walked directly to the bed and jumped onto it.

Claimed.

Ana nodded approvingly.

“Excellent.”

Behind her, Jack knelt down.

“They like it.”

“Yes.” Sassy stretched luxuriously across the duvet like she had personally financed the property.

Ana crouched briefly to scratch Jimmy behind the ears. “You’ll like it here,” she promised him softly. “I know I will.” 

Jimmy purred.

Ana closed the door to keep them from wandering through the chaos of movers.

Downstairs the sounds of movement continued — contractors, tools, voices.

Ana walked slowly back into the living room. And stopped.

The high windows stretched across the wall, flooding the room with warm light.

The kitchen opened seamlessly beside it.

Beyond the glass doors the terraces stepped down through the garden, the trees bright against the stone.

All the pieces she had been coordinating remotely for weeks — phone calls, emails, construction timelines, furniture deliveries — suddenly existed in one place.

Finished.

Real.

The emotion that rose in her chest caught her slightly off guard.

Susie noticed immediately.

“You okay?”

Ana nodded slowly.

“Yes.”

She looked around again.

“It feels…”

The sentence didn’t finish.

It didn’t need to.

Susie understood anyway.

Freya reappeared with a large book in her hands.

The art catalogue.

It now looked significantly thicker than it had that morning.

Ana frowned slightly. “What happened to it?”

Freya grinned. “Creative decisions.”

Toto walked in behind her holding a stack of neon sticky notes. “Your aunt has opinions.”

Freya handed the book over.

Ana opened it.

Nearly every page contained a sticky note.

Blue.

Pink.

Yellow.

Some with comments.

Some with arrows.

Some with what appeared to be very strong disapproval.

Ana stared.“…You marked half the catalogue.”

Freya looked pleased. “Only the promising half.”

Susie leaned over Ana’s shoulder.“Oh wow.”

Ana flipped another page.

Another sticky note.

Another.

Another.

Toto crossed his arms. “We may have gotten carried away.”

Ana closed the book slowly. “I see.”

Freya pointed at one page. “That sculpture would look excellent in the entry hall.”

Toto pointed at another. “That painting would work in the living room.”

Freya shook her head. “No.”

They immediately began arguing quietly about color balance.

Ana watched them for a moment, slightly overwhelmed but amused.

Then Toto looked back at her. “Oh,” he added casually. “We still need to get you a piano.”

Ana blinked. “What.”

Toto shrugged. “You play.”

Freya nodded immediately. “A grand piano would look excellent in that corner.”

She pointed toward the window area of the living room.

Ana followed the gesture.

The space was large.

Open.

Sunlight poured in through the glass.

She could picture it immediately.

Toto noticed the look.

“Yes,” he said calmly. “That corner.”

Ana looked back at her aunt. “You’re enabling him.”

Freya smiled. “Of course I am.”

Susie laughed softly.

***

Text Messages: Sebastian Vettel & Lewis Hamilton

Sebastian: I need an outside opinion.

Lewis: You’re asking me? That’s a dangerous start.

Sebastian:Carlos Sainz just suggested I run for FIA president.

Lewis: What

Sebastian:Long story.

Lewis:I have time. I’m at the vet.

Sebastian:I texted Carlos Sr. about the penalty points situation and the FIA mess.I suggested he run against Ben Sulayem.

Sebastian:He said it would be a conflict of interest while Carlos Jr. is still racing.

Lewis:Fair point.

Sebastian:Then he said maybe I should do it.

Lewis:😂

Sebastian:This is not funny.

Lewis:It’s a little funny.

Sebastian:Lewis.

Lewis:Sorry Honestly that might be the best idea I’ve heard all week. I would absolutely vote for President Vettel.

Sebastian:You’re not helping.

Lewis:No I’m serious.

Lewis:You’re the only person stubborn enough to fight them and smart enough to understand the sport.

Sebastian:I’m a retired racing driver who likes bees.

Lewis:Exactly.

Sebastian:That is not a qualification.

Lewis:You care about the future of the sport more than most people in the paddock.

Lewis:Also you already spend half your time arguing with the FIA anyway.

Sebastian:That is also true.

Lewis:So why not do it officially.

Sebastian:It sounds like a nightmare.

Lewis:Most things worth doing are.

Sebastian:You would support it.

Lewis:Absolutely.Seb.The sport needs people who actually care about it.

Sebastian:I’m not saying yes.

Lewis:But you’re not saying no.

Sebastian:I’m saying I need to think about it.

Lewis:That sounds like a future president answer.

Sebastian:Don’t start.

Lewis:President Vettel.

Sebastian:Lewis.

Lewis:😂

Seb: How are you doing?

Lewis: Honestly?

Lewis: It helps talking about anything that isn’t Roscoe right now.

Seb: I understand.

Lewis: Ana helped a lot earlier. She’s good at that.

Lewis:Seriously. Run.

Seb: God help the FIA.

Lewis: Exactly.

***

Group Chat: The Old Wolves

(Members: Jenson Button, Sebastian Vettel, Nico Rosberg, David Coulthard, Mark Webber, Fernando Alonso) 

Sebastian Vettel:So… hypothetically speaking.

Mark Webber:oh no

Jenson Button:Whenever you start a message like that it means chaos is coming.

Sebastian Vettel:Carlos Sainz Sr suggested I run for FIA president.

Mark Webber:…you’re kidding

David Coulthard:Well that escalated quickly.

Fernando Alonso:Interesting.

Jenson Button:Wait You’re serious?

Sebastian Vettel:He said it would not be appropriate for him because Carlos is still racing.

Mark Webber:that actually makes sense

Sebastian Vettel:Then he suggested me.

Jenson Button:Oh my god.

Fernando Alonso:Yes.

Mark Webber:hang on

Mark Webber:are we actually discussing this like it’s real

Fernando Alonso:We absolutely are.

David Coulthard:If we’re doing this properly, we need to consider the election structure.

Nico Rosberg:Correct.

Nico Rosberg:Okay, quick overview.

Mark Webber:here we go

Nico Rosberg:To run for FIA President you need seven endorsing Vice-Presidents.

Jenson Button:Seven?

Nico Rosberg:Yes. Two from Europe, and one from each of the remaining FIA sporting regions.

Sebastian Vettel:That sounds complicated.

Nico Rosberg:It is.

David Coulthard:Which regions exactly?

Nico Rosberg:Europe North America South America Middle East & North Africa Africa Asia-Pacific

Mark Webber:Jesus.

Fernando Alonso:So we build a coalition.

Mark Webber:Of course Fernando says that like we’re launching a revolution.

Fernando Alonso:We are.

Jenson Button:This is already the best group chat I’ve been in all week.

Sebastian Vettel:I only said I was considering it.

Mark Webber:mate you can’t drop that bomb and expect us to stay calm

Nico Rosberg:The bigger issue is endorsements.

Sebastian Vettel:Why.

Nico Rosberg:Because you might actually get the others.

Nico Rosberg:Europe will not be difficult. Drivers trust you. You have credibility with safety initiatives.

David Coulthard:Also the environmental projects.

Fernando Alonso:And the fact that you are not currently insane.

Jenson Button:A surprisingly rare qualification.

Nico Rosberg:North America is achievable.

Mark Webber:Asia-Pacific might actually like you too.

Fernando Alonso:Africa could be negotiated.

Sebastian Vettel:You are all talking about this like it’s already happening.

Nico Rosberg:Because it might.

Nico Rosberg:However.

Mark Webber:there it is

Nico Rosberg:You will have one major problem.

Sebastian Vettel:Which is?

Nico Rosberg:Fabiana Ecclestone.

Jenson Button:Oh.

David Coulthard:Yes.

Fernando Alonso:That is a problem.

Sebastian Vettel:Why.

Nico Rosberg:Because she is the only vice-president for South America. 

Mark Webber:And she’s very close to the current leadership.

Nico Rosberg:More than close.

Jenson Button:Translation: she loves Ben Sulayem.

Nico Rosberg:Exactly.

Sebastian Vettel:Fantastic.

Mark Webber:so step one of the campaign is convincing the Ecclestone household not to destroy us?

Fernando Alonso:We simply outmaneuver them.

Jenson Button:Fernando, this is not chess.

Fernando Alonso:Everything is chess.

David Coulthard:Let’s stay focused.

Mark Webber:this escalated from “Seb texted Carlos” to “we’re planning a coup”

Sebastian Vettel:I regret telling you people.

Jenson Button:Too late now.

Nico Rosberg:Actually.

Sebastian Vettel:What now.

Nico Rosberg:You might genuinely win.

Fernando Alonso:Yes.

Mark Webber:oh god

Jenson Button:We’re actually doing this aren’t we.

Sebastian Vettel:I said I was considering it.

David Coulthard:Seb.

Sebastian Vettel:Yes?

David Coulthard:If you run, we’re all in.

Fernando Alonso:Obviously.

Mark Webber:yeah mate you’ve accidentally started a revolution

Sebastian Vettel:…this escalated very quickly.

***

Hospital Pasteur, Nice, France -  27 September 2025 

Ana arrived at the hospital later that afternoon with the quiet efficiency she carried into everything.

By now the corridors had become too familiar. 

The pale, slightly unforgiving hospital lighting. The low mechanical hum that never really disappeared. The smell of antiseptic threaded with stale coffee from somewhere further down the hall. A trolley rolled past at the far end of the corridor; a nurse murmured something to a colleague; otherwise everything was subdued, as though the building had learned to lower its voice around pain.

She balanced the art catalogue under one arm and pushed open the door to Max’s room with her free hand.

He was propped up in bed, pillows stacked behind him, his left leg still elevated in its elaborate arrangement of pillows and blankets. His hair was predictably a mess — sleep, medication, frustration, all of it visible in the disorder of it — but he looked more awake than he had the night before. Less grey around the edges. More present.

Across from him sat GP, leaning back in the chair with the posture of someone who had clearly been there a while.

GP looked up first. “Well,” he said dryly, “reinforcements have arrived.”

Max turned his head immediately when he heard her. “There you are,” he said.

The words were simple, but something in Ana’s chest softened anyway.

She stepped inside, let the door fall shut behind her, and set her bag down by the chair.

“Hello,” she said.

GP stood, stretching slightly. “Right,” he said, clapping his hands together once. “I’m going to leave you two alone before Max starts complaining that I’m interfering with romance.”

Max rolled his eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

GP ignored that.

He leaned over briefly, squeezing Max’s shoulder once — firm, reassuring — then grabbed the empty junk-food basket Eloisa and Francesca had sent earlier.

Ana offered him a small smile. “Thank you for visiting him.”

GP waved that away immediately. “Someone has to make sure he doesn’t terrorize the nurses,” he said easily.

Max scoffed. “I’m perfectly behaved.”

GP snorted. “Sure.”

He stepped toward the door, pausing briefly beside Ana. “Take care of him,” he said quietly.

Ana nodded. “Always.”

GP gave Max one last look. “Don’t text me nonsense at three in the morning again.”

“No promises,” Max replied.

GP shook his head and left. The door clicked shut behind him. Ana set the catalogue on the bed.

Max watched her as she moved around the room, slipping her shoes off and setting her bag down. 

“You look tired,” he said.

“So do you.”

“Fair.”

She glanced at the narrow hospital chair. Then at the bed. Without saying anything she climbed carefully onto the mattress beside him, moving slowly so she wouldn’t jostle his leg.

Max immediately shifted closer.

He simply leaned sideways until his head rested against her shoulder, as though that was where it had been supposed to be all day and he was only now correcting the error.

Ana adjusted slightly so he could fit more comfortably, one arm automatically coming up behind him.

For a moment neither of them spoke.

Just quiet.

Just breathing.

Then she opened the catalogue.

“My father gave us homework,” she said.

Max groaned softly.

“Oh no.”

“Yes,” she said calmly, turning the first page. “Apparently we have to choose art for the house.”

He didn’t move his head from her shoulder. “Dangerous idea.”

“Why?”

“You have taste.”

“And you do not?”

“I only have opinions,” Max said drily. 

Ana just rolled her eyes. “Papa and Aunt Freya put post its on the ones that they think could work.” 

Max frowned slightly. “…Freya.”

“Yes.”

He turned around slightly to look at her.

“Who’s Freya?”

Ana blinked. “Oh.”

Max stared. “You forgot to mention that part.”

“She arrived last night.”

Max waited.

“My aunt.”

Max blinked again.

“You have an aunt?”

“Yes. Papa’s younger sister.”

“She’s in Monaco?”

“Currently yes. She does a lot of travelling for her job.”

Max looked faintly betrayed. “And nobody told me?!”

“I didn’t even know she was coming. She met Papa in Vienna yesterday evening,” Ana said drily. “ Believe me, I am just as surprised as you are.” 

Max narrowed his eyes slightly.  “Still rude.”

Ana’s lips twitched slightly. “She is currently supervising the contractors.”

Max leaned back in the bed. “…God help the contractors,” he said drily. 

Ana nodded. “That was roughly Papa’s reaction.”

Max looked up at her. “And you just left them all alone in our house?”

“Yes.”

Max thought about it for a moment. “…Actually that sounds incredibly entertaining.”

Ana smiled faintly. Max glanced up again.

“So.”

“Yes?”

“Did you pick anything?”

Ana picked up the catalogue and placed it on his lap.

“We are choosing together.”

Max flipped it open. The catalogue was thick — contemporary art, abstract pieces, photography, sculptures. Max’s eyes moved lazily across the pages.

They sat like that for several minutes, occasionally pointing at something.

“This one,” Ana said at one point.

Max squinted at the page.

“That looks like someone dropped paint on a wall.”

“That is modern art.”

“It looks expensive.”

“It is.”

“Then absolutely not,” Max said firmly.

Ana snorted softly.

They turned another page.

And another.

Max stayed tucked against her shoulder, his hand resting loosely on the edge of the catalogue while they looked through it together.

At one point Max pointed lazily at a sculpture.

“That one looks like a crashed exhaust pipe.”

“It’s a contemporary steel installation.”

“It’s looks like a crashed exhaust pipe.”

Ana made a small note in the margin anyway.

After a few pages he shifted slightly.

“Did you go to the apartment today?”

“Yes.”

“How mad were the cats?”

“Extremely.”

“Sounds right.”

She turned another page.

Then, after a pause, she said, “We have a logistical problem.”

Max hummed in question.

“We have a six-car garage,” she continued, “and you own eight cars.”

He groaned again. “Oh god.”

“Yes,” she said calmly. She flipped another page in the catalogue. “You own too many cars.”

“I know.”

“Some of them are not… practical.” 

Max huffed. “That’s a polite way of saying I cannot currently get into half of them with a broken leg.”

“Correct.” Ana looked down at him. “Do you want to keep them all? Should I start looking into storage? Do you want to sell some of them?”

Max thought about it. “I am keeping the Audi,” he said immediately. “Obviously.”

“Obviously.”

“The Porsche.”

“Mm.”

“And maybe one Ferrari.”

“One.”

“Okay maybe two.”

Ana sighed theatrically. “Max.”

He shrugged slightly. “But the rest?” He was quiet for a moment. “I don’t want the Red Bull ones.”

She looked down at him. “The sponsorship cars.”

He nodded. “The Aston Martins. The promo stuff.” He shrugged again. “They’re not really mine.”

Ana understood immediately.

They were reminders.

Years of partnership. Years of loyalty.

Years that had ended in a hospital bed, legal paperwork, and press releases that had chosen self-protection over decency.

“Okay,” she said quietly. “We can sell them.”

Max nodded once. “That’s fine.”

They continued flipping through the catalogue.

A photograph this time — black and white.

Max pointed lazily.

“That one’s nice.”

Ana studied it.

“It’s a photograph of the moon.”

“Space.”

“You like space?”

Max gave her a look.  “You name your projects after stars.”

Ana looked down at him. “That is true.”

That pulled something small and warm through her chest. 

Silence again.

Comfortable.

Then she turned another page.

“So,” she said casually.

Max hummed.

“Your birthday is Tuesday.”

Max sighed dramatically.

Ana tilted her head slightly. “I have not bought you anything yet.”

Max blinked. “You don’t have to.”

“That is not how birthdays work.”

“Yes, it is.”

“No. What do you want for your birthday?”

Max didn’t even look up. “Nothing.”

“Max.”

“I mean it.”

Ana flipped another page. “You almost died,” she said calmly. “I am getting you something.”

That made him go quiet.

For a second she thought he might say something sincere.

Or difficult.

Or deflect with something outrageous.

Then he said: “…a kebab.”

Ana blinked. “A what.”

“A kebab.”

She stared at him. “You want a kebab for your birthday.”

“Yes.”

“You nearly died and all you want for your birthday is a kebab.”

Max looked at her like this was obvious. “Yes.”

Ana stared at him for a moment. Then she shook her head softly.

“You can have a kebab.”

Max smiled faintly. “Good.”

Ana turned another page in the catalogue.

“You can have anything,” she added quietly.

Max didn’t answer.

He just leaned a little more heavily against her shoulder as they kept looking through the pages together.

Outside the hospital window the afternoon sun shifted slowly across the city.

Inside the room there was only quiet.

And the soft rustle of turning pages.

***

Text Messages: Sophie Kumpen & Max Verstappen

Sophie: Max?

Sophie: Are you awake?

Sophie: I’m so sorry I fell asleep for 8 hours and slept through my alarm.

Max: Ma.

Sophie: Are you okay?

Sophie: I didn’t mean to sleep that long.

Sophie: I was going to come back tonight.

Max: Stay at the hotel.

Sophie: Max—

Max: Ana is here.

Max: Don’t worry.

Sophie: Are you sure?

Max: Yes.

Max: She’s supervising my art education.

Sophie: That sounds dangerous.

Max: You have no idea.

Sophie: Okay. I’ll stay tonight. But I’m coming early tomorrow.

Max: Deal.

Sophie: I love you.

Max: Love you too.

***

Hospital Pasteur, Nice, France -  27 September 2025 

Max had fallen quiet for a while after Sophie texted him.

Not the heavy silence that had filled the room earlier in the week — the kind that came from pain, anger, and too many thoughts circling the same dark place.

This was different.

The quiet that came when the worst of it had finally passed. When the mind stopped fighting and simply… rested.

Ana could probably feel it in the way his breathing had slowed where his head rested against her shoulder, but Max felt it himself more clearly: the steady rhythm of her breathing beneath him, the warmth of her arm behind his back, the soft rustle of glossy pages as the catalogue shifted between them.

The hospital room was full of eveningn sunlight now. The light spilled across the bed, reflecting off the glossy art pages in warm, golden flashes.

Max f pointed at a twisted metal sculpture lazily. “That one looks like a broken front wing.”

“It’s a minimalist kinetic installation,” Ana said with a roll of her eyes. 

Max had absolutely no clue what that meant. It did actually look like a broken front wing to him.

But actually…he couldn’t really find it in himself to care about it either. Especially if Ana kept running her fingernails over his scalp. 

For just a moment, he felt weirdly similar to Jimmy, whenever Max scratched his chin in just the right spot. 

After a moment Ana said casually, “Susie made a comment about your car keys today.”

Max hummed, not bothering to open his eyes.. “What comment?”

Ana turned the page. “That none of them are Mercedes.”

Max groaned softly. “That sounds like judgment.”

“It is judgment.”

Max just shrugged. “You literally drive a ten-year-old Volkswagen Golf.”

Ana blinked. “My Golf is perfectly functional.”

“Your Golf is prehistoric.”

“It works.”

“You’re the daughter of a billionaire.”

“And I drive a sensible car.”

Max snorted. “You drive a relic.”

Ana narrowed her eyes at him. “It’s sentimental.” 

Then she added, almost as if the thought had just occurred to her, “We should probably replace the Audi with a Mercedes eventually.”

Max shifted slightly and looked up at her. “Why.”

“Optics.”

He sighed dramatically. “I can already hear Toto.”

Ana smiled faintly, and surprisingly accurately mimicked Toto’s Austrian accent: “‘Max, we have excellent road cars’.”

Max snorted with laughter. “Exactly.”

She shrugged slightly. “You will be a Mercedes driver next season.”

Max considered that.“…fair.”

He leaned back against her again. “Okay,” he agreed easily. “We can replace the Audi.”

It wasn’t like he was emotionally attached to it anyway. It was just another thing of the long list of things that would change through Baku. 

Max sighed.

“What?”

He frowned slightly. “Baku ruined everything.”

She waited. “The GT3 debut,” Max clarified.

Ana nodded slowly.

That part still stung.

Verstappen.com Racing had been his project. His thing. Something separate from Formula One politics and contracts and sponsorship obligations.

The Nürburgring. The Nordschleife. He had been looking forward to that weekend for months.

“The Nordschleife race,” he continued. “That was supposed to be our first proper weekend for the team.”

His jaw tightened slightly.

“And now it’s gone.”

Ana turned another page in the catalogue without speaking.

Max continued. “And losing the Red Bull sponsorship mid-season doesn’t exactly help.”

That part annoyed him even more.

Not just the money. The timing.

Ten years of partnership. Gone.

Ana turned another page in the catalogue. Then she said calmly: “I can cover it.”

Max looked up immediately. “What.”

“The sponsorship gap.”

“No.”

“It’s not that much money.”

“Absolutely not.”

Ana just looked at him. “It’s a business investment. I invest in businesses.”

“It’s my team,” Max said. “I’m not taking your money.”

“I have money,” she said. “Considerable money.”

“That’s not the point,” Max said, more firmly. “I am not taking your money.”

“You’re not,” she replied. “You’re taking a temporary bridge loan from your future wife.”

Max stopped. “…you can’t just say that and expect me not to react.”

She ignored that entirely. “You built something important,” she continued. “Independent driver development matters to you. Therefore it matters to me.”

He shook his head. “No. I don’t want Verstappen.com Racing to become—”

“Dependent on me?” she finished. “It won’t.” She leaned forward slightly. “Because you won’t need me for long.”

Max narrowed his eyes. “Explain.”

Ana folded her hands together, very businesslike now. “I am quite certain,” she said, “that between me, Toto, and Susie, we can find you investors within forty-eight hours.”

Max stared. “You’re serious.”

“Yes.” 

“…you’ve already thought about this.”

“Yes.”

He exhaled slowly, half exasperated, half impressed. “You’re terrifying.”

“I’ve been told.” She shrugged. “Also,” she added calmly, “you might want to reconsider the car situation.”

“What car situation?”

“Your GT3 car.”

Max frowned. “The Ferrari?”

“Yes.”

“What about it?” 

Ana closed the catalogue slowly and looked down at him. “You are going to drive for Mercedes in Formula One next season.”

Max nodded slowly. “Yes.”

She raised one eyebrow. “And your GT3 team currently races…?”

“…a Ferrari.”

“Yes.”

Max stared at her. 

Then realization slowly dawned. “Oh.”

Ana nodded.

“I am reasonably certain,” she said calmly, “that there is a car manufacturer in Stuttgart that might be very interested in supplying your GT3 team.”

Max blinked. “…Mercedes.”

“Correct.”

“You think they would do that?”

Ana stared at him. “Max.”

“What?”

“You are their Formula One driver next year.”

“…true.”

“They would absolutely want their brand associated with your racing team.”

Max stared at the ceiling for a moment. Then he started laughing quietly. “Wow.”

“What?”

“I did not even think about that.”

Ana smiled faintly. “That’s because you are a racing driver.”

“And you’re what?”

“Systems engineer.”

Max looked back at her. “And a terrifying strategist.”

“Thank you.”

He leaned his head back onto her shoulder again. “…so you’re telling me Mercedes might give Verstappen.com Racing GT3 cars.”

“Yes.”

“…that’s actually brilliant.”

“I know.”

He was quiet for a moment. Then he muttered: “Still mad about the Nordschleife though.”

Ana’s hand moved automatically, her fingers sliding into his hair. Her nails brushed lightly across his scalp in slow, absent movements.

The tension in his shoulders eased immediately.

“You’ll get back there.”

Max looked at her.

“You promise?”

“Yes.”

Then she reopened the catalogue.

Joanna Wolff’s Apartment, Vienna, Austria -  26 September 2025 

Toto already knew what he would find before the door opened.

The hallway outside his mother’s apartment smelled faintly of polish and old varnish, exactly as it had when he was a teenager. Some things never changed. The difference was that he no longer felt like a son coming home.

He felt like a man walking into a negotiation he had postponed for twenty years.

He rang once.

The door opened almost immediately.

Joanna stood there, posture straight, expression already disappointed — not surprised, not relieved, simply prepared.

“You came,” she said.

“I told you I would.”

He stepped inside.

And he wasn’t surprised.

Rosa was on the sofa, arms folded. Stephanie beside her, posture immaculate, like this was a parent-teacher conference she expected to win. The dining table had been cleared — chairs positioned — a tribunal arranged in a living room.

They had staged it.

For a moment Toto didn’t speak. He simply looked at them — really looked — and a realization settled in with cold clarity:

They really didn’t think they had done anything wrong.

He set his briefcase down slowly.

“Good,” he said quietly. “You’re all here. That saves time. I don’t need to repeat myself three times.”

Rosa stepped forward immediately. “You cut me off.”

“No,” Toto replied. “I stopped tolerating what you said.”

“You punished me because of her.”

Toto didn’t react outwardly, but the word her landed exactly where Rosa intended.

“This conversation is about how you speak about my daughter,” he said.

Stephanie leaned forward. “No, this is about how she has manipulated you for years.”

He turned his head slowly toward her.

“Be careful.”

Toto’s expression changed — not loud anger, not raised voice.

Worse.

Precision.

“You will say my daughter’s name,” he said. “Or you will not speak about Anastasia at all.”

Stephanie gave a thin smile. “You see? Exactly this. You’re proving the point. You react like this whenever she’s mentioned.”

“Yes,” Toto said evenly. “Because you speak about Anastasia like she is an inconvenience instead of a human being.”

Joanna sighed. “She has always complicated everything. Since childhood.”

That did it.

Toto’s restraint snapped — not explosively, but decisively.

“Since childhood?” he repeated quietly.

He took a step forward.

“She was eight years old.”

No one spoke.

“Anastasia was eight,” he said again, voice sharper now, every word controlled. “When her mother left her with a father she didn’t knew. A different country. A different language. A different school. She did not know where her room was in my house. She did not know if she was staying a week or forever.”

Rosa shifted uncomfortably.

Joanna frowned. “Children adapt.”

“Anastasia did,” Toto said. “Alone.”

He pointed lightly toward the table.

“And instead of helping her adapt, you hated her.”

Stephanie interjected. “I tried to correct her behavior.”

Toto turned toward her.

“Anastasia was not a behavior problem.”

“She refused eye contact, ignored people—”

“Anastasia was overwhelmed,” Toto cut in sharply.

He rarely raised his voice.

Now he did.

“You called her cold when she was terrified. You called her rude when she didn’t understand social rules she had never been taught. You called her strange when she spent nights learning math and physic because that was predictable and people were not.”

The room went silent.

“Anastasia didn’t break things,” he said. “She didn’t scream. She didn’t rebel. She tried to become smaller so nobody would send her away again.”

Rosa’s snapped. “You’re exaggerating.”

Toto looked at her, disbelief visible now.

“You were a toddler, Rosa,” he snapped. “You did not notice what I did.”

His jaw tightened.

“I watched a child sit at a dinner table and rehearse sentences in her head before speaking because she was afraid of saying the wrong thing.”

No one interrupted.

“And for years,” he continued, voice low but cutting, “you told Anastasia that she was difficult instead of asking why she was afraid.”

Stephanie leaned back. “You indulged her. You let her hide behind computers instead of making her normal.”

Toto laughed once — humorless.

“Normal,” he repeated.

“Yes,” Stephanie said. “Structure. Discipline. Not this… distance she has. She never learned relationships.”

Toto’s eyes hardened.

“Anastasia learned relationships,” he said quietly. “She learned that affection depended on performance. She learned approval could disappear. She learned adults could leave.”

Stephanie shrugged. “And now she isolates you from your family.”

“No,” Toto said, voice suddenly colder. “Your behavior did that.”

Joanna crossed her arms. “You choose her over everyone.”

“I choose decency,” he replied.

Rosa’s voice rose. “You abandoned me!”

Toto turned toward her fully.

“I did not abandon you. I refused to let you blame an sexual assault victim.”

Silence fell instantly.

Stephanie stiffened. “We are not discussing that.”

“We are,” Toto said.

“You overreacted,” she said sharply. “It was a misunderstanding.”

That was the moment.

The last restraint went.

Toto’s composure broke.

“You will never call it that again,” he said, voice low and dangerous.

Stephanie scoffed. “You destroyed your relationship with your daughter over a story.”

Toto stepped closer.

“No,” he said. “I protected my daughter from someone who hurt her and from people who defended him.”

Joanna frowned. “You always favor her.”

“I protected her,” he corrected.

Stephanie shook her head. “And now she hides behind Susie as well.”

Toto froze.

“Careful,” he said quietly.

Stephanie didn’t stop.

“Perhaps,” she said lightly, “ Susie encourages this. She always did like playing the perfect understanding stepmother.”

That was it.

Toto lost his temper.

Completely.

“You do not get to speak about my wife,” he said, voice sharp enough to cut.

Stephanie raised an eyebrow. “Why? Because she replaces what you lost?”

“Susie,” he said, furious now, “was the first adult in this entire situation who treated Anastasia like she mattered instead of a problem to solve.”

No one spoke.

“She listened to her,” he continued. “She did not analyze her. She did not judge her. She did not try to reshape her personality. She gave her something none of us ever gave her.”

Joanna narrowed her eyes. “And what is that?”

“Safety.”

The word landed heavily.

Toto’s voice dropped, thick with anger now.

“She broke down in Susie’s arms because for the first time she believed she was allowed to.”

Rosa looked startled.

Stephanie scoffed. “She manipulates sympathy.”

Toto slammed his hand onto the table.

Hard.

The sound echoed in the apartment.

“No,” he said, shaking with restrained fury. “She survived years of being told she was wrong for existing the way she is.”

The room went completely still.

“You do not have to understand her mind,” he said, breathing tight, “but you will respect her humanity.”

Rosa’s hands clenched. “You chose her over me.”

“I chose conduct,” Toto said.

“You punished me,” she shot back

“I adjusted your financial arrangement to the same structure your siblings have,” he answered. “I did not punish you. You still receive support. You no longer have unrestricted access to my bank accounts.”

“That is punishment!”

“No,” he said calmly. “It is a boundary.”

Stephanie leaned forward. “You’re letting a difficult child control you.”

Toto held her gaze.

“Anastasia is not a child,” he said.

“She behaves like one,” Stephanie replied sharply. “Cold, rude, distant. And you excuse it with diagnoses and indulgence.”

He inhaled slowly.

“I am not here to debate her personality with you.”

Joanna’s voice hardened. “You allow her to disrespect family.”

“No,” Toto said. “I no longer allow family to disrespect her.”

Rosa scoffed. “You’re rewriting reality. She has always manipulated you.”

Toto did not raise his voice.

Instead, he reached into his briefcase and set a thin folder on the table.

That got their attention.

“What is that?” Joanna asked.

“Clarity,” he said.

He opened the folder calmly.

“You are all financially connected to me in different ways,” Toto continued. “Trust structures. Shared holdings. Discretionary distributions. Informal arrangements that I have maintained because we are family.”

He looked at each of them in turn.

“I have been generous.”

No one interrupted.

“And I have also been patient.”

Stephanie’s expression tightened slightly. “Is this a threat?”

Toto shook his head once.

“It is information.”

He slid a document across the table.

“I have already spoken with my legal team.”

The temperature in the room dropped.

“I can restructure every financial connection here within forty-eight hours,” he said evenly. “Trusts remain intact — I will not punish legally protected beneficiaries. But discretionary payments, property usage, and informal access to my accounts end immediately.”

Rosa stared. “You wouldn’t.”

“I would,” Toto said quietly. “And I will, if this continues.”

Joanna’s voice sharpened. “You would bring lawyers into family matters?”

“You brought hostility into them,” he replied.

Stephanie crossed her arms. “You’re being controlled.”

Toto looked at her — not angry now, just finished.

“No,” he said. “I am done negotiating my child’s dignity.”

Silence spread.

For the first time, Rosa looked uncertain.

“You’re serious,” she said.

“Yes.”

Joanna bristled. “Money should not determine loyalty.”

“It does not,” Toto said. “Behavior does. The legal boundaries exist because words have not worked.”

Rosa’s voice softened, but not in apology. “You’re choosing her.”

“I am choosing respect,” Toto replied.

He closed the folder.

“You may dislike Anastasia,” he continued. “You may disagree with her. But you will not insult, blame, or undermine her and still expect access to my resources or my time.”

Stephanie stood. “This is absurd.”

“No,” Toto said calmly. “This is long overdue.”

Joanna’s voice cooled. “And if we refuse?”

“Then my lawyers will contact you this week,” Toto answered simply.

The certainty in his tone removed any doubt.

Stephanie stared at the papers. “You would really do this?”

“I maintained support because we are family,” he said calmly. “But family does not mean access without respect.”

Rosa looked shaken now. “You cut us off financially over her?”

“No,” he said. “Over behavior.”

Joanna’s voice trembled with anger. “You would choose an accident from Russia over your real family?”

The sentence hung in the air.

Toto did not react immediately.

Then he spoke — very quietly.

“Anastasia did not ask to be born. She is the result of decisions I made when I was a young man living in Russia. She’s my daughter.” The temperature in the room seemed to drop.

“Anastasia is my daughter,” he continued. “And she was a child abandoned into uncertainty who learned to survive in a house that did not know how to meet her halfway. And despite that — despite all of you — she still defends you. Still refuses to burden me with what you say to her.”

He closed the folder.

“You hurt her,” he said. “Repeatedly. For years. And you expect access without consequence.”

Then the front door opened.

Everyone turned.

Freya stepped inside, travel bag over her shoulder, hair wind-tangled from the evening air, expression already sharp — she had clearly heard the last sentence.

She looked around the room once.

“Toto?” she said slowly. “Why does it feel like I walked into a courtroom.”

No one answered.

Her eyes moved from Rosa to Stephanie to their mother — and then to the folder on the table.

“…Oh,” she said quietly.

Toto exhaled once. “You picked a bad evening to come home, Freya.”

Freya set her bag down.

“Actually I think I picked the perfect one. What did you do?” she asked, not to him — to them.

Joanna straightened. “We are discussing family matters.”

Freya’s gaze sharpened. “Which family member are we blaming this time? Let me guess. Anastasia.”

No one spoke.

Then Rosa said, defensively, “Papa cut me off because of her.”

Freya laughed — one short, disbelieving sound.

Joanna’s voice cooled. “She manipulates Toto.”

Freya snorted.. “You’re serious.”

Stephanie said, “She has always created—”

Freya cut her off. “No. Absolutely not. You always blame her,” she said flatly. “Always.”

Joanna intervened. “We are trying to correct misunderstandings.”

Freya stared at her mother in disbelief.

“She was a child,” Freya said. “You never liked her because she wasn’t easy.”

“She was disrespectful—”

“She was overwhelmed,” Freya snapped. “And none of you bothered to notice.”

Stephanie frowned. “You barely lived here.”

Freya stepped closer now, furious in a way Toto had rarely seen.

“I visited enough to see she watched every conversation before speaking because she was afraid of being corrected,” Freya said. “I saw a ten-year-old apologize for asking questions.”

Silence fell.

Freya looked at Rosa. “And you’re doing this?”

Rosa’s voice weakened. “I just wanted him to—”

“You wanted him to agree with you,” Freya said. “Even if it meant hurting her.”

Joanna said coldly, “She is too sensitive.”

Freya’s eyes flashed. “No. You are just too harsh.”

Then she looked at Toto again — and understood immediately from his expression.

“You threatened them.”

“I set boundaries,” he said.

Freya nodded once.

“Good.”

Joanna stiffened. “You take his side?”

Freya picked up her bag again.

“I take the side of the person who was eight years old and treated like an inconvenience.”

Stephanie said sharply, “You are overreacting.”

Freya turned at the door.

“No,” she said. “Actually, I think I have been underreacting for twenty years.”

She looked at Toto. “I’m not staying here tonight.”

He didn’t hesitate.

“Neither am I.”

Joanna’s voice rose. “Are you seriously leaving?”

Toto paused at the threshold.

“You hurt my child,” he said quietly. “Repeatedly. For years. And you expect access without consequence. When you are prepared to speak about Anastasia with basic decency,” he said, “you may call me.”

He paused at the door.

“Until then,” he added quietly, “consider this a boundary, not a negotiation.”

They left together.

The hallway outside was silent.

For a moment neither spoke.

Freya leaned back against the wall, exhaling.  The fury was still in her shoulders, but now it was mixed with something else — guilt, sharp and quiet.

“…That went well,” she said dryly.

Toto huffed once, humorless. “Better than I expected.”

“That’s concerning,” she replied.

Then Freya exhaled sharply. “I should have been here more.”

Toto shook his head. “It wouldn’t have changed them.”

Freya glanced at him. “Maybe not. But Ana wouldn’t have felt alone.”

They walked toward the lift. The building was old, the floors creaking slightly under their steps, the familiar Viennese stairwell carrying echoes of arguments from decades past. Toto had grown up running through these halls. Tonight he felt like a guest.

Freya pressed the elevator button and crossed her arms.

“I knew they were unfair to her,” she said after a moment. “I didn’t realize it was still happening to this day.”

He didn’t answer immediately.

“I should have stopped it earlier,” he said quietly.

Freya shook her head. “You were trying to hold the family together.”

“I was trying to avoid choosing.”

The elevator doors opened. They stepped inside.

“And now?” she asked.

“There is no choice to make.”

Freya studied him a second. Not surprised — but measuring.

“…Good,” she said.

They rode down in silence until she spoke again.

“How is she actually?” Freya asked. “ How is Anastasia?”

Toto looked at the closing numbers above the door.

“She is… holding,” he said carefully. “But she is very tired.”

Freya frowned. “From this?”

“From everything.”

That caught her attention. She stopped walking.

“…What do you mean everything?”

He hesitated. He hadn’t planned to tell her here, on a Vienna sidewalk under a streetlamp. But there was no point deflecting — not after tonight.

“She’s in Nice,” he said.

Freya blinked. “What?”

“She’s in Nice.”

“France?” she asked, confused. “Why?”

Toto looked at her.

“She’s at the hospital.”

Freya’s posture changed instantly. “What happened? Is she hurt?”

“No,” he said quickly. “Not physically.”

A beat.

Then realization tried to form but didn’t quite reach her yet.

“The driver,” she said slowly. “The crash. Your… future driver. Verstappen. I saw the news but—”

He nodded once.

“She’s been there since the accident.”

Freya frowned. “Why would Ana be—”

And then she stopped.

Actually stopped moving.

“…Toto.”

He didn’t answer immediately.

Her eyes narrowed slightly. “Why would Ana be staying at a hospital for your future employee?”

“…Because she refuses to leave him.”

Freya frowned. “Leave who?”

Toto paused a beat.

“Max.”

Silence.

The elevator doors opened to the underground garage but Freya didn’t move.

“…Max Verstappen?” she said carefully.

“Yes.”

She stared at him.

“The racing driver Max Verstappen.”

“Yes.”

“The future Mercedes driver Max Verstappen.”

Toto nodded once.

Freya didn’t step out of the elevator.

“…Why,” she asked slowly, “is my niece refusing to leave the bedside of a Formula One driver.”

Toto exhaled.

Because there was no gradual way to say it.

“Because they’re together.”

Freya stared at him.

No reaction for about three full seconds.

Then—

“They’re what.”

“Together.”

“No,” she said immediately.

“Yes.”

“No,” she repeated, firmer. “No. You mean she knows him.”

“They’re in a relationship.”

Freya walked out of the elevator automatically, then stopped between two parked cars and turned back toward him.

“Toto.”

“Yes.”

“Your daughter,” she said carefully, “who forgot she could date at university because she was debugging code.”

“Yes.”

“Your daughter who I have never seen voluntarily hold someone’s hand other than Jack’s.”

“Yes.”

“…is dating Max Verstappen.”

“Yes.”

Freya stared at him for another long second.

Then she laughed — a short, stunned laugh.

“I leave for six months sourcing sapphires and the universe reorganizes itself.”

He almost smiled.

“When did this happen?”

“Longer than you think,” he said.

“And you didn’t tell me?”

“I didn’t know.”

Freya rubbed her forehead. “Does Mother know?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Good. She’d have a heart attack and then blame Ana for it.”

Freya paced once beside the car.

“And she’s staying at the hospital? With him?”

“Yes.”

Freya’s brows drew together now — not shock anymore.

Understanding.

“She must be terrified.”

Toto nodded once.

“She won’t say it,” he said. “But she hasn’t really slept since the crash.”

Freya was quiet.

“…She stayed,” she said softly.

“Yes.”

“That means she loves him.”

Toto didn’t answer, but he didn’t need to.

They stood there a few seconds more.

Then Toto spoke.

“Come to Monaco,” he said.

She looked at him.

“For a few days,” he continued. “You can meet her there when she comes back. Somewhere calm. Not this.”

Freya didn’t hesitate.

“Yes,” she said immediately. “Very good idea.”

A beat.

Freya smirked faintly. “Also, if I stay here I will end up telling Mother things I can’t legally retract.”

He actually laughed — quietly, but genuinely.

“Susie will be happy to see you,” he said.

Freya shrugged. “Susie always liked me.”

“Yes,” Toto said. “Because you never tried to fix Anastasia.”

Freya opened the car door.

“I never thought she needed fixing,” she replied simply. “I thought she needed someone to sit beside her and let her be strange in peace.”

Toto opened the car.

“You don’t have to.”

“I do,” she said. “Because right now she probably thinks she caused tonight. And she didn’t. And someone should tell her that who isn’t you or Susie.”

He paused.

“…You’d do that?”

Freya gave him a look.

“She’s my niece,” she said simply. “I just haven’t been a very good aunt.”

Then she added, more lightly:

“And I also need to meet the man who managed to convince Anastasia Wolff that emotional attachment was a logical decision.”

***

The Lion, Brackley, England -  26 September 2025 

Gianpiero Lambiase did not trust Peter Bonnington when he said “just one drink.”

Experience had taught him that “one drink” in Formula One translated roughly to a multi-hour emotional debrief disguised as socializing, usually involving telemetry analogies, arguments about tyres, and someone invoking Michael Schumacher whether relevant or not.

Still, Bono had insisted.

You need to get out of the hospital-garage-hotel loop, he’d said over the phone. Also the Brackley lot want to meet you. Properly.

GP had not asked why.

He should have.

The pub was already loud when they walked in — not rowdy, but full. Warm lighting, the hum of after-work conversations, darts hitting boards somewhere in the back, glasses clinking, Premier League murmuring from a television nobody was actually watching.

Several heads turned when they entered.

GP felt it instantly.

He was used to being recognized in a paddock.

Being recognized in a British village pub was… different.

Then the room went quiet.

Not dramatically. Not movie-style.

Just… a ripple of recognition.

Several engineers turned. A couple mechanics straightened. Someone whispered, “That’s him.”

GP blinked. “…why are they looking at me.”

Bono clapped his shoulder. “Because you are, whether you like it or not, Max Verstappen’s race engineer.”

GP grimaced. “I would prefer anonymity.”

“Too late.” Bono clapped him on the shoulder. “Relax. They don’t bite.”

“Your definition of reassuring is very questionable,” GP muttered.

A voice cut across the room.

“Bonoooo!”

The man standing up from the bench to greet them was enormous.

The man had shoulders like a wardrobe and hands the size of GP’s head. Broad-necked, shaved hair, thick beard. The sort of person you instinctively assumed could lift a gearbox assembly without assistance.

The man smiled.

It was possibly the gentlest smile GP had ever seen.

“Bono,” he said warmly. “You made it.”

Then his eyes moved to GP.

“And you must be Gianpiero.”

He held out a hand.

GP looked at it.

Bono grinned.

“GP — Solomon Becker. Systems department. Ana’s second-in-command.”

GP  had expected… he wasn’t sure what he expected. Systems engineers in Formula 1 tended to be quiet, wiry, nocturnal creatures who communicated mostly in code.

Solomon looked like he should be captaining England at Twickenham.

Solomon stuck out a hand the size of a dinner plate. GP shook it carefully, bracing for bone loss.

Instead, Solomon’s grip was gentle. Almost careful.

GP recalibrated immediately.

“Good to finally meet you properly,” Solomon continued.

“You’re an engineer?” GP asked before he could stop himself.

Bono choked on his drink.

Solomon laughed softly. “Former rugby. Then a knee went. Turns out software doesn’t tackle back.”

“…professionally?” GP asked.

“Unfortunately for my joints, yes.”

“You are not what I expected.”

“I hear that daily.”

Bono leaned against the bar, thoroughly enjoying himself.

“Solomon is the man who makes Ana’s systems actually run in real life.”

Solomon shook his head. “No, no. Ana makes them run. We just… try not to break them.”

At the mention of her name, his expression softened—completely at odds with his size.

GP noticed immediately.

“You admire her,” GP said.

Solomon looked almost offended by the understatement.

“She’s the best engineer I’ve ever seen,” he said simply.

No bravado. No exaggeration. Just fact.

GP studied him more carefully.

“Explain,” he said.

Solomon leaned his hip against the table, thinking.

“You know how some brilliant people are impossible to work with?” he said. “Because they need to be the smartest person in the room?”

GP nodded slowly.

“She isn’t like that,” Solomon continued. “She doesn’t want to be the smartest person in the room. She wants to build a room where everyone else gets smarter.”

Bono hummed approvingly into his pint.

Solomon went on, warming now.

“She notices everything. Who’s tired. Who’s stuck. Who’s afraid to ask a question. She assigns work based on how people think, not their job title. Half the department is doing things they never knew they could do because she just… assumed they could.”

“You’re coming next year,” Solomon said, pleased. “Good. She needs more people who understand drivers.”

GP frowned slightly. “She manages fine.”

Solomon shook his head. “No — she manages systems. Drivers are… different systems.”

The table laughed.

A woman slid him a pint across the table. “We’ve heard stories.”

“That is concerning,” GP said.

“Oh yes,” Solomon said cheerfully. “The radio messages.”

GP sighed. “They are perfectly reasonable.”

The table dissolved into laughter.

Solomon gestured them toward the table. “Come sit. We were arguing about whether engineers should be allowed near marketing.”

“They shouldn’t,” GP said immediately.

At the table GP was introduced to faces he’d seen only in email signatures: Lucy from comms, Jules from electronics, a strategist whose name GP forgot immediately but whose opinions were apparently very strong. Someone slid him a pint without asking.

He clocked the atmosphere within minutes.

This wasn’t performative bonding. This was people who argued for a living and trusted each other enough to do it loudly.

Then Solomon said her name.

Solomon leaned closer, lowering his voice. “Ana didn’t sleep after the crash.”

GP’s expression changed instantly.

“No,” he said quietly. “I suspected.”

“She send us Systems Architecture for 2026 instead,” Solomon said drily. “She never stops when someone she cares about needs her.”

There was no drama in his tone. Just fact.

“She designed half the redundancy checks we use,” Solomon continued. “You know why?”

GP shook his head.

“She doesn’t trust the universe to behave. So she builds systems that catch failure before it hurts people.Not because she wants control. Because she wants people safe.”

GP looked down at his glass.

Yes. That tracked too.

Around them, the conversation shifted — strategy discussions, testing anecdotes, sim driver jokes, telemetry arguments that slowly devolved into exaggerated storytelling. Engineers in their natural habitat: arguing happily about details nobody else in the world would notice.

At one point a strategist and a calibration engineer nearly recreated a whiteboard simulation using beer mats and peanuts.

GP watched.

The conversation drifted—sim anecdotes, testing stories, Bono defending a radio call like it was a constitutional right. Someone started recreating a strategy simulation using beer mats and peanuts.

GP found himself watching.

Listening.

Relaxing—slightly.

Then a chair scraped back beside him.

“Mind if I sit?”

The voice was calm. Roughened by years of engines and late nights.

GP turned.

The man who’d sat down was compact, muscular in a different way—dense rather than massive. Grease permanently ingrained under the nails. Mercedes logo stitched into his jacket sleeve.

“Leo,” the man said. “Mechanic.”

GP nodded. “GP.”

Leo studied him for a moment. Not assessing—recognizing.

“…Baku,” Leo said.

GP’s spine straightened almost imperceptibly.

“Yes.”

Leo took a sip of his water before continuing.

“I was one of the ones who cut him out.”

The pub noise seemed to recede.

GP swallowed. “You were there.”

“Yeah,” Leo said simply. “Hands shook for hours after.”

GP nodded once. He knew that kind of aftermath.

Leo met GP’s eyes.

“I’ve been doing this for a few years,” he said. “I’ve seen bad crashes. This one—”

He exhaled.

“This one was different.”

GP said nothing.

“I’ve pulled drivers from cars before. You never forget it. And you don’t get casual about safety again after you smell hot carbon and hydraulic fluid and realize how close it was.”

He glanced at Solomon, then back to GP.

“We build systems differently here,” Leo said. “Redundancies. Procedures. Double-checks nobody sees. It slows you down sometimes.”

GP nodded once. “Safety always costs performance.”

“Yeah,” Leo said. “But we’ll always take that trade.”

A beat.

“We’re not letting something like that happen here,” he said simply.

No accusation.

No criticism.

Just certainty.

GP believed him.

GP frowned. “What do you mean.”

“I mean,” Leo continued, voice steady, “no shortcuts. No money trails. No ‘just this once.’”

He leaned forward slightly.

“We are not going to let someone weaponize a car at Mercedes.”

The words landed heavy.

GP felt something inside him tighten—and then settle.

“I’m glad,” he said quietly. “Because trust is… not easily rebuilt.”

Leo nodded. “We know.”

Around them, conversation slowly resumed. The moment passed—but it stayed.

GP looked around the table again.

Solomon laughing softly at something Lucy said. Bono in his element, gesturing wildly. Engineers arguing like family.

He thought of Red Bull—brilliant, relentless, always at war with the margins.

At Red Bull, everything was intensity. Pressure. Championship margins. Edges sharpened to performance. It was brilliant — but it was always war footing.

Here… the competence was just as serious. But it was quieter. Certain.

But the people looked like they intended to stay.

Solomon passed him a bowl of chips. “We take care of our own here.”

GP glanced around the table — Bono arguing with a data engineer, Lucy explaining to someone why drivers should never be allowed to tweet, laughter cutting through technical jargon.

He thought of Ana sitting beside Max’s hospital bed.

He thought of Toto’s steady calm in crisis.

He thought of the systems department that had apparently reverse-engineered half a car architecture in two days because Ana sent them an idea.

For the first time since Baku, something inside him eased.

Mercedes, he realized, wasn’t just a team.

It was a structure.

A system.

Red Bull had been a family forged in competition.

This… felt like a place people stayed.

He took another sip of his drink.

“…Bono,” he said after a while.

“Yes?”

GP looked around the table once more.

“I think,” he admitted quietly, “this might actually work.”

Bono grinned.

“Welcome to Mercedes, mate.”

***

Text Messages: Sebastian Vettel & Carlos Sainz Sr.  

Sebastian Vettel:Carlos

Carlos Sainz Sr.:Sebastian! I assume this is not a social message.

Sebastian Vettel:You saw the FIA statement.

Carlos Sainz Sr.:Of course I saw it.

Sebastian Vettel:It fixes a mistake. It does not fix the system.

Carlos Sainz Sr.:Agreed.

Sebastian Vettel:I am going to ask you a serious question.

Carlos Sainz Sr.:Now I am worried.

Sebastian Vettel:You should run for FIA president.

(typing… typing… typing…)

Carlos Sainz Sr.:I am very flattered.

Carlos Sainz Sr.:But absolutely not.

Sebastian Vettel:Why not?

Carlos Sainz Sr.:My son is an active Formula 1 driver, Sebastian. That would be a permanent conflict of interest. Every sporting decision would be questioned. Every stewarding call would become political.

Sebastian Vettel:You could step back from race involvement.

Carlos Sainz Sr.:It would not matter. The perception alone would damage the position.

Sebastian Vettel:We need someone who understands drivers and safety.

Carlos Sainz Sr.:Yes. We do.

(pause)

Carlos Sainz Sr.:Which is why you should do it.

Sebastian Vettel:…what

Carlos Sainz Sr.:You are respected. You are retired. You have credibility with drivers, teams, and fans. You have already shown you will challenge the governing body publicly.

Sebastian Vettel:Carlos

Carlos Sainz Sr.:I am serious.

Sebastian Vettel:ME?!?

Carlos Sainz Sr.:Why not you?

Sebastian Vettel:Because I plant trees and argue with recycling bins now, Carlos.

Carlos Sainz Sr.:Exactly. You care about long-term systems.

Sebastian Vettel:Running the FIA is not a school sustainability project!

Carlos Sainz Sr.:No. It is far more political and far more exhausting.

Sebastian Vettel:You are not helping.

Carlos Sainz Sr.:Sebastian — you have already started acting like a president. You are lobbying, you are organizing drivers, you are challenging decisions. The only difference is you do not have the authority yet.

Sebastian Vettel:I wanted reform. I did not want an election campaign.

Carlos Sainz Sr.:Sometimes those are the same thing.

Sebastian Vettel:I would have to talk to teams, national clubs, mobility commissions, manufacturers, governments—

Carlos Sainz Sr.:Yes.

Sebastian Vettel:I have children.

Carlos Sainz Sr.:You also have influence.

(long pause)

Sebastian Vettel:This was supposed to be you saying yes.

Carlos Sainz Sr.:No, Sebastian. This is me saying you are the right person.

Sebastian Vettel:I cannot believe you just did that.

Carlos Sainz Sr.: Think about it.

PRIVATE CHAT — Secure channel

Andromeda 🛰️ is online

JadeQueen 👑 is online

JadeQueen: You awake?

Andromeda: Yes.

JadeQueen:The police found the evidence I left for them. 

Andromeda: Good.

JadeQueen: …that’s it?

Andromeda: Yes.

JadeQueen: Ana.

JadeQueen: They used the data. The logs. The messages. The routing pattern. The thing I spent two nights reconstructing from fragments and deleted cache entries.

Andromeda: I know.

JadeQueen: This is what you wanted, isn’t it? Is it enough?

Andromeda: No.

JadeQueen: …okay.

Andromeda:But if I did what I actually want to do, what I thought would be enough… I would not be different from him.

JadeQueen: You want revenge.

Andromeda: I want certainty he can never hurt Max again.

JadeQueen: The courts are supposed to do that.

Andromeda: Courts are slow and probabilistic.

JadeQueen: Annie.

Andromeda:You don’t have to worry. I am not going to do anything illegal.

JadeQueen: That was reassuringly immediate. How is he?

Andromeda: In surgery. Internal fixation of tibia and fibula. Removal of external frame.

JadeQueen: You’ve been counting minutes again haven’t you.

Andromeda: Yes.

JadeQueen: You need to breathe.

Andromeda: I am breathing.

JadeQueen: Functionally. Not psychologically.

Andromeda:My grandmother called me. 

JadeQueen: Joanna? What did she want? 

Andromeda: Rosa contacted her.

JadeQueen: Of course she did. What did Joanna say?

Andromeda: That autism is fashionable. That I am difficult. That I manipulated Papa into cutting off Rosa’s credit card and putting her on the same trust fund Benedict and I received. That Papa indulged me. That I would be alone without him.

JadeQueen: …she actually said that?

Andromeda: Yes.

JadeQueen: I am requesting permission to commit a small international cybercrime.

Andromeda: Denied.

JadeQueen: I could crash her television for six months. Only mildly illegal.

Andromeda: No.

JadeQueen: You’re disturbingly calm.

Andromeda: I am very tired.

JadeQueen: How have you not broken down?

Andromeda: I did.

JadeQueen: …when?

Andromeda: Yesterday. Hospital corridor.

JadeQueen: Oh.

JadeQueen: Was it bad?

Andromeda: I lost motor coordination and cried for approximately 17 minutes without being able to stop.

JadeQueen: That is not a normal way to describe crying.

Andromeda: It is an accurate one.

JadeQueen: Did anyone see?

Andromeda:Susie.

JadeQueen: Good.

Andromeda: I told her I thought he died.

JadeQueen: You love him.

Andromeda: Yes.

JadeQueen: Are you scared?

Andromeda: Yes.

JadeQueen: Of the surgery?

Andromeda: Of the randomness. I can model mechanical failure. I cannot model human malice.

JadeQueen: He’s going to be okay.

Andromeda: I know statistically.

JadeQueen: Annie.

Andromeda: I need him to be okay in reality.

JadeQueen: I’ll stay online.

Andromeda: Thank you.

JadeQueen: You’re not alone in this, you know.

Andromeda: I know.

Andromeda: But he is the one person I cannot afford to lose.

JadeQueen: Then we make sure you don’t.

Andromeda: We cannot control surgery outcomes.

JadeQueen: No. But we can control that you eat something and drink water.

Andromeda: …that is unfortunately logical.

JadeQueen: Go get juice.

Andromeda: I will.

JadeQueen: I’ll be here.

Andromeda: I know.

Andromeda 🛰️ is offline

Chat archived

***

Westminster Magistrate Court, London, England -  25 September 2025 

Jasper McKnight had worked homicides.

He had worked gang cases, organized fraud, trafficking networks, and once a particularly ugly poisoning that had taken fourteen months to untangle and still kept him awake some nights. (That crime scene had been the most disgusting thing he had ever seen in his life. He had not been able to look at clotted cream the same since then, which was a damn shame. ) 

He had never — not once — stood in a courtroom because one racing driver had tried to kill another.

The press pack alone was a nightmare.

 Satellite vans lined the street outside Westminster Magistrates’ Court, camera crews stacked shoulder-to-shoulder behind barriers, journalists shouting questions at anyone in a suit as if proximity to the building equaled knowledge.

Inside was quieter.

Courtrooms always were. Not peaceful — controlled. The kind of silence that forced reality to sit down and behave.

Jasper stood with the Crown Prosecution Service solicitor near the front benches, files under his arm. The case file was already absurdly thick for something barely a week old: telemetry analysis, financial records, forensic reports on a tampered component, witness statements from mechanics who had folded one by one once the money trail appeared.

He had seen many defendants.

He had never seen one quite like George Russell that morning.

George didn’t look frightened.

He didn’t look shocked.

He looked… agitated.

Not fidgety — wound tight. Eyes bright, movements sharp, the restless energy of someone who had slept very little and convinced himself that meant clarity instead of collapse.

When officers brought him into the dock, he immediately scanned the room, searching — not for a lawyer, not for an exit.

For the press.

Jasper noticed that instantly.

The judge noticed too.

District Judge Hargreaves was a woman in her late sixties who had presided over enough serious cases to have developed a permanent expression of exhausted patience. She adjusted her glasses and studied George for a long second before the clerk even began.

“Mr Russell,” she said, calm but already tired, “you are before the court charged with conspiracy to commit grievous bodily harm and attempted murder.”

The words landed heavily in the small courtroom.

George smiled.

Not happily.

Sharply.

“This is ridiculous,” he said immediately.

His solicitor leaned in. “George, please—”

“He put himself there,” George continued, louder. “You’ve all decided this narrative already. Nobody is actually looking at what happened on track.”

Jasper felt the CPS lawyer beside him go still.

The judge did not raise her voice.

“Mr Russell,” she said evenly, “this is not a media interview. You will not address the court unless invited.”

George didn’t stop.

“He always drives like that. Always. Everyone knows it. He finally ran out of luck and now— now suddenly I’m responsible because the sport needs a villain?”

A murmur moved through the public gallery.

The judge removed her glasses slowly.

“Mr Russell,” she said, voice sharper now, “you will remain silent while the charge is read. If you continue to interrupt proceedings I will have you removed and the hearing will continue in your absence. Do you understand me?”

For the first time, George paused.

“…Yes,” he said, but the energy in him didn’t settle.

The prosecutor outlined the case. Calm. Clinical.

Payments traced to accounts. Encrypted communication. Meetings with mechanics before the Azerbaijan Grand Prix. A deliberately compromised component.

Jasper watched George as each point was listed.

No fear.

Only anger.

When the clerk asked for confirmation of identity, George leaned forward.

“He should be here,” he said suddenly. “If you’re accusing me because he crashed, he should at least show up.”

The judge stared at him.

“The alleged victim,” she said coolly, “is currently recovering from surgery after sustaining serious injuries. Your lack of perspective is noted.”

George’s jaw tightened.

“He made a career off reckless driving,” he said. “And now—”

“Enough,” the judge said.

Silence fell instantly.

Then came the bail discussion.

The prosecution requested remand in custody. Standard for attempted murder: seriousness, international connections, potential interference with witnesses — especially given the four co-accused mechanics and the possibility of contact.

Jasper expected it — attempted murder normally guaranteed it. The argument was straightforward: seriousness of offence, international connections, risk of interference with witnesses.

But George’s barrister stood.

He was good. Very good.

No prior convictions. Surrendered passport. Permanent UK residence. Electronic monitoring. Media scrutiny making flight nearly impossible.

The judge listened for a long time.

Then she folded her hands.

“This court is satisfied the evidential threshold for charge has been met,” she said. “However, bail may be granted under the strictest conditions available to this court.”

Jasper felt the room lean forward.

“Mr Russell, you will be released on conditional bail. You will reside at your registered address under house arrest. You will wear an electronic monitoring device. You will surrender all travel documents. You will not contact, directly or indirectly, any witness, any team personnel connected to the investigation, any co-accused, or the injured party.””

George opened his mouth.

The judge’s voice hardened.

“If you breach these conditions even once, you will be remanded in custody immediately. Am I clear?”

“…Yes.”

She held his gaze a moment longer.

“I will add one more observation,” she said. “You would be wise to use the time before trial to reflect on the seriousness of the situation you now face. This court deals in evidence, not rivalry.”

She struck the desk lightly.

“Bail granted.”

The hearing ended.

Officers moved toward the dock to escort George out.

As he passed Jasper, George looked directly at him.

“He knows,” George said quietly, almost conversational. “He knows he caused it.”

Jasper held his gaze.

For the first time in the entire case, Jasper felt something colder than professional detachment.

Not anger.

Certainty.

Because he had seen many guilty men.

And what unsettled him most was not that George believed the story.

It was that he needed to.

Jasper closed the case file.

This wasn’t a motorsport scandal anymore.

This was a criminal trial.

***

The Sun, UK: F1 MELTDOWN: George Russell Charged With Attempted Murder — Then Loses It Outside Court, Blames Max Verstappen for “Everything”

25 September 2025 | By Darren Pike, Senior Sports Correspondent

Formula One descended into absolute chaos yesterday as disgraced driver George Russell was formally charged with attempted murder — and then proceeded to unravel in front of cameras, angrily blaming Max Verstappen for the crash that nearly killed the four-time world champion.

Russell, 27, appeared before Westminster Magistrates’ Court on Wednesday morning following a Metropolitan Police investigation into the Azerbaijan Grand Prix horror smash. Prosecutors allege Russell arranged and financed the deliberate sabotage of Verstappen’s car through intermediaries, leading to the high-speed impact in Baku. 

In a further shock, four mechanics linked to pre-race access to Verstappen’s vehicle have also been charged in connection with the alleged plot. Police confirmed the men face separate criminal proceedings, including conspiracy to cause grievous bodily harm, after investigators traced financial transfers and communications believed to connect them to the tampering of a key car component.

The charge marks one of the most shocking moments in modern sporting history.

COURTROOM DRAMA

Wearing a dark suit and looking visibly agitated, Russell reportedly interrupted proceedings multiple times, shaking his head and muttering to himself as details of the alleged plot were read aloud.

According to court sources, the presiding judge was “clearly unimpressed” by Russell’s demeanor, warning him to “remain silent and composed” after he attempted to speak out of turn.

Bail was granted under strict conditions. Russell was released under house arrest, fitted with an electronic monitoring tag, and ordered to surrender his passport. He is prohibited from contacting any individuals connected to Formula One teams, mechanics, or ongoing investigations.

The judge emphasized the seriousness of the charge, noting that the alleged actions “demonstrate a complete disregard for human life.”

“THIS IS MAX’S FAULT” — RUSSELL SNAPS

If the courtroom was tense, the scenes outside were explosive.

As Russell exited the courthouse flanked by lawyers and security, he suddenly broke formation, turning toward the assembled press with wild eyes and clenched fists.

“This never would have happened if it wasn’t for him,” Russell shouted. “He took everything. My seat. My career. He acts like he’s untouchable and everyone lets him get away with it.”

When reporters pressed him on the charge, Russell doubled down.

“Everyone thinks I lost control,” Russell told assembled media, speaking rapidly and gesturing sharply. “I didn’t lose control. He forced it. He always forces it. He pushes people until something breaks. He thinks he’s untouchable,” Russell said, voice rising. “People finally see what happens when you race him. I didn’t start this — he did.”

When asked directly whether he had intended to cause harm, Russell became visibly agitated.

“You don’t understand racing! You don’t understand him! He put me in that position — he always does. This was inevitable. He made this sport toxic,” he ranted. “He drives like he owns the track. Everyone protects him. And now suddenly I’m the villain?”

Security quickly intervened as Russell attempted to continue speaking, yelling back over his shoulder:

“Ask him why this happened. Ask him.”

One journalist described the scene as “unhinged” and “deeply unsettling.”

A CAREER IN FREEFALL

Russell’s arrest and charge come after months of turmoil.

Earlier this year, he lost his Mercedes seat following allegations of sexual assault involving senior team personnel. CCTV footage later leaked to the press, leading to Russell’s immediate contract termination and replacement mid-season.

The collapse of his career coincided with Verstappen’s confirmed move to Mercedes for 2026 — a decision now believed by investigators to be a key motivator behind the alleged sabotage plot.

Legal experts say Russell’s outburst could seriously damage his defense.

“Publicly blaming the victim while facing a charge of this magnitude is extraordinarily ill-advised,” one barrister told The Sun. “It suggests a lack of remorse and poor impulse control.”

THE CHARGE

Prosecutors allege Russell deliberately arranged interference with Verstappen’s car prior to the race, leading to a high-speed crash that nearly proved fatal. Investigators claim electronic communications and financial transfers link Russell to individuals who accessed the vehicle before the session.

In court, Russell spoke only to confirm his name and date of birth. His legal team entered a plea of not guilty.

Magistrates granted conditional bail. Russell will remain under strict house arrest, fitted with an electronic monitoring tag, and forbidden from contacting any individuals connected to the case or attending any motorsport events.

He must also surrender his passport and observe a nightly curfew.

JUDGE “DEEPLY CONCERNED”

According to court sources, the presiding judge expressed concern about Russell’s conduct and warned him directly regarding public statements.

“This is a serious criminal matter, not a sporting dispute,” the judge reportedly said. “You would be well advised to refrain from commentary outside legal proceedings.”

PADDOCK REACTION

The Formula 1 community has been left reeling. Verstappen remains in recovery following multiple surgeries, while teams have declined detailed comment pending legal proceedings.

Privately, several drivers are said to be “shocked” by the allegations.

WHAT HAPPENS NEXT

The case now moves to Crown Court, where a preliminary hearing will determine whether sufficient evidence exists for a full trial. Legal experts say a conviction could carry a lengthy prison sentence.

For now, one of Britain’s most recognisable sporting figures waits at home under electronic monitoring — and the sport he once helped represent is left grappling with a scandal unlike anything in its modern history.

***

Group Chat: WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?!

(Members: Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, Max Verstappen, Yuki Tsunoda, Liam Lawson, Isack Hadjar, Oliver Bearman, Esteban Ocon, Gabriel Bortoleto, Nico Hulkenberg, Kimi Antonelli, Valtteri Bottas, Pierre Gasly, Franco Colapinto, Charles Leclerc, Lewis Hamilton, Alex Albon, Carlos Sainz, Lance Stroll, Fernando Alonso)

Lando Norris: ok i just read the article

Lando Norris: he stood outside a COURT and blamed max

Alex Albon: they CHARGED him

Alex Albon: charged. like an actual crime. not FIA. not sporting penalty. CRIME.

Pierre Gasly: attempted murder…

Esteban Ocon: I never thought I would read those words in F1 news

Lewis Hamilton: None of us did.

Charles Leclerc: house arrest with an electronic tag this sounds like a film not our paddock

Carlos Sainz: I’ve been in this sport my entire life I genuinely don’t know how to process this

Yuki Tsunoda: I WORK AT RED BULL WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO WITH THIS INFORMATION

Yuki Tsunoda: I sat in that garage this year

Yuki Tsunoda: I ate lunch with those mechanics

Liam Lawson: yeah that part is messing with me too

Yuki Tsunoda: I AM STILL AT RED BULL HELLO???????

Lando Norris: yuki mate maybe not phrase it like that right now

Yuki Tsunoda: NO I MEAN PEOPLE FROM MY TEAM WERE ARRESTED AND A DRIVER PAID THEM I AM DRIVING A CAR BUILT BY HUMANS I WOULD LIKE NOT TO DIE

Esteban Ocon: Valid concern honestly.

Carlos Sainz: The paddock is not okay right now.

Lewis Hamilton: Nobody is.

Alex Albon: He was one of my closest friends here. I keep rereading the article hoping it changes.

Pierre Gasly: I’m sorry, mate.

Alex Albon: I just… I never thought he was capable of something like that.

Fernando Alonso: Sometimes pressure breaks people in ways you don’t see.

Oscar Piastri: This wasn’t a snap decision though.

Kimi Antonelli: There was planning.

Oliver Bearman: That’s the scariest part.

Franco Colapinto: Yeah

Fernando Alonso: Racing drivers are competitive. This is not competition.

Nico Hülkenberg: this is beyond rivalry

Gabriel Bortoleto: the ankle monitor part is what got me like that’s prison-adjacent

Oscar Piastri: Attempted murder charges are not issued lightly in the UK.

Oliver Bearman: the judge literally warned him to stop talking

Franco Colapinto: and then he immediately went outside and talked

Lando Norris: not talked RANTED

Lando Norris: he said max forced it

Pierre Gasly: that part made my stomach drop

Alex Albon: I don’t recognise the person in that article.

Fernando Alonso: Pressure reveals character.

Nico Hülkenberg: this isn’t pressure

Nico Hülkenberg: this is something else entirely

Lando Norris: i keep replaying the onboard he could have died

Lewis Hamilton: Yes.

Lewis Hamilton: We all understood that immediately.

Pierre Gasly: the worst part is Max trusted everyone around him

Alex Albon: I keep thinking about how normal everything felt that weekend

Alex Albon: drivers briefing coffee jokes

Alex Albon: and apparently someone was planning THAT

Carlos Sainz: that’s the part that is disturbing not the crash the intent

Esteban Ocon: I’ve been angry at people on track everyone has

Esteban Ocon: but this isn’t anger

Fernando Alonso: No. This is calculation.

Yuki Tsunoda: I don’t want to race next weekend

Liam Lawson: same

Charles Leclerc: I think none of us do, if we are honest

Lewis Hamilton: We will. But not the same way.

Oscar Piastri: The paddock won’t feel normal again for a long time.

Lando Norris: someone tried to kill a driver

Lando Norris: a DRIVER

Pierre Gasly: and we were all out there with him

Nico Hülkenberg: that’s what keeps hitting me it could have been any of us

Fernando Alonso: Exactly.

Fernando Alonso: Today it was Max. Tomorrow it could be anyone.

Alex Albon: I just want Max back in the paddock

Yuki Tsunoda: same

Lando Norris: yeah

Lando Norris: i don’t care about championships anymore right now

***

Twitter Thread: Is George Russel like… completely insane? 

@/Sector3Purple: The judge literally had to tell a Formula 1 driver to stop talking like this was a drivers’ briefing 😭

@/MonzaMemes: we went from “track limits debate” to “electronic ankle monitor” in ONE WEEK

@/RaceEngineerMemes: FIA penalties: +5 seconds UK legal system: house arrest and surrender passport

@/dutchorangearmy: He blamed Max outside court???? Max is literally in hospital after surgery.

@/FerrariPain1999: the wildest part is he STILL thinks this is racing politics and not… criminal law???

@/TelemetryNerd: Everyone keeps focusing on the rant but the article says: financial transfers + intermediaries + access to the car That is planning. That is not anger. That is premeditation.

@/TrackLimitsDeleted: He said “Ask him why this happened.” Max is literally recovering from surgery and still somehow getting blamed???

@/DriveToCourtroom: Netflix could not have written this and they’ve written some ridiculous things.

@/SilverArrowsIntel: Legal experts are right. Publicly blaming the victim while on bail is catastrophic for a defense case.

@/ScuderiaSoul: Imagine being a driver strapping into a car next weekend.

@/Max33FansNL: I don’t care about championships anymore. I just want Max healthy.

@/AlpineHopium: You can argue about aggressive racing. You cannot argue about sabotage.

@/gridgirlthrowaway: I used to worry about safety barriers and halo strength. I never thought the danger would be another driver.

@/SundayLightsOut: We all watched that crash live. Now imagine knowing it wasn’t an accident.

@/gridwatcher::Attempted murder. Not a sporting penalty. Not a controversy. A crime. I am sick to my stomach.

@/tyredegnerd:The fact that he stood outside court and blamed Max again is… alarming. That’s not PR spin. That’s a man unraveling.

@/overcutqueen:“He forced it” No. You don’t sabotage a car because someone “forced” you. That’s premeditation.

@/monacostints:I don’t care what team you support. If you’re defending George right now, log off.

@/williamsfan99:I’ve supported George since F2. This article broke something in me.

@/slipstreamed:Standing outside court blaming the victim is about the worst thing he could’ve done for his defence.

@/chassisfail:Unhinged is the correct word. Wild eyes. Ranting. Security dragging him away. That’s not stress — that’s obsession.

@/pitwallpsych:This reads less like denial and more like fixation. That’s what’s terrifying.

@/silverarrowsinsider:People keep asking “how could this happen in F1?” Because we glorify pressure until someone breaks.

@/downforcejunkie:Imagine being Max’s family and reading this. I would be incandescent with rage.

@/kerbstrike:“He took everything. My seat. My career.” That entitlement is loud.

@/laptimeslut:He didn’t “lose control.” He lost perspective a long time ago.

@/racedaywitch:Everyone talking about rivalry — this stopped being rivalry the second sabotage entered the chat.

@/baku_replay:I keep thinking about how many people could’ve been hurt. Not just Max.

@/pitlaneecho:The saddest part? He still thinks he’s the victim.

@/LapsAndLaughs:The wildest part is not even the charge. It’s him going outside and BLAMING MAX TO CAMERAS.

@/MonzaTifosi:You can hate a driver. You can be rivals. You do not sabotage a car at 300km/h. Ever.

@/lightsoutandpanic:I feel physically sick reading this. Max hit the wall at Baku hard enough that the halo sparks looked like fireworks. He could have died.

@/GridGossip:The judge literally told him to stop talking and he went straight to the press and ranted. His lawyers must be having heart palpitations.

@/Max33DefenseLeague:“He took my seat” is not a motive that will play well in a courtroom.

@/SilverArrowsFan:I keep thinking about the other drivers on track. Lando was right there. That accident could have collected multiple cars.

@/DriveToCourt:The moment a driver starts blaming the victim publicly while on bail… yeah his legal team is not sleeping tonight.

@/TireDegradationStan:The onboard footage already haunted me. Reading that someone arranged it makes it ten times worse.

@/SlipstreamSam:I’m sorry but the quotes outside the court??? That wasn’t anger. That was a man who genuinely thinks he did nothing wrong.

@/apexapocalypse:He literally said “I didn’t start this — he did” about a 300km/h crash he allegedly arranged. That is… deeply concerning behavior.

@/PitwallPsychology:I’m not diagnosing anyone but the public statements read less like denial and more like delusion. Russel’s reframing attempted murder as racing etiquette.

@/DownforceDaily:The judge: please refrain from public commentary George: immediately holds a press rant

@/CurbStrike:That’s not a meltdown. That’s someone who has lost touch with reality.

@/LateApexBrain:Rivalry is: divebombs, radio messages, passive aggressive interviews. Not: criminal court and blaming the victim.

@/RaceEngineerAnon:The scary part? George still talks about it like it was a normal racing dispute.

@/Sector2Chaos:He’s not even denying the situation properly. He’s just… justifying it.

@/BoxBoxBoxpls:The “he took my career” argument is terrifying. Like that explains attempting to harm someone.

@/SundayFormationLap:This reads like a psychological break, not a PR disaster.

@/BrakeTemp900:The man is on bail for attempted murder and chose to argue strategy politics with reporters.

@/SlickTyresAndTea:I genuinely think George Russell believes he’s the victim.

@/MotorsportLawyerUK:Publicly blaming the injured party while awaiting trial is catastrophically bad legal judgment. His legal team will not be happy.

@/GaragePassGirl:I used to think this was a rivalry that got ugly. Now it looks like obsession.

@/TrackLimitsDeleted:You know it’s bad when the entire internet stops arguing about who’s the better driver.

@/brakebiaspls:The way he was shouting like Max personally orchestrated his downfall?? Sir. You are in front of a COURT.

@/Slipstreamed:Blaming the guy you allegedly tried to kill while on bail is certainly… a strategy.

@/PaddockArchive:Reminder: this is the same guy who lost his Mercedes seat earlier this year after the incident with Ana Wolff. This didn’t start in Baku.

@/Sector3Witness:George forced a kiss on a team employee, got fired, then months later allegedly sabotages a car. There’s a pattern here and it’s not subtle.

@/TelemetryTruth:He already crossed a line with Ana Wolff. The paddock moved on too fast.

@/GridMemory:I remember people saying Ana overreacted at the time. I hope those people are quiet right now.

@/FanInTheGrandstand:I genuinely hope Ana Wolff has security. If he’s blaming everyone else publicly, that’s scary behavior.

@/ChicaneTalk:People kept saying “separate personal from racing.” You can’t. Character doesn’t compartmentalize.

@/FinalSectorFocus:The Baku crash didn’t come out of nowhere. It was the endpoint of a spiral everyone ignored.

@/BrakeCheckMate:The fact that security had to physically intervene says everything.

@/GridWideSilence:I can’t imagine being a driver watching that footage knowing you shared a grid with him this year.

@/F1ColdSweat:People keep saying “he snapped.” No — snapping is sudden. This feels like something that’s been building for a long time.

@/PitlaneEthics:Trying to turn a criminal charge into a rivalry narrative is genuinely disturbing:.

@/LastLapLogic:If Max hadn’t survived, we wouldn’t be reading tweets — we’d be reading obituaries. And he’s yelling about his seat.

***

Slack Channel: #brackley-nerds

Private Channel. ~30 members. 

lucy.comms:Has everyone seen the Sun article?

tom.sim: unfortunately yes

kayleigh.powerunit:Charged Like an actual criminal charge

sam.transmission:ATTEMPTED MURDER I still can’t process those words in the context of formula one

leo.mechanic:He literally went to court and then blamed Max outside???

benjy.data:The shouting at reporters part is what got me that wasn’t “bad PR” that was unstable

jess.hr: the judge warned him to stop talking and he still kept going that is… not normal behaviour

ellie.electronics: i worked garage weekends with him in 2023 he sat in our engineering office drinking tea

flo.eng: same he borrowed my charger once

flo.eng: HOW do you go from that to this

rachel.aero:First Ana… now Max

megan.sim: yeah that’s what’s messing with me we already saw a line crossed earlier this year

fatima.pr: and half the internet treated that like gossip

jess.hr: it was not gossip HR doesn’t terminate a driver mid-season for fun

liam.engine:Has anyone heard from Ana?

ellie.electronics:No and that’s what scares me

nicola.sim:She never takes time off I have literally known her to answer emails from her hotel bed when she had flu

zahra.aero:She worked through a concussion once

benjy.data:She once joined a meeting from an airport floor

elliott.systems:Toto said Max had another surgery today she’s waiting at the hospital

lucy.comms: …oh

maddie.sim: …OH

sam.transmission: okay that basically confirms it right

kayleigh.powerunit: yeah that is not “coworker concern”She has not left that hospital since baku has she

maddie.sim:Nope. 

sara.branding:You’re telling me Dr. Ana Wolff vanished from work for the first time in her life and it’s because she’s sitting through surgeries???

liv.strategy:That is not colleague behavior that is partner behavior

megan.sim:I mean we’ve all suspected

liam.eng-lead: i am actually so furious right now

leo.mechanic: same we stood next to George in garages for YEARS

sam.transmission: he hurt one of our people and now he nearly killed another

jess.hr: Ana came back to work after that incident and acted like nothing happened and we all just… moved on

kayleigh.powerunit:Max trusted the paddock that’s the part killing me

liv.strategy:Drivers trust the teams with their lives that’s literally the whole sport

maddie.sim: and someone weaponized that

benjy.data:I don’t think the paddock recovers from this quickly

yas.enginecontrol:I don’t think we do

elliott.systems:I just keep thinking she’s sitting there waiting for surgeons after all of this and she still sent Solomon a 2026 architecture file two days ago

megan.sim: of course she did

leo.mechanic:I hope Max pulls through surgery

liv.strategy: same

jess.hr: And i hope she comes back to work eventually but honestly

jess.hr:Right now she shouldn’t have to be strong for anyone

sima.calibration: if he hurt her once and now did this i never want him anywhere near this sport again

***

Group Chat: The Old Wolves

(Members: Jenson Button, Sebastian Vettel, Nico Rosberg, David Coulthard, Mark Webber, Fernando Alonso) 

Jenson Button: Just read it. Attempted murder. House arrest. I don’t even know what to say anymore.

David Coulthard: I’ve covered this sport for decades and I’ve never seen anything like this. This isn’t controversy. This is criminal.

Nico Rosberg: What’s making my skin crawl is still the mechanics part. That trust is the whole sport.

Mark Webber: Yeah. Drivers accept risk. We never signed up for that.

Fernando Alonso: Someone crossed a line that cannot be uncrossed.

Sebastian Vettel: And yet Red Bull is still taking absolutely no responsibility. And the FIA has still not taken back the penalty points. 

Sebastian Vettel: We went out there. We spoke clearly. We said this wasn’t a racing incident. We said something was wrong.

Sebastian Vettel: And nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Jenson Button: Seb, mate—

Sebastian Vettel: No. I’m serious. They penalised Max. They blamed the victim. And now multiple people are charged over crimes and they are doing NOTHING?!

Nico Rosberg: The FIA looks ridiculous right now.

Sebastian Vettel: Ridiculous? They look negligent.

Sebastian Vettel: We told them. Drivers told them. Former champions told them. And they have done ABSOLUTELY NOTHING Someone tried to kill a driver. And the system’s first instinct was to hand out penalty points!

Fernando Alonso: That is the part that should terrify everyone.

Jenson Button: The optics are horrific. Especially now that this is in criminal court.

Nico Rosberg: The FIA can’t pretend this is “outside their remit” anymore.

Sebastian Vettel: They will try.

Sebastian Vettel: They’ll say it’s a police matter now. Wash their hands of it. No accountability for the initial handling.

Sebastian Vettel: Max trusted that car. Trusted the people around him. Trusted the system.

Sebastian Vettel: And the system failed him at every level.

David Coulthard: I don’t disagree.

Jenson Button: What worries me is the precedent. If this doesn’t force reform, nothing will.

Nico Rosberg: It has to.

Sebastian Vettel: And I hate that even now, they’re still not really listening.

Sebastian Vettel: Because until those penalty points are gone— Until Red Bull’s handling is actually scrutinised— The message is clear.

Sebastian Vettel: Drivers are expendable.

***

Hospital Pasteur, Nice, France -  25 September 2025 

Ana did not mean to open the article.

She had only intended to clear the notification off her screen.

Her phone had been vibrating almost constantly since morning — messages, missed calls, press alerts she refused to read, automated news feeds she normally filtered with clinical efficiency. She processed information for a living. She understood data. But this was not data anymore. This was noise, and she had spent the last hour deliberately avoiding it.

Her grandmother’s voice still echoed faintly in her head.

You will end up alone. Without your father, who would tolerate you?

The words sat in her chest like a stone she could not dislodge. She had compartmentalized them — she was good at compartmentalization — but they had not disappeared. They lingered at the edge of her thoughts, contaminating everything else.

So when the notification banner slid down across the screen, she tapped it before she thought.

The page loaded.

She read.

She did not scroll at first. Her eyes moved line by line, precise and focused, the way she read telemetry logs.

Charged with attempted murder.

Her brain stalled for a fraction of a second.

Not investigated.

Not suspected.

Charged.

She kept reading.

Westminster Magistrates’ Court. Electronic tag. House arrest.

And then—

Her gaze locked on the next paragraph.

“This never would have happened if it wasn’t for him… He took everything. My seat. My career.”

Her stomach dropped.

The description of him shouting at the press, blaming Max, speaking rapidly, insisting it was inevitable.

Her hands went cold.

Because this was no longer a theoretical cause-and-effect chain she had built in her head. No longer a possibility she had quietly prepared herself for.

This was confirmation.

George had not simply made a catastrophic decision in a moment of panic.

George still believed he was justified.

The room around her felt suddenly very far away.

For three days she had been operating on logic: Max alive → stabilize → transfer → surgery → rehabilitation.

Now a new variable inserted itself into the equation.

Intent.

Not accident. Not miscalculation. Not mechanical failure.

Intent.

Her thumb hovered over the screen. She read the line again.

complete disregard for human life

Her breathing shallowed slightly.

Because that meant something her brain could not easily categorize: unpredictability. Systems failed. Humans malfunctioned. But deliberate harm removed the safety assumptions she relied on. If someone was willing to do this once, her mind immediately began calculating probabilities of recurrence.

She stopped the thought.

Max was in surgery.

She forced her phone screen dark and stood up.

The room felt wrong without him. Too still. Too quiet.

Jos stood at the window again, the same position he defaulted to when he needed to be ready for action he could not take. Sophie sat in the chair beside the bed, fingers laced tightly together. Victoria perched at the edge of the sofa, watching the door like she expected it to open any second.

Ana knew she had to tell them.

Her brain catalogued the problem: Information withholding would only make the eventual discovery worse. They would see it online within minutes. It was better to control the input.

Her voice worked on the first attempt, which she noted with mild surprise.

“They have been charged.”

Three heads turned immediately.

Victoria blinked. “Who?”

Ana kept her tone even. Flat enough to remain functional.

“George Russell and four mechanics”

The silence that followed was total.

Sophie frowned first. “Charged with what?”

Ana held her phone slightly tighter than she intended.

“Attempted murder. Conspiracy to cause griveous bodily harm.”

Victoria made a small sound she didn’t seem to recognize as her own.

Jos didn’t move.

Not at first.

Then slowly, very slowly, he turned away from the window.

“What,” he said, low.

Ana forced herself to continue. The words needed to be factual. Clean. She could not allow interpretation into her delivery.

“Westminster Magistrates’ Court this morning. Bail granted under house arrest. Electronic monitoring. Passport confiscated.”

Victoria stared at her. “No — no, that— Ana, that’s criminal court. That’s… prison.”

“Yes,” Ana said quietly.

Sophie’s hand went to her mouth. “They think he meant to kill him.”

Ana did not answer.

She didn’t need to.

Jos’s jaw tightened so hard she could see the muscles shift along his cheek.

“Did he deny it?” Sophie asked faintly.

Ana hesitated.

She did not want to say the next part. But omission would not hold.

“He spoke to the press outside.”

Victoria shook her head. “And?”

Ana looked at the floor for a fraction of a second.

“He blamed Max.”

The reaction was immediate.

Victoria swore under her breath.

Sophie’s eyes filled instantly, anger overtaking fear. “After what he did?”

Jos moved.

Not explosively. Worse.

He went very still.

The kind of stillness that came before something broke.

“He said Max forced it,” Ana continued quietly, because they needed the full picture. “He stated it was inevitable.”

Jos let out a short, disbelieving breath. Not laughter. Not quite rage. Something harsher.

“He still thinks this is racing,” he said.

No one corrected him.

Victoria wiped at her eyes roughly. “He nearly killed him,” she whispered, looking at the empty bed.

Ana’s gaze drifted to the pillow where Max’s head had rested that morning.

Her chest tightened.

The article’s words replayed in her mind — he took everything, my seat, my career.

She recognized the cognitive pattern immediately. Externalized blame. Causal displacement. Inability to integrate personal responsibility. Her brain categorized it automatically, clinically.

It did not make it less frightening.

Sophie stood and crossed the room to the bed, resting her hand on the mattress.

“He can’t reach him, can he?” she asked, suddenly urgent.

“No,” Ana said. “He is under court restriction. He cannot contact anyone connected to the investigation or Formula One.”

Jos exhaled slowly.

For the first time since she’d met him, she saw relief on his face.

Small. Temporary. But real.

Victoria sat down hard on the sofa. “I thought the worst part was the crash,” she said quietly. “It wasn’t.”

No, Ana thought.

It was the intent.

She sat back in the chair beside the bed and forced her hands to unclench in her lap.

Max was still in surgery.

That was the variable that mattered.

Everything else — courts, articles, George’s words, her grandmother’s voice — became background noise she deliberately pushed away.

She focused on the single stable fact she could hold.

He was alive.

Ana lasted exactly eleven minutes after telling them.

Eleven minutes of sitting back down in the chair beside Max’s empty bed.

 Eleven minutes of staring at nothing while Sophie quietly cried into a paper napkin and Victoria paced in small loops near the door and Jos stood at the window like a guard dog with nowhere to direct the guarding.

Her brain tried to resume its ordered priorities:

Surgery duration. Estimated fixation time. Post-operative monitoring window. Pain management protocols.

It did not work.

Because there was a new variable her mind would not release.

George was not remorseful.

He was angry.

And anger did not behave predictably.

Her thoughts kept looping into increasingly irrational projections — court restrictions failing, someone slipping past hospital security, a press crowd turning chaotic, a person desperate enough not caring about consequences.

She knew it was statistically unlikely.

Her brain still modeled it.

Her hands were cold again.

***

Text Messages: Dr. Anastasia “Ana” Wolff & Toto Wolff

Ana: I need a number.

Toto: What happened?

Ana: Nikolai Maroz. The bodyguard you use sometimes. The one you threatened three people over. Including your own legal department.

Toto: Anastasia. Why?

Ana: I know it is unreasonable. But George Russell is not thinking rationally and Max is immobilized and publicly located and hospitals are accessible structures.

Toto: You don’t need to contact Nikolai.

Ana: I want a redundancy layer.

Toto: I will take care of it.

Ana: You are busy.

Toto: Anastasia. This is not a “busy” situation.

Ana: I know it is not logical. George Russell is under house arrest and monitored.

Toto: You are scared.

Toto: I already spoke with hospital administration this morning. Security will be increased. I am also arranging private security. You won’t see them, but they will be there.

Ana: Thank you.

Toto: Something else happened.

Ana: No. Surgery is still ongoing.

Toto: Not Max. You.

Toto: Your grandmother called you.

Ana: Yes.

Toto: Why didn’t you tell me?

Ana: You have a lot on your plate.

Toto: You are on my plate. Anastasia, she had no right to call you about this. None.

Ana: Rosa spoke to her.

Toto: I know.

Toto: What did she say?

Ana: She disagrees with your decisions.

Toto: Anastasia.

Ana: She said I caused the family rupture. She said my diagnosis is fashionable. She said you indulged me and that I was an accident you made in Russia.

Toto: I am so sorry. You should have told me.

Ana: You were coordinating legal, press and logistics across three countries.

Toto: I am still your father.

Ana: I did not want to add load.

Toto: You are not load. She will not contact you again. I will handle it. Focus on Max. I will focus on everything else.

Ana: Okay.

Toto: And Anastasia?

Ana: Yes?

Toto: You did nothing wrong.

***

Hospital Pasteur, Nice, France -  25 September 2025 

The surgeon used the phrase “as well as we could have hoped.”

Sophie would remember those exact words for the rest of her life.

The man in green scrubs was explaining screws and plates and alignment and blood supply and rehabilitation timelines. She heard the words, understood most of them, but what actually reached her was simpler:

Max was alive. Max was stable. Max was still theirs.

Her knees nearly gave out anyway.

She didn’t cry immediately. Not there. Not in front of the surgeon, not in front of the nurses, not in front of the staff who were trying very hard to look professional while clearly knowing who her son was. Instead she nodded, asked sensible questions, listened carefully — the way mothers do when they are holding themselves together by structure alone.

It was only when they were allowed into recovery that the reality hit.

Max looked small.

He had never looked small in his entire life. Not as a child, not as a teenager, not even when he was a scrawny karting boy sleeping in vans and eating sandwiches at circuits. Even hurt, even exhausted, he had always radiated motion. Intent. Energy.

Now he was still.

The sedation had him completely under, his face slack in a way that felt wrong on someone who was normally so intensely present. There were tubes, lines, monitoring wires, a brace around the leg that had been rebuilt by surgeons instead of held together by external metal.

Sophie moved to the side of the bed and touched his hand very carefully.

Warm.

She hadn’t realized she’d been holding her breath until she exhaled.

“Hi, sweetheart,” she whispered, even though he couldn’t hear her.

Behind her, Victoria hovered again — not sitting, not moving, just standing close enough that she could see him breathe. Her daughter had been trying so hard to be composed since arriving, but Sophie recognized the signs. Victoria had always been the one who felt things quietly.

Her eyes hadn’t left him since they entered the room.

“He looks…” Victoria started, then stopped.

“He looks like someone who had major surgery,” Sophie said gently. “And someone who is healing.”

Victoria nodded, but she still reached forward and very carefully touched his arm, as if checking reality with her own hand.

Sophie watched her daughter and felt something twist in her chest.She suddenly saw it so clearly. The late nights when Max would fall asleep on the couch after karting and Victoria would curl beside him without asking. The unspoken pact between siblings that only existed when they had grown up around adult storms.

She turned slightly.

Ana stood on the other side of the bed.

Not hovering. Not crying. Just present — hands lightly resting on the rail, eyes on Max in a way that was neither medical nor observational but something far more personal. Sophie noticed immediately that she wasn’t watching the machines anymore.

She was watching him.

That was new.

For three days Ana had monitored everything — vitals, medication, staff movements, procedures — like she was part of the hospital system itself. Now she simply stood there, very still, shoulders lowered.

Relief.

That was what it looked like.

Not dramatic, not visible to anyone who didn’t know to look for it. But Sophie saw it in the loosened tension around her mouth, in the way her breathing had finally slowed.

Sophie understood something then that she hadn’t fully articulated before.

Ana had not been strong because she wasn’t afraid.

She had been strong because she was terrified and refused to let it matter until he was safe.

Sophie stepped back slightly to give her space.

Ana didn’t notice. She reached forward and gently brushed her fingers through Max’s hair, a small, automatic gesture, and Sophie felt her throat tighten.

That was not caretaker behavior.

That was love.

She glanced toward Jos.

He stood near the foot of the bed, arms crossed, silent. To anyone else he would have looked impassive. Sophie knew better. His shoulders were lowered in a way they had not been since the crash. The rigid tension he carried like armor had eased just a fraction.

Relief looked different on Jos.

It looked like stillness instead of pacing. Like breathing instead of clenched jaw. Like him not looking away from Max.

For three days he had been angry because anger was easier than fear. She had lived with him long enough to understand that. Jos processed the world physically — problems were solved with action. And this had been unsolvable.

Now, watching their son sleep peacefully, she saw what lay under the temper.

He was simply a father who had almost lost his child.

His eyes moved once — not to Max.

To Ana.

It wasn’t approval exactly. Jos didn’t do approval in a conventional way. But it was recognition. A silent acknowledgement that he now understood why Max looked for her first in every room.

Sophie followed his gaze.

Ana hadn’t moved. Her hand still rested in Max’s hair, not stroking, just there. Grounding him even while he slept.

Victoria finally sat in the chair, exhaustion catching her now that the crisis had passed. She leaned her head against the mattress near Max’s shoulder, eyes closing briefly.

Sophie watched both of them — her daughter and the woman her son loved — positioned instinctively at either side of him, and something settled deep in her chest.

Max had always carried the world on his shoulders. Racing had demanded it, life had demanded it, expectations had demanded it. For years she had worried what would happen when he finally stopped moving, when there was nothing left to fight.

Now she saw the answer.

He wouldn’t be alone.

She brushed her thumb lightly across his knuckles again and allowed herself, finally, to feel the relief she had been holding back since the crash.

“He’s safe,” she murmured softly.

And this time, she believed it.

***

Text Messages: Peter “Bono” Bonnington & Gianpiero Lambiase

Bono:You alive?

GP:Define alive.

Bono:Functioning enough to drink whisky?

GP:That depends entirely on how much whisky.

Bono:Good. Because I’m invoking emergency paddock protocol.

GP:I don’t like the sound of that.

Bono:Friday night. Brackley lot are going to the pub after work. You are coming.

GP:Absolutely not.

Bono:GP.

GP:Peter, I have spent the last 72 hours alternating between reading legal statements and wanting to commit crimes.

Bono:Exactly why you’re coming.

GP:I am not socialising with anyone right now.

Bono:It’s not socialising. It’s containment.

GP:Containment?

Bono:Half the factory wants to scream. The other half wants to cry. The rest want to punch something.

GP:Reasonable reactions.

Bono:You, specifically, need a drink before you attempt to personally strangle a journalist.

GP:I have considered worse.

Bono:Yes. That is why I am texting you.

GP:I do not work for Mercedes.

Bono:You’ll work for us next year. Also everyone here considers you honorary staff at this point.

Bono:Look — nobody is okay after today. The charge made it real.

GP:It was already real when I watched telemetry.

Bono:I know.

GP:I would like five minutes alone with Russell. No witnesses.

Bono:Which is why you are going to a pub instead.

GP:I am not promising good behavior.

Bono:We’re engineers. Bad behavior is limited to angry technical debates and overpouring whisky.

GP:Fine.

Bono:I’ll take that as a yes.

GP:One drink.

Bono:You will have at least three.

GP:One.

Bono:See you Friday, Gianpiero.

GP:If anyone mentions telemetry, I am leaving.

Bono:Noted. We will instead discuss how awful Ferrari strategy used to be in 2012.

GP:Now that I will attend for.

***

Hospital Pasteur, Nice, France -  25 September 2025 

Max woke up in pieces.

Not physically — the surgeons had, according to several very serious-looking people, put him back together extremely well — but mentally. Consciousness came back the way a badly tuned radio found a signal: static, sound, silence, then a voice, then nothing again.

The first thing he registered was weightlessness.

The second was pain.

The third was her hand.

His fingers tightened automatically before he was even fully aware of it. Warm, small, familiar — anchored to reality far better than the beeping monitors or the sterile smell ever could.

“Ana,” he mumbled, eyes still closed.

“I am here,” came the immediate reply, quiet and steady, much closer than the rest of the world.

Good. Good, that was correct.

He opened his eyes.

The ceiling was different. White, but not the Baku white. Softer. French, his brain supplied unhelpfully. He blinked slowly, trying to force his thoughts into order and failing spectacularly.

He turned his head a few centimeters and found her.

Ana sat beside the bed, posture forward, hand wrapped around his, watching him with the same focused attention she usually reserved for telemetry screens. The relief in her eyes was small but unmistakable.

“Hey,” she said softly.

Max stared at her with a kind of intense concentration that usually meant he was calculating lap delta.

Instead he whispered, hoarse, “You’re real.”

Victoria made a small choking noise from the other side of the room.

“I am,” Ana said gently. “You are awake. Surgery is finished.”

Max blinked slowly. His eyes were glassy from the medication, unfocused for a second — then abruptly, very sharply, they filled with tears.

Ana froze.

That… was not expected.

Max squeezed her hand weakly, lower lip wobbling in a way Ana had never seen in her entire life.

“I saw her,” he said.

Sophie leaned forward. “Saw who, sweetheart?”

Max’s gaze stayed locked on Ana like nobody else existed.

“Our daughter.”

Silence.

Ana did not react outwardly. Not because she was unaffected — but because her brain had abruptly lost the ability to choose the correct response category.

“…what?” she said carefully.

Max’s eyes overflowed immediately.

He shook his head, tears already spilling sideways into his hair. “We had a baby.”

Victoria clapped both hands over her mouth.

Ana did not move for a full two seconds.

“…I beg your pardon,” she said carefully.

“I saw her,” he said urgently, like it was the most important information in the world. “I saw her. She was real. She had my eyes.”

Victoria made a strangled noise that she disguised as a cough.

Ana blinked.

“Max,” she said gently, clinical calm kicking in, “you are still under significant opioid influence.”

“No,” he insisted immediately, emotional and completely certain. “You don’t understand. She walked.”

Victoria bent forward, shoulders shaking silently.

“She was in the garage,” Max continued, voice cracking. “Mercedes garage. Abu Dhabi. You were there. GP was there. Kimi was there—” He sniffed, wiping his face badly with the back of his hand. “She took three steps and then fell and I picked her up and she grabbed my race suit.”

Ana gently pressed his hand. “Max. You are under heavy anesthesia.”

“No,” he insisted, grabbing her wrist with surprising determination. “It was real. I know the difference between dreams and… not dreams. I’ve had them before.”

His voice cracked completely.

“I want her,” he whispered, tears now fully falling. “I want a baby with you.”

Victoria lost the battle and emitted a small choking squeak she turned into a very unconvincing throat-clear.

Ana did not look at her.

Ana did not even blink.

Max’s grip tightened, terrified now in a way she hadn’t heard before — not fear of injury, not fear of racing.

Fear of losing a future.

“I almost didn’t come back,” he said softly, crying openly now. “And she was there and you were there and everything was… calm. I want that. I want… us. I don’t care about anything else. I just—”

His voice broke completely.

“I want a family with you, Nastya.”

The room went completely still.

A tear escaped. “She had curls. I think she likes cars.”

Victoria made a strangled sound that was definitely a suppressed laugh and not a sob.

Max kept going, emotional and unstoppable.

“She took her first steps in the garage and everyone pretended they weren’t watching but they were watching and Toto was pretending not to cry and you were smiling at me and I—” his voice cracked again — “I’ve never wanted anything more in my life.”

Ana stared at him.

Not flustered.

Not embarrassed.

Completely, utterly unprepared.

“You are on morphine,” she said.

“I don’t care,” Max sniffed, still crying. “I would be a great dad.”

“You would,” she replied automatically, because that part was simply true.

That only made him cry harder.

“I almost didn’t get to,” he said quietly, and suddenly the room understood. The dream wasn’t random. His brain had taken the place his mind kept trying not to go — the future he almost lost.

Ana’s expression softened instantly.

She leaned closer, brushing her fingers gently through his hair the same way she had while he slept.

“You are not required to decide reproduction immediately after orthopedic surgery,” she told him softly.

Max looked at her with damp, unfocused devotion. “I want that,” he whispered hoarsely. “I want a baby with you.”

Victoria had to physically turn away toward the wall.

Ana did not laugh. Did not deflect. She just looked at him — really looked — and for a moment all her practiced composure disappeared.

“Max,” she said softly.

He kept going, unstoppable. “She was wearing these tiny headphones and—” His voice broke again. “It felt real. It felt like… like I got to see it already and I don’t want to lose it.”

The tears weren’t hysteria. They were relief. Long-delayed fear draining out sideways into something gentler.

“I nearly didn’t get there,” he whispered.

“I don’t want to wait,” Max continued, voice thick but determined. “I don’t want to be old. I don’t want to miss things.”

Ana blinked. “You are twenty-seven.”

“That’s not young,” he argued, deeply offended. “That’s basically thirty.”

Victoria slapped a hand over her mouth and bent forward, shoulders shaking.

Max didn’t notice.

 “We should start immediately.”

Sophie choked on air.

Jos blinked once.

Ana didn’t even flinch. “You just had orthopedic surgery.”

“Yes,” Max said patiently, as if explaining to someone who simply wasn’t keeping up. “But not all of me is broken.”

Victoria made a sound that absolutely required a coughing cover.

Max shifted slightly — winced — then ignored it completely, eyes still fixed on Ana with enormous seriousness.

“I almost died,” he said quietly.

The room sobered instantly.

He swallowed, voice softer now, raw in a way he would hate remembering later.

“I don’t want to wait for life to happen after racing,” he murmured. “I want it while I’m here. We already have the house,” he continued. “You already run half of Europe from a laptop. I can race and also be a father. People do that. Fernando is like ninety and still racing, I can definitely manage bedtime.”

“We are financially stable,” Max added, clearly listing what he believed were decisive points. “I have championships. You have… computers.”

Victoria lost composure entirely and bent over, silently shaking.

Max frowned again. “This is a logical plan.”

“Max,” she added carefully, “biology is not instantaneous.”

Max looked personally offended by that information.

“It should be.”

“It is not.”

He processed that for a long five seconds, face tightening in concentration.

“…we could start trying,” he said.

Victoria made a strangled sound and fled into the hallway.

Sophie was no longer even pretending composure.

Ana remained perfectly still, because if she moved she might laugh and she knew that would not help.

“Max,” she said gently, “your leg has screws in it.”

He considered that.

“Okay,” he conceded, “maybe not today.”

A pause.

“…tomorrow?”

Jos made a noise somewhere between a cough and a bark.

Ana squeezed his hand lightly. “We will not be doing that tomorrow either.”

He looked devastated.

“But we have a house now,” he said weakly. “There’s a pool. Pools are good for children.”

“That is true,” she agreed.

“I almost died,” he said quietly. Not dramatic. Not self-pitying. Just factual. “I don’t want my whole life to be later. I don’t want to wake up at forty and realize I traded everything for lap time.”

The room went quiet.

His eyes were glassy but intensely clear on her.

“I don’t just want championships,” he whispered. “I want a family with you. I want a kid running around the garage stealing radios and drawing on my race suits.”

“I want mornings with you. I want a kitchen table. I want toys on the floor and you complaining about them being in the way and then secretly organizing them by color.”

Ana opened her mouth.

Closed it again.

“I want to teach a kid how to kart,” he continued, emotional but utterly certain. “I want to show her the simulator. I want to hear you explain physics to a six-year-old and they understand you better than I do.”

“I want a little girl who sits in the garage and everyone pretends she isn’t running the team,” he continued. “And she will absolutely run the team.”

He swallowed.

“I want to come home and you’re there and she’s there and I don’t care what happened in the race because that’s what matters.”

“I want normal things,” Max said, almost pleading now. “Not just races and flights and recovery schedules. I want a family with you.”

Max swallowed, tears threatening again.

“I don’t want to wake up one day and realize I waited too long because I thought there would be time,” he said quietly. “There’s not always time.”

Ana felt her chest tighten.

She squeezed his hand. “Max…”

“I want a baby who runs around the house,” he said, words tumbling out now. “And a dog. Or two dogs. And a third cat.”

Victoria wheezed softly.

“I want to come home and hear noise,” he continued. “Not just silence and sim rigs.”

Ana brushed her thumb over his knuckles.

“I want a life with you,” he murmured. “All of it. House, dogs, cats, kid, everything. I don’t care about anything else right now.”

Ana brushed her thumb under his eye, wiping a tear away.

“I want a house full of kids,” he said softly. “Small ones. With your brain and hopefully not my temper.”

Jos made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a cough.

Ana brushed her thumb over his knuckles. “You need to recover from surgery first.”

He ignored that entirely.

“They’ll like stars,” he said. “You can name them. You’re good at naming things.”

“I name software architectures,” she corrected quietly.

“Same skillset,” Max said firmly.

He looked up at her again, eyes shining, completely sincere.

“I want a daughter,” he said. “And a boy too so she has someone to boss around.”

Victoria was now laughing silently into a pillow.

Max’s voice softened.

“I want you,” he said. “All of it. Not later. Not after championships. Now.”

“You are on morphine,” she said gently.

“I’m serious,” he insisted with heartbreaking sincerity. “We’ll be good parents. I know how to teach karting lines.”

Ana almost smiled.

“That is not the primary parenting skill,” she replied softly.

“I can learn others,” he said immediately. “I want normal things,” he whispered. “Not just races.”

Ana’s thumb brushed his knuckles again.

“You will have them,” she said gently.

He frowned weakly. “But I want them with you.”

“You will,” she repeated.

He studied her face, searching, as if he needed confirmation beyond words.

“…you’re not saying no?” he asked cautiously.

“I am saying,” she replied carefully, “We will discuss this when you are not hallucinating future paddock toddlers.”

He considered that carefully.

“…fine.”

A beat.

Then:

“But I’m still proposing again.”

“You already proposed.”

“I need a sober one,” he said firmly. “That one didn’t count.”

Max tugged weakly at Ana’s hand.

“Promise me,” he whispered.

Ana leaned down so their foreheads almost touched.

“Max,” she said gently, “your current responsibilities are breathing, healing, and not ripping your stitches.”

He blinked slowly. “Okay.”

Then, still teary, “But also baby later.”

She exhaled — a tiny, helpless sound — and pressed a soft kiss to his forehead.

“Later,” she agreed.

He relaxed immediately, like that had solved something essential in his brain. Within seconds the medication dragged him back toward sleep, his hand still loosely wrapped around hers.

Victoria immediately collapsed into silent hysterics.

Sophie pressed her hand over her mouth, smiling helplessly through tears.

Jos shook his head, looking at his sleeping son — then at Ana, who still hadn’t moved her hand from Max’s chest.

“…Well,” he said quietly, almost gruff to hide the emotion, “at least he’s thinking long term.”

***

Hospital Pasteur, Nice, France -  25 September 2025 

Max was asleep again.

Actually asleep this time — breathing deep and even, the tension finally gone from his shoulders, his hand still loosely wrapped around Ana’s fingers like his body refused to fully let go even unconscious.

Ana didn’t move.

She stayed exactly where she was beside the bed, one hand still in his, the other resting lightly against the blanket near his arm, eyes fixed on the rise and fall of his chest in quiet, repetitive confirmation.

Alive.

Victoria watched her for a full minute.

Two.

Three.

And then, very carefully, she scooted her chair closer.

“…so,” she whispered.

Ana did not look away from Max. “So?”

Victoria leaned her elbows onto her knees, lowering her voice conspiratorially.

“You realize,” she said, “that my brother just proposed, discussed interior decorating, future daughters, and parenting philosophies within a ten-minute window while medically sedated.”

Ana blinked once. “Yes.”

“And you didn’t even panic.”

“I assessed the situation,” Ana said calmly.

Victoria snorted softly. “You assessed him planning your entire domestic life.”

Ana finally looked at her. “He was experiencing a post-traumatic clarity response amplified by opioids.”

Victoria stared at her.

“…Ana.”

“Yes.”

“You do know most women would be hyperventilating right now.”

Ana considered that.

“I hyperventilated yesterday,” she said matter-of-factly.

Victoria’s expression softened immediately.

“…yeah,” she said quietly. “I heard.”

Ana’s gaze returned to Max. She gently adjusted the blanket near his shoulder, a movement so automatic Victoria realized she probably hadn’t even noticed she’d done it.

Victoria watched the tenderness of it — the carefulness, the precision, the way Ana moved around him like she understood instinctively where pain might be.

Then she smiled faintly.

“You didn’t say no,” she said.

Ana was quiet for a second.

“No,” she admitted.

Victoria tilted her head. “You thought about it.”

Ana didn’t answer immediately.

Her thumb traced lightly over the back of Max’s hand — unconscious, repetitive, grounding.

“Yes,” she said finally.

Victoria leaned back in her chair, studying her properly now — not the intimidating engineer, not Toto’s daughter, not the calm presence everyone in the hospital had been orbiting.

Just a woman sitting beside the person she loved.

“You know,” Victoria said softly, “he’s never looked at any of his other girlfriends the way he looks at you.”

Ana frowned faintly. “That is a statistically small sample size.”

Victoria laughed quietly. “No. I mean it. I’ve known him his entire life. Max doesn’t… soften. Not really.”

She glanced at her sleeping brother.

“But with you? He does. It’s like he finally relaxes.”

Ana’s eyes lingered on his face.

“He does not relax,” she said automatically.

Victoria raised an eyebrow. “Ana.”

A pause.

“…he sleeps,” Ana corrected softly.

Victoria’s smile widened a little.

Then her voice gentled.

“He’d be an amazing dad.”

Ana’s shoulders stilled.

She didn’t deflect this time.

Victoria continued quietly, watching Max.

“He’s stubborn and impossible and competitive about everything,” she said. “But he’s also the one who taught me to ride a bike for six hours straight because I cried when I fell. He pretended he wasn’t tired so I wouldn’t quit.”

Ana listened.

“He used to stay awake when I couldn’t sleep,” Victoria went on. “He’d sit on the floor beside my bed and just talk about random racing facts until I knocked out.”

Her voice softened further.

“He’s protective. Always has been. Sometimes too much. But he loves… completely. There’s no halfway with him.”

Ana looked down at Max’s hand in hers.

“I know,” she said quietly.

Victoria hesitated, then added gently:

“And with you? He’s calm. I’ve never seen him calm before.”

Ana’s throat tightened slightly — a reaction so small most people wouldn’t have noticed.

Victoria did.

She leaned closer, lowering her voice.

“And for the record,” she added with a small grin, “if you two have a daughter, she is going to run that household.”

Ana exhaled softly. “Highly probable.”

Victoria nudged her lightly with her shoulder.

“You’re not scared?”

Ana thought about it longer this time.

Then she looked at Max — really looked — at the bruising, the exhaustion, the vulnerability he would hate anyone else seeing.

“Yes,” she said honestly.

Victoria didn’t react. Just waited.

Ana’s fingers tightened slightly around his.

“But not of him,” she added quietly.

Monza Qualifying – Q3 Final Runs – Red Bull Radio Transcript

GP: Alright Max, last run. Out-lap target delta plus three. Tyres are in a good window, just build them gently through Lesmo.

Max: Yeah yeah, I know how to drive out-laps.

GP: You asked me yesterday what “gently” meant.

Max: Because you said gently and then complained they were cold.

GP: Because you drove like you were late for a flight.

GP: Okay Max, mode push now. You have a small tailwind into Turn 1.

GP: Good entry. Watch rear on exit.

Max: Rear is fine.

GP: You’re two tenths up already.

Max: Yeah.

GP: Still pushing, please.

Max: I am pushing.

GP: I’m just encouraging you.

Max: You sound nervous.

GP: I am monitoring.

Max: You’re nervous.

(Crosses finish line)

GP: …Max.

Max: Yeah?

GP: That is P1. And… that is the fastest lap ever recorded here.

Max: Nice.

GP: You really wanted that one.

Max: Yes.

GP: This wouldn’t have anything to do with a certain… arrangement?

Max: No comment.

GP: You realise I am involved in this whether I like it or not.

Max: You already were.

GP: I regret asking questions.

Max: You asked.

GP: Well… good lap.

Max: Thank you.

(brief pause)

GP: You still have to win tomorrow.

Max: I know.

GP: And the McLarens have long-run pace.

Max: I know.

GP: And this is Monza.

Max: GP.

GP: Yes.

Max: I’m winning that bet.

GP: …Understood.

***

FIA Post-Qualifying Press Conference – Monza

Moderator: Max, congratulations. Pole position and the fastest lap ever recorded at Monza. Did you expect that today?

Max: No. The car felt good but… not that good. The lap was just very clean. No mistakes, good slipstream, tyres in the right window. Everything worked.

Moderator: We heard some interesting radio communication about a “bet.” Can you tell us what that was?

(Lando immediately turns his head. Oscar also looks over at the same time.)

Max: …No.

Moderator: No?

Max: It’s just an inside joke.

Oscar: That was not an inside joke voice.

Max: It was.

Lando: Mate, you sounded like you were qualifying for your life.

Max: I was qualifying for pole.

Lando: No, no. Different energy. I’ve raced you long enough to know the difference.

Moderator: So there really is a bet?

Max: No.

Lando: There is absolutely a bet.

Oscar: There’s definitely a bet.

Max: There is not a bet.

Lando: You literally told GP, “I’m winning that bet.”

Max: He asked a question.

Oscar: You didn’t deny it.

Max: I’m denying it now.

Lando: That’s not convincing.

(Journalists laughing)

Journalist: Max, is it racing-related?

Max: …No comment.

Lando: OH it’s not racing related.

Oscar: Yeah, that confirms it.

Max: I didn’t confirm anything.

Lando: You absolutely did.

Journalist: Is there a reward involved?

Max: It’s an inside joke.

Lando: There is a reward.

Oscar: There’s a very specific reward.

Max: You two are making things up.

Lando: You set the fastest lap in Monza history and suddenly you’re mysterious. Suspicious.

Oscar: You’re calm after poles. Today you look… invested.

Max: I am always invested.

Lando: No, today you look like a man with motivation.

(pause)

Journalist: Max, you’re smiling.

Max: I always smile.

Lando: You never smile in press conferences.

Oscar: He doesn’t.

Max: I smile.

Lando: You smile when you win championships, not when you get pole in a difficult season.

(more laughter)

Moderator: We’ll leave the mystery for now. Final question — tomorrow’s race. Can you hold off the McLarens?

Max: It won’t be easy. Their race pace is strong. But I’ll try.

Lando: He’s not “trying.” He’s on a mission.

Oscar: Yeah… I’m a bit concerned actually.

Max: You should be concerned anyway.

Lando: Not this concerned.

(press room laughing again)

Moderator: Thank you gentlemen.

(Microphones click off. As they stand up —)

Lando (quietly): It’s a date, isn’t it?

Max: No.

Oscar: It’s a date.

Max: I hate both of you.

***

Meanwhile on Twitter: 

@/papayapodium: Max: “it’s an inside joke” Lando + Oscar: immediate federal investigation

@/sectorpurple: HE SET THE FASTEST LAP IN MONZA HISTORY FOR A JOKE????? sir you don’t deploy that kind of pace for banter

@/clercsbassoon: that was not a “haha” bet that was a “I will alter the laws of physics” bet

@/f1girlmath: He was HALF A SECOND UP in sector 2 whatever that bet is, it’s important

@/gridgossip: The way Lando immediately clocked it… drivers know drivers

@/boxboxboxpls: Oscar: “People don’t do that for jokes.” Correct. People do that for romantic motivation

@/tyredegradation: Max Verstappen smiling in a press conference is more suspicious than any stewards investigation

@/papayatheory: He said “not racing related” OH BOY

@/chicanesandchaos: I WAS THERE THURSDAY I AM TELLING YOU THIS IS ABOUT GP’S SISTER

@/downforcequeen: GP right now: “I did not sign up to engineer a romance subplot”

@/monzamadness: He literally drove like a man trying to impress someone

@/laptimeanalysis: You do not extract a perfect Ascari + Parabolica combo on pure competitiveness alone this is emotional horsepower

@/pitlanepsychology: We are witnessing the first ever telemetry-verified crush

@/papayapowerunit: Lando: “it’s a date isn’t it” Oscar: “it’s a date” Max: “no” that was the least convincing denial I have ever heard

@/fiaunofficial: if he wins tomorrow and immediately disappears from parc fermé I will scream

@/chicanesandchaos: If Red Bull team doctor lady appears in parc fermé tomorrow I am retiring from journalism because I’ve peaked

@/racecontrolmemes: F1 2025 storyline: Max Verstappen vs McLaren vs Feelings

@/gridradio: GP on the radio: calm, composed, strategic GP in reality: babysitting a world champion in love

@/softlaunchrb: This sport is ridiculous and I love it

@/papayapanic: MAX VERSTAPPEN DOES NOT DO “INSIDE JOKES” WHAT IS THE BET

@/lando4ever: Lando immediately clocking it = my emotional support driver

@/oscarplswin: Oscar Piastri has never looked more concerned in his LIFE that man smelled motivation and got scared

@/boxboxtherapy: Max: “it’s an inside joke” Everyone with ears: that is the most outside joke I’ve ever heard

@/tyresandtea: Fastest lap in MONZA HISTORY over a “joke” yeah okay mate sure

@/grid_gremlin: You don’t casually break track records unless there’s • spite • love • or a deeply unserious man with a serious goal

@/softlaunchrb: MAX VERSTAPPEN HAS MOTIVATION AGAIN this is not a drill something has reawakened him

@/pitlanesherlock: Not racing related + specific reward + Max smiling = congratulations to whoever won the Verstappen Motivation Lottery

@/chicanesandchaos: I would like to formally state that this BET has nothing to do with tyres, cars, or championships this is personal

@/redbullintern: everyone in the garage knows and no one is saying anything which means it’s GOOD

@/verstappening: Max Verstappen with nothing to lose is dangerous Max Verstappen with something to gain is TERRIFYING

@/fia_hater69: Max said “no comment” and smiled case closed pack it up

@/gridpsychologist: Observed behaviours: ✔ hyperfocus ✔ competitive escalation ✔ denial Diagnosis: Crush-fueled lap time

***

Text Messages: Victoria Verstappen & Max Verstappen

Victoria: I just watched the press conference.

Max: Okay.

Victoria: Explain the bet.

Max: No.

Victoria: You set the fastest lap in Monza history.

Max: Yes.

Victoria: For an “inside joke.”

Max: Correct.

Victoria: Max.

Max: Victoria.

Victoria: Lando literally asked if it was a date.

Max: He says many things.

Victoria: And you didn’t deny it properly.

Max: I said no.

Victoria: You said no while smiling.

Max: I smile.

Victoria: You smile twice a year. Championship win and when you see a cat.

Max: That’s not true.

Victoria: WHAT IS THE BET

Max: If I win tomorrow she goes to dinner with me.

(typing… stops… typing again)

Victoria: OH MY GOD

Max: Stop.

Victoria: YOU ASKED HER ON A DATE WITH A RACE RESULT

Max: It was efficient.

Victoria: You are unbelievable.

Max: It’s a clear condition.

Victoria: You are literally courting a woman via motorsport achievement.

Max: I am winning a race.

Victoria: YOU ARE TRYING TO ROMANCE A WOMAN WITH A GRAND PRIX WIN

Max: It’s Monza.

Victoria: That does not help your argument.

Max: She agreed.

Victoria: She said yes because she didn’t think you could do it, didn’t she?

Max: …

Victoria: MAX.

Max: I’m going to win.

Victoria: You are insane.

Max: Maybe.

Victoria: I support this.

Max: You would.

Victoria: Also — if you win, I expect to meet her immediately.

Max: No.

Victoria: I will introduce myself anyway.

Max: Please don’t.

Victoria: Too late. I already like her.

Max: You’ve never spoken to her.

Victoria: She’s good for you.

Max: Goodnight.

Victoria: Good luck tomorrow, lover boy.

***

Alessandra had ordered room service because she did not want to be perceived.

The hotel room was dim and cool, shutters half-drawn against the lingering Italian heat. Pasta in white porcelain bowls sat between her and Gianni on the small table by the window, untouched for a moment while they both stared out at the circuit lights glowing faintly through the trees.

It felt surreal — Monza humming outside, engines still echoing in her bones, while she sat here eating carbonara with her brother like this was a perfectly normal Saturday evening.

Gianni was smiling.

Not a polite smile. Not a professional one.

A knowing smile.

“I heard about the bet,” he said casually, twirling pasta onto his fork.

Alessandra closed her eyes for exactly two seconds. “Of course you did.”

“You didn’t even try to deny it.”

“There was nothing to deny,” she said flatly. “It was hypothetical.”

Gianni laughed. Out loud. Properly.

“Lessa,” he said, delighted, “he’s going to win that thing tomorrow.”

She opened her eyes again. “That is statistically unlikely.”

Gianni leaned back in his chair, utterly relaxed. “You let him sniff blood.”

“I did not.”

“You absolutely did,” he replied. “You gave him a condition.”

“I gave him an impossible condition.”

“This is Max Verstappen,” Gianni said, as if that explained everything. “If you give him a target, he doesn’t negotiate with reality. He just… does it.”

She frowned slightly, fork paused mid-air. “You sound very confident.”

“I have worked with him for years,” Gianni said. “When he smells opportunity, he goes for it. Championships. Overtakes. Bets he’s not supposed to win.” He smiled again. “You should be terrified.”

She huffed a quiet laugh despite herself. “He’s ridiculous.”

“Yes.”

“And this is all very flattering,” she continued, “but it’s also absurd. I’m too old for him.”

Gianni snorted into his water.

“Oh come on.”

“It matters,” she insisted. “I am not twenty-seven. I am tired. I have lived in places where tomorrow was never guaranteed. I don’t date racing drivers.”

“You don’t date anyone,” he countered gently.

That landed harder than she expected.

Gianni softened immediately. “Lessa,” he said, quieter now, “I would much rather you go on one date with Max Verstappen than have Mama try to marry you off to the neighbour’s son.”

She grimaced. “Gianni—”

“I’m serious,” he continued. “I love Max like a little brother. I trust him. He’s kind in ways people don’t see. And he would never treat you like a project or a consolation prize.”

She picked at her food, appetite suddenly dulled.

“You deserve something soft,” Gianni said. “Something happy. Something that doesn’t involve helicopters or triage or deciding who lives and who doesn’t.”

She looked away, jaw tight.

“I don’t know how to be that person anymore.”

He watched her carefully. “You don’t have to know. You just have to show up.”

She shook her head. “You’re romanticising this.”

“No,” he said simply. “I’m watching my sister finally sit still long enough for someone to notice her.”

Silence stretched between them.

Outside, the distant sound of engines faded as the paddock shut down for the night.

Alessandra sighed, long and slow. “If he wins tomorrow, it doesn’t mean anything.”

Gianni’s grin returned in full force. “Of course it does.”

She shot him a look. “You are enjoying this far too much.”

“I am,” he agreed happily. “You should see his face when he thinks no one’s watching.”

She pressed her lips together, shaking her head.

“He’s going to be unbearable if he actually wins.”

Gianni stood, collecting plates. “Oh, absolutely.”

He paused at the door and glanced back at her.

“And Lessa?”

“Yes?”

“You are not too old for him.”

She scoffed.

Gianni laughed. “You’re just not used to someone chasing you with intent.”

The door clicked shut behind him.

Alessandra sat alone for a moment, staring at the untouched pasta.

Tomorrow, she told herself, was just a race.

And yet…

***

Red Bull Racing Radio Transcript - Last Lap

GP:Okay Max, this is the final lap. Gap to P2 is nineteen point six seconds. No risks now. Mode safe, please.

Max:Yeah.

GP:Just bring it home. Watch Turn 1 braking, tyres are fine but no heroics.

Max:I’m not doing heroics.

GP:You are often doing heroics.

Max:Today I don’t need to.

GP:Exactly. Kerb usage minimal through Lesmo. No unnecessary kerbs at Ascari.

Max:Copy.

(engine screaming down the straights)

GP:Everything looks good. Temperatures all stable. You can take care of the car.

Max:Car feels amazing.

GP:Yes, we noticed.

(through Lesmo 2)

GP:That’s tidy. Very tidy. Just a clean Parabolica and you’re done.

Max:Yeah.

(brief pause — car exits Ascari)

GP:Okay Max, this is excellent. Just bring it to the line.

Max:I’m bringing it.

GP:No kerb on exit.

Max:I know where the kerb is, Gianni.

GP:I am reminding you.

(Through Parabolica, engine rises)

GP:Alright Max… checkered flag.

Max:…YES!

GP:P1, P1. You win the Italian Grand Prix. That’s victory number sixty-six. And the gap was nearly twenty seconds. Fantastic job.

Max:Yessss! The car was unbelievable!

GP:Very well managed race. Excellent pace.

(brief silence as he crosses cooldown)

Max:I won that bet.

(half-second pause)

GP:…Yes. Yes you did.

Max:You doubted me.

GP:I did not doubt you. I doubted the sanity of the situation.

Max:It worked.

GP:Unfortunately, yes.

Max:You have to admit that was a good strategy.

GP:I am not putting this in the strategy report.

Max:You should.

GP:No.

Max:I told you I would win.

GP:You did.

(pause, crowd noise audible)

Max:GP?

GP:Yes Max.

Max:Best motivation I’ve had all year.

GP:I noticed.

(slight sigh audible over radio)

GP:Alright, pick up rubber and bring it back. And Max…

Max:Yeah?

GP:We are going to have a conversation later.

Max:I know.

GP:Good job.

Max:Thank you.

***

Alessandra had not intended to watch the race.

Her plan had been simple: remain in the medical room, monitor the screens for incidents, and only step out if she was needed. That was her job. Detached. Observant. Professional.

Instead, by lap twenty she had drifted toward the back of the garage.

By lap thirty she was standing beside the strategy monitors.

By lap forty she had stopped pretending she was there for medical reasons.

The Red Bull garage during a race was unlike anything she’d experienced. Not chaos — not really — but a kind of tightly contained intensity. Engineers spoke in measured tones. Data streamed across screens in incomprehensible graphs. No one shouted, yet every person was alert in the way surgeons were mid-operation.

The car appeared on the monitors again and again, the onboard camera steady, precise.

Max.

She had watched races before, casually, the way most people did. Television noise in the background of a hospital common room. But standing here, surrounded by people whose entire world hinged on each corner entry, was different.

Every braking zone mattered. Every throttle input drew reactions from the pit wall.

And Max — she recognized the posture now — drove exactly the way he spoke: economical, deliberate, never rushed. There was no drama to it. Just certainty.

She found herself tracking the timing tower.

+6.4 +9.1 +12.8

The gap kept growing.

A mechanic beside her whispered, “He’s flying.”

No one corrected him.

Gianni stood at the pit wall, voice calm on the radio, but she knew him well enough to read the set of his shoulders. He was focused — intensely so — yet not tense.

They expected this.

Which was absurd, because from what she understood, this wasn’t a race they were supposed to dominate.

She folded her arms, telling herself she was simply observing a professional environment.

+16.2

Her stomach dropped slightly.

Not because of the speed. Because she suddenly remembered, with terrible clarity, a quiet medical room and a driver leaning against the counter saying:

If I win, you’ll go on a date with me.

She had said yes because it was impossible.

Monza didn’t allow miracles like that. McLaren was faster. Ferrari was home. The probabilities were clear.

+18.7

She stared at the screen.

“Oh no,” she murmured under her breath.

A mechanic glanced at her. “You alright, Doc?”

She didn’t answer.

The final lap began and the garage went quieter still — not nervous, but anticipatory. No one moved away from the monitors. Even the radio chatter softened.

The car swept through Ascari, smooth and stable.

Gianni’s voice over the speakers: calm instructions, careful reminders.

Then Parabolica.

The engine note climbed, rising toward the straight.

The checkered flag waved on the screen.

The garage erupted.

Cheers, applause, hands slapping shoulders — controlled professionals immediately turning into very loud humans. Someone actually laughed in relief. Mechanics hugged. Engineers exhaled.

And through it all she heard Max’s voice over the radio:

I won that bet.

Gianni’s resigned reply followed.

Her brain stopped for half a second.

She stared at the screen where his car slowed on the cooldown lap, confetti and tifosi blurring in the background.

He had done it.

Not close. Not lucky.

Dominant.

For a moment, she simply stood there while the realization settled fully.

This man had just won an Italian Grand Prix — pulled twenty seconds on the field — because she had offhandedly made an impossible promise.

Alessandra covered her mouth with her hand.

“Oh my God.”

The mechanic beside her misinterpreted immediately. “Yeah, incredible race, right?”

She nodded her head faintly, eyes still fixed on the monitor where the car rolled through cheering crowds.

“Yes,” she said softly, almost to herself. “This is a problem.”

***

Post-Race Interview – Italian Grand Prix (Top 3)

Interviewer: Max, congratulations — a dominant win, almost twenty seconds clear at Monza. You looked in complete control. How did you manage that today?

Max: Yeah, the car was really good. The balance was finally where I wanted it and once we got into clean air the tyres were behaving. I could just manage the pace and… yeah, everything worked.

Interviewer: We also heard on the radio after the finish you said, “I won that bet.” Can you tell us now what that bet was?

(Lando immediately looks at him. Oscar also turns his head at the exact same time.)

Max: …No.

Interviewer: No?

Max: No.

Interviewer: You set pole yesterday, won the race today, and we heard your engineer acknowledge it. Fans are very curious.

Max: It’s not important.

Lando: It is very important.

Oscar: Extremely important, actually.

Max: It’s just something between me and GP.

Lando: It is not between you and GP.

Max: It is.

Lando: He sounded emotionally invested.

Oscar: He sounded resigned.

Max: He always sounds resigned.

(press room laughing)

Journalist: Max, is the bet related to today’s result?

Max: Maybe.

Lando: Yes.

Oscar: Definitely yes.

Max: You two don’t know anything.

Lando: Mate, you drove like a man possessed.

Oscar: You pulled twenty seconds at Monza.

Lando: You were calmer defending a championship than you were today.

Max: I was calm.

Lando: You were not calm.

Oscar: You had purpose.

Max: I always have purpose.

Lando: No, today you had romantic comedy purpose.

(audible laughter from journalists)

Max: I don’t know what you’re talking about.

Journalist: So the bet wasn’t racing related?

Max: …No comment.

Lando: OH.

Oscar: Okay, yeah, that confirms it.

Max: I didn’t confirm anything.

Lando: You absolutely did.

Journalist: Max, are you at least going to tell us if you’ve now won whatever the reward was?

Max: Yes.

Interviewer: You have?

Max: Yes.

Lando: Oh my God.

Oscar: Yep.

Interviewer: And what happens now?

(Max pauses. He almost smiles.)

Max: I guess… I have dinner plans.

(Lando drops his head into his hands. Oscar looks straight at the camera.)

Lando: Called it.

Oscar: We absolutely called it.

Max: You two are unbelievable.

Lando: You won a Grand Prix for a date!

Max: I won a Grand Prix because I was fastest.

Oscar: Motivation matters.

Interviewer: Well — congratulations on the win… and apparently also on your plans tonight.

Max: Thank you.

***

Meanwhile on Twitter: 

@/papayaproblems: “I guess I have dinner plans” SIR YOU WON MONZA NOT PROM

@/softlaunchrb: MAX VERSTAPPEN WON A GRAND PRIX FOR A DATE THIS SPORT IS CINEMA

@/boxboxpls: Lando collapsing into his hands is the most relatable reaction I’ve ever seen

@/oscarplswin: Oscar looking straight at the camera like he’s in The Office 😭

@/gridpsychologist: Observed sequence: • mysterious bet • fastest lap in history • 20s victory margin • immediate dinner plans Conclusion: Motivated Verstappen is a public safety hazard

@/tyresandtea: Max: “it’s not important” Also Max: reorganizes the laws of physics at Monza

@/clercsleftmirror: The engineer sounded resigned because he KNEW

@/pitlanepeach: the way he tried to deny it while smiling??? he never smiles in interviews never

@/papayaorange22: Lando: “romantic comedy purpose” that man has been waiting all weekend to say that

@/fia_hater69: GP absolutely knew what that bet was and let it happen this is a family operation now

@/verstappening: Max Verstappen when fighting for championships: calm Max Verstappen when fighting for dinner: unstoppable

@/slipstreamlover: “dinner plans” is the softest hard launch I’ve ever witnessed

@/monzamadness: he didn’t deny the DATE he denied literally everything else but NOT the date

@/lando4ever: Lando and Oscar were about to interrogate him in the cooldown room

@/pitlanesherlock: timeline: Thursday — mystery doctor Saturday — record pole Sunday — wins race Sunday night — dinner this writes itself

@/chicanesandchaos: if I see her in the paddock after the race I will report back for investigative journalism purposes only 🫡

@/papayapanic: “I have dinner plans” MAX VERSTAPPEN YOU ARE NOT SUBTLE

@/grid_gremlin: HE DID NOT DENY IT HE DID NOT DENY IT HE DID NOT DENY IT

@/softlaunchrb: fastest lap in Monza history → race win → dinner plans this is a romcom plot

@/pitlanesherlock: Let’s recap: • mysterious doctor appears • Max forgets how walking works • sets pole record • wins by 20 seconds • confirms dinner CASE CLOSED

@/fia_hater69: You cannot convince me a man pulls a 20 second gap at MONZA without emotional motivation

@/verstappening: Max Verstappen powered by love is a safety hazard for the rest of the grid

@/boxboxtherapy: Lando: “it was the doctor wasn’t it?” Oscar: immediate agreement Max: “I hate both of you” perfect television

@/gridpsychologist: We have officially entered the “driver wins race to impress woman” era of Formula 1

@/monzamadness: Ferrari home race historic lap record crowd going insane and the main storyline is MAX VERSTAPPEN ASKING SOMEONE TO DINNER

I love this sport

@/slipstreamlover: Some drivers win trophies Max wins dates

@/papayaproblems I need Sky Sports to locate this woman immediately

@/pitlanesherlock: WAIT on the cooldown lap GP said “we need to have a conversation later” THAT WAS NOT ABOUT TYRE MANAGEMENT

@/softlaunchrb: that was the tone of a man who just realized his driver is about to date his SISTER

@/grid_gremlin: GP did not sound like a race engineer he sounded like an older brother scheduling a family meeting

@/papayapanic: the pause before “yes you did” on the radio that was processing

@/verstappening: MAX WON MONZA TO ASK OUT HIS RACE ENGINEER’S SISTER THIS SPORT IS UNREAL

@/fia_hater69: GP has coached Max through championship pressure, crashes, safety cars nothing prepared him for this

@/papayaorange22: “we need to have a conversation later” = NOT strategy NOT setup FAMILY

@/monzamadness: you just KNOW that was a post-race “what are your intentions with my sister” talk

@/tyresandtea: that sigh from GP on the radio??? that was a man mentally preparing for a family dinner

@/pitlaneoracle: Max Verstappen risking family politics for a date braver than Turn 1 Monza

@/slipstreamlover: next episode: GP threatening to put a speed limiter on Max’s love life

***

Gianpiero Lambiase had supervised many post-race debriefs.

Championship wins. Disasters. Controversial penalties. Mechanical failures. All of them were easier than this.

Max climbed out of the car still buzzing, helmet off before the mechanics had even fully rolled him into position. He was grinning — openly, unrestrainedly grinning — which in itself was rare enough to draw half the garage’s attention.

He hugged a mechanic. Then another. He was talking too fast, hands moving, eyes bright in a way GP hadn’t seen since early championship years.

Not relief.

Not pride.

Excitement.

Oh, this was worse than he thought.

GP waited until the chaos thinned, until Max had been weighed, until the FIA officials were satisfied and the engineers were distracted with data. Then he caught Max lightly by the shoulder near the back of the garage.

“Two minutes,” GP said.

Max stopped immediately.

For a man who could ignore team orders at 300 km/h, he had always listened when Gianni used that tone.

They stepped just outside the garage, away from the mechanics pretending not to watch.

Max was still smiling. Not the composed public one — the real one. He looked, GP thought with mild disbelief, giddy.

“You’re happy,” GP said flatly.

“I won,” Max replied.

“You’ve won before.”

Max didn’t deny that.

There was a short silence, the hum of Monza’s crowd bleeding through the trees.

GP folded his arms. “I know you’re a good guy.”

Max’s expression shifted slightly — not defensive, but attentive. He knew what this conversation was.

“But,” GP continued calmly, “do not be an idiot to her.”

Max blinked once.

“We won’t be having a problem,” GP added. “As long as you remember that part.”

Max nodded immediately. No jokes, no deflection. “I won’t.”

GP held his gaze a moment longer, assessing. He’d spent years reading telemetry traces and driver behaviour — people were easier. There was no arrogance in Max’s expression, no triumph. Just certainty.

Good.

He sighed, some of the tension leaving his shoulders.

“You do realise,” GP said, “you just won an Italian Grand Prix primarily to ask someone to dinner.”

Max shrugged faintly. “It helped motivation.”

“I noticed.”

A beat passed.

Then GP jerked his head toward the paddock. “She’s by medical, I think.”

Max straightened instantly.

“You have ten minutes before the team photo,” GP added.

Max didn’t even pretend to be casual anymore. “Okay.”

He turned and started walking — then walking faster — then very obviously trying not to run.

GP watched him go, shaking his head.

Rupert appeared beside him, arms folded. “You just gave your driver permission to go on a date with your sister.”

“I did not,” GP said.

Rupert raised an eyebrow.

GP exhaled. “…I gave him a time window.”

Rupert grinned. “Good race strategy.”

GP looked toward the medical area where Max had already disappeared around the corner.

“…God help me,” he muttered, though there was a reluctant smile on his face.

***

Alessandra was restocking the medical bag when she heard him before she saw him.

Not his footsteps — those were familiar by now — but the shift in the air. The subtle way people moved aside without quite realizing they were doing it. The way a moment opened.

She turned.

Max stood in the doorway, still in his race suit, hair damp with sweat, cheeks flushed, eyes bright in a way she hadn’t seen all weekend. Not sharp-focus bright. Not predatory bright.

Happy.

Genuinely, irrepressibly happy.

“Well,” he said, breathless, like he hadn’t entirely slowed down yet. “I won.”

She leaned back against the counter, folding her arms, the corner of her mouth lifting despite herself. “You did.”

“By a lot.”

“I noticed.”

For a second he just looked at her, like he was confirming she was real. Like this wasn’t another thing his brain had invented to motivate itself through eighty-odd laps at Monza.

“I’m here to cash in,” he said.

She raised an eyebrow. “Is that so?”

“You said if I won,” he replied calmly, utterly certain, “you’d go on a date with me.”

She exhaled softly through her nose, something dangerously close to a laugh. “You realise most people would have taken that as a joke.”

“I didn’t.”

“No,” she agreed. “You really didn’t.”

He stepped closer, stopping a respectful distance away. Not crowding her. Never crowding her. She clocked it immediately — the restraint, the care, the way he waited for her to close the space if she wanted to.

“I don’t usually make bets like that,” she said.

“I don’t usually win races for dates,” he countered.

That did it.

She laughed — quiet, surprised, a sound that felt like it came from somewhere she hadn’t accessed in years.

“You’re impossible,” she said.

He grinned, wide and unapologetic. “You’re my lucky charm.”

She scoffed. “I did absolutely nothing.”

“You existed,” he said simply. “That was enough.”

Something in her chest shifted — subtle but unmistakable. Like a fault line giving way.

She looked at him properly then. Not the driver. Not the headline. Just the man standing in front of her, eyes soft now that the fight was over, waiting without expectation but with hope so naked it almost hurt to witness.

“You’re aware,” she said carefully, “that this is just dinner.”

He nodded immediately. “Yes.”

“And that I’m not impressed by trophies.”

“I know.”

She closed her eyes for half a second.

When she opened them again, she nodded.

“One date,” she said. “Dinner.”

His grin returned instantly, brighter than the Monza sun. Victorious, but gentle. Like he’d won something precious, not conquered it.

“One date,” he echoed.

She felt it then — unmistakable, terrifying, warm.

Oh.

This was happening.

He took a step back, suddenly self-aware again, hands shoving into his pockets like he didn’t quite know what to do with them now that the race was over.

“I should—” he gestured vaguely toward the garage, the team photo, the obligations waiting for him. “They’ll be looking for me.”

“Yes,” she said. “They will.”

He hesitated. “Dinner tonight?”

She smiled, soft this time. Real. “Go shower first, Verstappen. You smell like a champagne.”

He laughed, delighted, and for a moment he looked younger than his years — unguarded, light, utterly human.

As he turned to leave, he glanced back once more.

“I’ll see you later,” he said.

“I’ll be here,” she replied.

He left, footsteps quick, joy practically radiating off him.

Alessandra stood there long after the doorway was empty, one hand pressed flat to the counter, heart doing something unfamiliar and dangerous and alive.

She had stitched people back together in impossible conditions. She had survived things most never would.

And somehow, impossibly—

Twitter Thread: That’s how you make a statement

@/f1updates_live: Mercedes releases official statement on George Russell arrest. Key line: “No sporting context, rivalry, or contractual situation is more important than a driver’s life.”Very different tone to Red Bull’s earlier releases.

@/sector3analysis: That is how you write a crisis statement. • No blame shifting • Clear support for the injured driver • Cooperation with authorities PR masterclass.

@/gridwatch: The contrast between the Mercedes and Red Bull statements is… staggering.

@/maxvfanpage: You can literally feel the lawyers AND the humanity in that statement.

@/paddockrumours:: This reads like:

we are not involved

we will cooperate

we care about Max

don’t even try to drag us into this

@/tracklimitspls: This is also Mercedes very quietly telling sponsors: “We are the stable place.”

@/racecontrolpls: Red Bull: “driver error” Mercedes: “driver safety” That’s the whole story right there.

@/dutchlion: Imagine waking up from surgery and your future team defends you more than your current one.

@/motorsportlawyer: Important detail: they clearly state Russell is NOT their driver. That’s legal distancing language — extremely deliberate.

@/pitwallgirl: Also they wished Max strength in recovery by name. Red Bull never even sounded personal.

@/f1memearchive: Mercedes PR team currently: 🔥🔥🔥

@/lando4wdc: The paddock politics this season could be studied at university.

@/aerodynamicsnerd: This isn’t just PR. This is reputation positioning for 2026.

@/softtyresonly: The way the entire sport has rallied around Max is actually kind of emotional.

@/SafetyCarStan: I don’t even support Mercedes but… respect.

@/RaceControlUpdates: Mercedes statement is basically: we will cooperate, we condemn it, and we care about Max first.The contrast to Red Bull PR is… noticeable.

@/silverarrowsdata: “Driver’s life more important than rivalry.” That line alone just won them half the paddock.

@/DutchLion_33: They literally wished Max well before even talking about themselves. How hard was that, Red Bull???

@/f1ethics: Mercedes carefully: • acknowledges investigation • supports victim • avoids speculation • cooperates with police

This is textbook crisis communication.

@/orangearmyNL: I never thought I’d see Mercedes publicly defending Max Verstappen. 2025 really said plot twist.

@/f1lawwatch: This is a liability-shield statement. They are separating the organisation from the individual while supporting the injured party. Very clean.

@/lando4wdc: Honestly? Respect. That reads like humans wrote it, not lawyers.

@/pitlanechaos: Red Bull: “car damage” Mercedes: “driver safety and dignity” That’s all you need to know.

@/grandprixhistory: For decades the rivalry was Mercedes vs Verstappen. Now it’s Mercedes protecting Verstappen. Motorsport is wild.

@/gridgossip: This is also Mercedes signaling to sponsors and the FIA: “We are on the safety side of history.”

@/ferrari_tifosi88: I’m a Ferrari fan but credit where it’s due. That’s a proper statement.

@/PRStrategyBlog: Notice they did not defend George, did not attack Red Bull, and did not speculate. They positioned themselves as the responsible adult in the room.

@/tracklimitmemes: okay THAT is how you write a statement night and day compared to red bull

@/SafetyFirstF1: Mercedes: driver safety first, no speculation, support the victim Red Bull: car damage analysis the contrast is… loud

@/f1brainrot: Mercedes basically just said: we are horrified, we’re cooperating, and we are not touching that man with a ten-meter pole

@/leclercsmile: F1 Twitter experiencing something new: a competent corporate response

@/britishpresswatch: PR disaster for Red Bull just got worse.

@/gridreaction: First time in this entire saga a statement lowered tensions instead of raising them.

@/everyone_else: …this sport is never going to be the same after this, is it?

***

Text Messages: Susie Wolff & Dr. Anastasia “Ana” Wolff

Ana:Susie, are you in Monaco?

Susie:I am. What do you need?

Ana:Victoria is on a flight to Nice right now. She didn’t want to wait for anyone and just booked it. Her landing time is 16:35. I don’t want her taking a taxi or dealing with press alone under the circumstances.

Susie:You did the right thing telling me. Send me the flight number.

Ana:KL1483 from Amsterdam. Terminal 2.

Susie:I’ll be there before she lands. I’ll bring her straight to the hospital.

Ana:Thank you.

Susie:Ana — you don’t need to manage everything by yourself.

Ana:I’m not. I’m delegating.

Susie:…that is the most you answer I have ever received.

Ana:Max is sleeping. They are transferring him later. I just want one thing to go smoothly for his family.

Susie:It will. I promise. I’ll text you when I have her.

Ana:Thank you.

***

Text Messages: Raymond Vermeulen & Toto Wolff

Raymond Vermeulen: I am on a plane.

Toto Wolff: That is usually how flights work, yes.

Raymond: To Switzerland.

Toto: …Raymond.

Raymond: I am going to the FIA headquarters.

Toto: I assumed.

Raymond: I am going to speak to them about the penalty points.

Toto: Speak.

Raymond: Fine. Scream.

Toto: Please do not get arrested in addition to my former driver.

Raymond: They penalised a man whose car was sabotaged.

Toto: I am aware.

Raymond: He nearly died, Toto. And they gave him points on his license.

Toto: I know.

Raymond: I have prepared a document.

Toto: How long.

Raymond: Forty-three pages.

Toto: That is not a document. That is a declaration of war.

Raymond: Correct.

Toto: What is your objective.

Raymond: Immediate removal of all penalty points. Public acknowledgement. And an internal review.

Toto: You are optimistic.

Raymond: I am Dutch and very angry.

Toto: Dangerous combination.

Raymond: They questioned his driving standards while he was driving a compromised car.

Toto: You will not be wrong.

Raymond: I will also bring telemetry analysis.

Toto: Of course you will.

Raymond: And an independent engineer report.

Toto: You have already commissioned one.

Raymond: Two.

Toto: Naturally.

Raymond: How is he.

Toto: Sleeping.

Raymond: Good.

(typing…)

Raymond: Tell him I am fixing it.

Toto: I will.

Raymond: Also tell him not to read the news.

Toto: We confiscated his phone.

Raymond: Excellent decision.

Toto: Raymond.

Raymond: Yes.

Toto: Try not to shout at them immediately. Begin with diplomacy.

Raymond: I will begin with diplomacy.

Toto: And then?

Raymond: Then I will shout.

Toto: I expected nothing else.

***

 Baku City Hospital, Baku, Azerbaijan -  24 September 2025 

The medical jet was quieter than any aircraft Max had ever been on.

Not quieter in sound — the engines were still there, a constant low vibration under the floor — but quieter in expectation. No engineers waiting with laptops. No strategy discussions. No headset, no countdown, no pressure to perform the second the wheels left the ground.

Just a stretcher bolted into the cabin and a slow climb away from Baku.

Max hadn’t realised how much he hated that place until the aircraft lifted off.

He watched the city through the small oval window beside him as long as his neck allowed. Buildings shrinking. Coastline fading. The circuit — somewhere out there — becoming smaller and smaller until it was just geography instead of memory.

His shoulders loosened for the first time in days.

“I’m not going back there,” he muttered.

Ana, seated right beside the stretcher, looked up immediately. She’d been watching the monitors with the same quiet intensity she watched everything.

“You won’t,” she said calmly. “Your rehabilitation will be in Nice.”

He exhaled slowly.

Good.

He didn’t think he could walk past that wall again. Not now. Maybe not ever.

Across the cabin, Toto was speaking in a low voice to one of the medical staff, practical and focused, while Sophie pretended to read something she hadn’t turned the page of in ten minutes. Jos stood near the cockpit door, arms crossed, still vibrating with contained anger.

Max dragged his attention back to Ana.

She looked… fine.

Too fine.

Hair pulled back neatly. Posture straight. Hands steady as she adjusted the blanket over his leg and checked the IV line. If someone walked in, they’d think she was calm.

Max knew better.

Her movements were precise to the point of overcorrection — the way she behaved when she was holding herself together by structure alone.

“You haven’t slept,” he said.

“I slept,” she replied immediately.

Max raised an eyebrow.

Ana paused. “I rested horizontally.”

“That’s not sleep.”

“It is adjacent to sleep.”

He snorted, then winced when his ribs protested. “You’re terrible at lying.”

“I am not lying. I am approximating.”

He looked at her for a long second.

Her eyes flicked to him, assessing, then away again. She reached automatically for his hand when the aircraft hit a pocket of turbulence, not noticing she’d done it.

Her fingers were cold.

“Hey,” he said quietly.

“I’m here.”

“I know.”

He tightened his grip slightly. “You’re allowed to be not okay, you know.”

Her jaw shifted almost imperceptibly. “You survived a high-energy impact with significant injuries and a surgical intervention less than seventy-two hours ago. My emotional state is statistically irrelevant.”

Max stared at her.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “That’s not how that works.”

She didn’t answer.

Instead she adjusted the pillow behind his shoulder for the third time in five minutes.

He let her.

Because this — the fixing, the monitoring, the constant management — was how she coped. And if he took that away right now, she might actually fall apart.

“So,” he said, deliberately casual, “Raymond texted Toto earlier.”

Her eyes flicked up. “I know.”

“He’s in Switzerland?”

“Yes.”

“What is he doing in Switzerland?”

Ana hesitated a fraction.

“Yelling at the FIA,” she said.

Max blinked.

Then he laughed — a short, breathy sound he immediately regretted because it hurt.

“That sounds right,” he murmured. “Poor FIA.”

Max pictured it vividly — Raymond in a suit, restrained fury weaponized into legal language — and felt something close to amusement bubble up.

“Honestly,” he said, “that might be the funniest part of this whole mess.”

“Let’s not call anything about this funny,” Ana said, but there was a ghost of a smile there too.

He glanced at her then. Really looked.

Anything to avoid thinking about the other thing.

The name that kept trying to surface in his head.

George Russell.

He pushed it away immediately. Hard.

He wasn’t ready. His brain just… slid off it every time he tried to hold the thought. Like touching a hot surface and instinctively pulling back.

So he didn’t.

Instead he focused on Ana.

On how she kept checking his pulse even though the monitor did it for her.

On how she hadn’t eaten the food the nurse brought.

On how every time he shifted even slightly, her attention snapped back to him instantly.

“You’re doing it again,” he said.

“Doing what.”

“Watching me like I might disappear.”

For a second — just a second — something cracked in her expression.

Gone almost immediately.

“I am monitoring you,” she said quietly.

Max squeezed her hand.

“I’m not going anywhere, Nastya.”

Her fingers tightened around his in response — not enough anyone else would notice. He did.

Across the cabin, Sophie glanced over, relief softening her features when she saw Max awake. Jos looked too, his expression complicated — anger, exhaustion, and something almost like gratitude when he saw Ana still sitting there beside him.

Toto caught Max’s eye a moment later and gave him a small nod.

Everything was still chaos. Investigations, statements, lawyers, headlines.

But inside the cabin, for a few hours, it was contained.

Max looked back at Ana.

“You should sleep,” he murmured.

“I will later.”

“You always say that.”

“Yes.”

He shifted his hand slightly so she couldn’t pull away.

“Stay.”

“I wasn’t planning on leaving.”

He believed her.

The aircraft hummed steadily westward across Europe, away from sirens, flashing lights, and concrete walls.

For the first time since the crash, Max felt something dangerously close to safe.

Not because of the doctors.

Not because of the team.

Because she was still sitting there, fingers wrapped around his, watching him breathe like it mattered more than anything else in the world.

***

Nice Côte d'Azur Airport, Nice, France -  24 September 2025 

The arrivals hall at Nice Côte d’Azur Airport was too bright.

Victoria hadn’t slept on the flight. She hadn’t really sat either — just existed in a tight coil of adrenaline and dread, fingers locked around her phone like it was the only thing keeping her upright. Every hour she had checked for messages. Every vibration had stopped her heart.

She knew Max was alive.

Everyone kept telling her he was alive.

Her brain accepted the words.

 Her body did not.

The sliding doors opened and warm Mediterranean air rushed in, but she barely registered it. Her hands were shaking so badly she almost dropped her passport while shoving it into her bag. People moved around her — tourists, families, taxi drivers holding signs — normal life continuing in a way that felt offensive.

How could everything still be normal?

Her brother had nearly died three days ago.

Nothing had helped since she had watched the crash video on her kitchen floor, the phone falling from her hands before the car even stopped moving.

Max.

Her big brother.

The person who had always been indestructible in her mind.

Victoria scanned the crowd — and then she saw her.

Susie.

Tall, composed, unmistakable even in simple trousers and a blouse, standing just beyond the barrier. She wasn’t doing anything dramatic, not waving or calling out. Just watching the exit with the stillness of someone who was used to waiting through crises without showing it publicly.

Victoria had met her many times before — paddocks and race weekends, and during that summer she had gotten to know her better— and she had always liked her. Susie carried authority without trying. Not loud, not performative, just… steady. The kind of person people instinctively listened to.

And now Victoria suddenly understood why Ana was the way she was.

Because the second Susie saw her, the professional composure softened into something unmistakably maternal.

Victoria didn’t remember crossing the distance.

One moment she was gripping her suitcase handle. The next she was standing in front of her and her vision blurred.

“I’m so sorry,” she heard herself say — completely nonsensical and yet the only words her brain produced.

Susie didn’t hesitate. She stepped forward and pulled her into a firm hug.

“Hey,” Susie said gently. “No. None of that.”

That was it.

Victoria broke.

Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just a sudden collapse of the control she hadn’t realized she’d been holding for seventy-two hours. Her hands grabbed the back of Susie’s jacket, shoulders shaking as the adrenaline finally drained out.

“I thought—” she started, and couldn’t finish.

Susie tightened her arms around her. Not comforting in the vague, polite way people did when they didn’t know what to say. Anchoring. Grounding. The way you held someone when you meant it.

“He’s alive,” Susie said quietly. “He’s injured, and he’s exhausted, but he’s alive.”

Victoria nodded into her shoulder, tears hot and relentless. “I saw it. I watched it happen.”

“I know.”

“He doesn’t crash like that,” Victoria whispered. “Max doesn’t lose control like that.”

Susie didn’t immediately answer.

And that silence told Victoria more than reassurance would have.

After a moment Susie gently drew back, hands steady on her shoulders. “Come on. Let’s get you to the car. You need water. And probably sugar.”

Victoria wiped at her face, though the tears kept coming anyway. As they began walking, she found herself watching Susie from the corner of her eye — the calm way she moved, the way she quietly guided rather than pushed, the subtle awareness of everything around them.

“Is Ana okay?” Victoria asked, the first question she’d asked that wasn’t about Max.

Susie’s expression softened further. “She’s holding herself together for him.”

Victoria exhaled shakily. “That means she’s not okay.”

A small, sad smile. “No. She’s not.”

They stepped into the parking structure, the air cooler now. Victoria’s legs still felt oddly unsteady, like her body hadn’t yet accepted that the worst outcome hadn’t happened.

At the passenger door she stopped.

“What—” Her voice wavered. “What am I going to see?”

Susie didn’t sugarcoat it.

“He’s injured,” she said calmly. “You’ll see the external fixation on his leg. His shoulder is immobilisied. Bruising. He tires easily. But he is himself. Talk to him normally. That will help more than anything.”

Victoria nodded, forcing a breath into her lungs. “Okay.”

She opened the door but didn’t get in yet.

Her voice dropped. “They said George Russell did it.”

Susie’s jaw tightened, almost imperceptibly. “Yes.”

Victoria stared at the pavement. “I don’t understand how anyone could look at Maxie and…” Her voice failed again.

Susie placed a steady hand over hers. “You don’t need to understand it right now.”

Victoria swallowed. “I just need to see him.”

“You will,” Susie said. “We’re going straight to the hospital.”

Inside the car, Victoria clasped her hands in her lap as Susie pulled onto the road. She barely noticed the sea, the light on the water, the palms along the promenade. Her mind kept replaying childhood memories instead — Max teaching her to ride a bike, Max sitting beside her during thunderstorms, Max always being the one she called first.

“I’ve never seen him hurt like this,” she said quietly. “Even when we were kids, Max’d just… get back up immediately.”

Susie glanced at her. “He still will.”

Victoria nodded, though her voice trembled. “I know. I just need to see it.”

Silence settled for a minute.

“Was Ana there the whole time?” she asked.

“Yes.”

Victoria swallowed. “Good.”

She stared out the window for a moment, then said softly, almost to herself, “She’s like you.”

Susie looked at her. “How?”

“She doesn’t panic,” Victoria said. “Not outwardly. She… organizes. Fixes. Takes control of everything around her. It’s terrifying.”

Susie huffed a faint breath. “She feels it. She just processes differently.”

Victoria nodded. “I know. But Max—” Her voice softened. “Max trusts very few people completely.”

Another pause.

“He trusts her,” she said.

Susie didn’t disagree.

“I know.”

Victoria watched the hospital buildings approaching in the distance, heart starting to race again.

“He won’t say it,” she whispered, “but he needs her.”

Susie’s gaze softened, looking out toward the road ahead.

“Yes,” she said gently. “He does.”

And for the first time since the crash, something inside Victoria steadied — fragile but real.

If Ana was still beside him… then Max hadn’t faced it alone.

And that, more than any doctor’s reassurance, finally made her believe he might actually be okay.

***

Hospital Pasteur, Nice, France -  24 September 2025 

The hospital in Nice did not smell like Baku.

That was the first thing Max noticed.

No jet fuel lingering in his memory, no smoke that his brain kept insisting he could still taste, no distant echo of sirens layered into the back of his thoughts. Just clean air, filtered and cool, sunlight cutting across white walls in long Mediterranean lines.

He hadn’t realized how much he hated the other place until he left it.

Here, the room had windows. Real ones. They looked out over trees that didn’t belong to a world where cars disintegrated at 300 kilometers per hour. Nurses spoke softly in French. No one ran. No one whispered in urgent tones just outside the door.

His body still hurt everywhere, but his brain — for the first time since the crash — wasn’t waiting for the next catastrophe.

He lay propped against pillows, shoulder immobilized, leg elevated and still held by external fixation. Every movement was calculated. Even breathing too deep pulled somewhere along his ribs.

But it was quiet.

Ana sat in the chair beside the bed, laptop closed, phone in her hand but not really looking at it. She had been like that the whole flight too — present, alert, watching him without appearing to watch him.

He studied her for a moment.

She looked worse than he did.

Not physically. No bruises. No casts.

Just… thinner. Tighter. As if someone had wound a spring inside her and never let it release.

“You’re still running on no sleep,” he said.

She looked up immediately. “You need water.”

“That wasn’t what I said.”

“You do need water.”

“Nastya.”

Her eyes met his, and for a second the mask slipped — exhaustion, fear, something fragile she would never willingly show anyone else.

“I am fine,” she said.

Max exhaled slowly.

He knew she wasn’t.

She had not cried once. Not really. Not in Baku. Not on the flight. Not here.

And that scared him more than if she had screamed.

He shifted slightly, wincing. “You need to go home.”

“No.”

“Yeah.”

“No.”

He gave her a look. “You look like you’re about to fall over.”

“I am not.”

“You haven’t slept more than a handful of hours.”

“I have rested.”

“That’s not sleep.”

Silence.

Then, softer: “I’m okay.”

Max shook his head carefully against the pillow. “You’re not okay. And you’re no good to me if you collapse.”

Her jaw tightened. “I’m not leaving you.”

“You’re not leaving,” he corrected gently. “You’re going to sleep.”

She didn’t answer. Her fingers tightened around her phone.

“Nastya,” he said quietly. “Please.”

That word did it.

That stopped her more than anything else had.

Before she could answer, there was a soft knock at the door and it opened.

Susie stepped in first, giving him a smile.

And behind her—

Victoria.

For a split second Max thought his brain had invented her.

She looked smaller than he remembered, hair messy from travel, eyes already red before she even fully crossed the threshold.

“Hi,” he said softly.

That was all it took.

His little sister burst into tears and crossed the room in three quick steps, stopping only when she reached the bed because she clearly didn’t know where she could safely touch him.

“Oh my god,” she whispered, crying openly now. “Oh my god.”

Max lifted his good arm carefully.

She leaned into him immediately, careful but desperate, hugging around his shoulder without jostling anything. He felt her shaking.

“Hey,” he murmured. “I’m okay.”

“You’re not okay,” she choked.

“I’m alive.”

Her face pressed into his shoulder, and he felt something inside his chest settle for the first time since Baku.

“I thought you died,” she whispered.

Max closed his eyes briefly.

“I didn’t.”

She pulled back just enough to look at him, scanning every bruise like she was memorizing proof.

“You scared me,” she said, voice breaking.

“Sorry.”

“You’re not allowed to do that again.”

He gave the faintest smile. “I’ll try.”

She tried to say something else and failed, pressing her forehead into his shoulder instead.

“I thought—” she choked.

“I know.”

Her grip tightened. “I watched it.”

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Don’t do that again.”

She let out a wet laugh that turned into another tearful breath. “You idiot.”

“Accurate.”

She pulled back just enough to look at him properly, eyes scanning his face like she needed visual confirmation.

“You’re really here.”

“Can’t get rid of me that easily,” he said. “You’re still stuck with me.”

She wiped her eyes quickly. “Good.”

The room had softened around them — even Jos had gone quiet, standing near the window, watching with an expression Max rarely saw on his father’s face. Not anger.

Relief.

Victoria finally sat beside the bed, still holding his hand. “Does it hurt?”

“Everything hurts.”

“Okay.”

Max glanced toward Ana.

She hadn’t moved closer. She stood slightly back, giving them space, but he could feel her attention on him anyway. Always tracking.

He sighed softly.

“Nastya,” he said gently. “Go.”

She didn’t move. “Max—”

“Go home with your parents. Sleep.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” he said quietly. “And I’m not going anywhere tonight.”

Susie spoke softly from the doorway. “He’s right.”

Ana hesitated.

Max gave her a small tired smile. “I’ll still be here in the morning.”

Victoria laughed wetly and wiped her face. Then she glanced toward Ana, and something softer passed through her expression.

“Thank you,” she said quietly.

Ana looked almost startled. “I did nothing.”

“You stayed,” Victoria said.

Ana didn’t know how to answer that.

Max watched them both — and then looked at his parents.

They were exhausted. All of them were.

“Okay,” he said gently. “Everyone out.”

Four heads turned toward him.

“What?” Sophie asked.

“You,” he said to Ana. “Go with your parents. Sleep.”

She hesitated again.

He raised an eyebrow. “That wasn’t a suggestion.”

Sophie understood immediately. “He’s right.”

Jos started to protest, but Max cut him off softly. “Pa. I’m not going anywhere.”

Toto, standing near the door, nodded. “I’ve arranged hotel rooms five minutes away.”

Max looked at his mother. “You need sleep too.”

Sophie squeezed his hand gently. “We’ll be back in the morning.”

Victoria squeezed Max’s hand. “I’ll stay.”

Max smirked faintly. “You’re worse than her.”

“Yes,” she said immediately.

For the first time since Baku, the room felt almost normal.

Not safe yet.

But human.

One by one, they left.

Ana was last.

She stood beside the bed for a moment.

“You call me if you need me,” she said.

“I will.”

Her hand rested lightly against his wrist — a small, grounding touch — before she finally allowed Susie to guide her out.

And as everyone slowly began to leave, Max leaned back against the pillows, watching his sister still standing beside him, refusing to let go of his hand.

The betrayal, the crash, George — it all waited somewhere outside the room.

For a few quiet minutes, he allowed himself not to think about any of it.

He was alive.

And his little sister was here to prove it.

***

Hospital Pasteur, Nice, France -  24 September 2025 

The door closed softly behind her.

Ana made it three steps down the corridor.

That was as far as she got.

She had been moving on instructions for three days — speak to doctors, sign papers, verify medication dosages, check vitals, coordinate transport, answer questions, filter noise. Every thought had been a task, every emotion categorized as non-actionable. There had simply not been time for anything else.

The corridor in Nice was quiet. No journalists shouting. No sirens. No smell of fuel. Just believe-it-or-not normal hospital sounds: a trolley rolling somewhere distant, muted voices, afternoon light falling across the tiled floor.

Her brain finally registered something it had not allowed itself to register since Baku.

There was no next step.

Max was alive.

And she was no longer required to keep him alive minute-to-minute.

The system lost its emergency load.

Her body did not know what to do with that.

Her hands began shaking.

At first it was small — a tremor in her fingers as she reached for her phone to check something she didn’t need to check. The screen blurred. She blinked hard, once, twice, trying to refocus.

It didn’t work.

Her breathing shortened. Not panic yet — just… wrong. Her chest felt tight, air not quite reaching the bottom of her lungs.

Incorrect input, her mind supplied automatically, searching for a problem to solve.

She tried to take a deeper breath.

It hitched.

Her throat tightened.

And suddenly every sound in the corridor became too loud and too far away at the same time.

Susie had only taken a few steps ahead before she heard it — a small, broken inhale behind her. Not a sob yet. The precursor.

She turned.

Ana was standing in the middle of the hallway, completely still.

Her face had gone white. Not pale — drained. Her eyes unfocused, hands hanging uselessly at her sides like she’d forgotten how to use them.

“Ana?” Susie said softly.

Ana tried to answer.

Nothing came out.

For seventy-two hours she had functioned on a single operating mode: control. Collect data. Talk to doctors. Track medication. Anticipate complications. Prevent worst outcomes.

She had not cried when she saw the wrecked car. Not when the surgeon described the leg. Not when Max woke up confused and in pain. Not when the mechanics were arrested. Not when George’s name was spoken.

Because crying did not help systems survive.

But now she was outside the room.

Now she could not hear his breathing.

She pressed her palm flat against the wall.

The wall did not stop the sensation that the world had tilted sideways.

Her thoughts stopped being ordered. They came all at once — images, not logic.

Carbon fibre folding.

The onboard replay she should never have watched.

The silence on the radio.

His head unmoving inside the cockpit.

The doctor saying he was lucky.

The words he could have died.

Her breathing broke.

She tried to inhale and instead made a sharp, involuntary sound she didn’t recognize as her own voice.

Susie reached her just as her knees nearly gave out.

“Ana—”

Ana grabbed her.

Not politely. Not composed.

Her hands clutched at Susie’s coat like she needed a physical anchor to remain upright and then the first sob tore out of her chest, raw and uncontrolled.

It hurt.

Actual physical pain, like her ribs were collapsing inward.

“I—” Ana tried to speak, but it dissolved into another broken sound.

She buried her face into her mother’s shoulder and the dam finally failed.

Ana cried.

Not quiet tears.

Not the restrained blinking she used in public.

Hysterical, shaking sobs she couldn’t stop even when she tried. Her fingers tightened in the fabric of Susie’s coat, knuckles white, like letting go would make something terrible happen.

“I thought he died,” Ana choked. “I thought— I thought—He chose the wall — I know he did — he protected Lando and I knew what that meant and they said surgery and nobody would give me numbers and I calculated survival probabilities and I—”

Her words fractured, breath hitching violently. Every suppressed hour hit at once.

Susie wrapped both arms around her immediately, one hand cradling the back of her head, pressing her close without trying to quiet her.

“I— I couldn’t— they said— he didn’t answer—”

She was crying hard now. Not silent tears — full, shaking, hysterical sobs that made her shoulders heave. Her forehead pressed into Susie’s shoulder as if proximity alone could anchor her.

“It’s alright,” she whispered, one hand cradling the back of Ana’s head. “He’s here. He’s alive. You did it. You got him here.”

Ana shook her head rapidly, clinging harder. “I couldn’t fix it. I couldn’t stop it. I run simulations for failure, I— I plan for failure, I—” Her breath hitched painfully. “I watched it happen and I couldn’t do anything.”

The words dissolved into another wave of sobbing. The kind that emptied lungs and left her gasping. She was no longer trying to be quiet, no longer trying to be composed. All the fear she had compressed into orderly function spilled out at once.

Susie didn’t interrupt. Didn’t correct. Didn’t rationalize.

She just held her.

“I know,” Susie murmured softly. “I know, sweetheart.”

Ana’s grip tightened in her coat, knuckles white.

“He was alone in the car,” she whispered, voice raw. “And I couldn’t reach him.”

Susie pressed her cheek to Ana’s hair. “But you were there when he woke.”

A shuddering breath.

Ana buried her face against her shoulder and the crying came all at once, violently, as if something inside her had been held under pressure and the seal finally failed.

She couldn’t stop.

Her body shook hard enough that Susie had to steady them both against the wall.

“I couldn’t— I couldn’t fix it,” Ana choked. “I couldn’t— I didn’t know— I didn’t see it and I always see it—”

For three days she had operated on logic: stabilise patient, coordinate transfer, manage pain, control variables. Every decision had been actionable.

But the crash had not been a system failure she could engineer around.

It had been intentional..

Human.

“I can’t fix this,” she sobbed. “I can’t design around this. I can’t— I couldn’t stop it.”

That was the real terror.

Not the injuries.

The unpredictability.

Systems she could model, she could control.

 Human malice she could not.

Her breathing stuttered again, tears still falling uncontrollably. For the first time in days she wasn’t the composed engineer, the calm presence in the hospital room.

She was just a woman who had watched the person she loved almost die.

“I was there,” she sobbed. “And I couldn’t stop it. He trusted them— he trusted— and I—”

Her voice broke completely.

Susie stroked her hair, holding her.

“This wasn’t yours to stop,” she said softly. “You didn’t cause it.”

Ana shook her head violently, clutching tighter. “If I hadn’t— if George— if I—”

She couldn’t finish the thought.

But Susie understood anyway.

Not logic.

Guilt.

Because Ana’s mind built causal chains for everything. Every outcome had an input. Every failure had a root cause. And somewhere in her brain, she had already drawn a line:

George → her → Max.

Susie cupped the back of her head gently, forcing her to stay present. “Listen to me. Max is alive because of what you did. Not in spite of it.”

Ana cried harder.

“I watched the monitors,” she whispered hoarsely. “Every hour I thought they would drop. I thought I would look away and he would—”

Her breathing broke into near-panic.

Susie shifted, guiding her down onto the corridor bench and sitting beside her without letting go. Ana still clung to her coat, fingers knotted into the wool like letting go would undo reality.

Her breath hitched into near-hyperventilation. She broke again, clutching Susie harder.

“I can’t lose him,” she sobbed. “I can’t.”

Susie’s eyes closed briefly, her own throat tightening, but her voice stayed steady.

“You didn’t,” she said softly. “He’s here. You did exactly what he needed you to do.”

Ana shook her head, crying harder. 

“I should have stopped it,” she whispered, irrational guilt flooding out now that control was gone. “I should have seen it. I see everything. I missed this and he almost died because I didn’t—”

Susie gently cupped her face, forcing her to look up.

“No,” she said firmly, but gently. “You are not responsible for someone else’s violence.”

“I love him,” Ana whispered, voice small and wrecked. “And I almost lost him.”

Susie held her tighter.

“I know,” she said softly. “I know.”

Ana’s grip loosened only slightly, exhaustion finally catching up to her, sobs fading into shuddering breaths as adrenaline drained away. She didn’t stop holding onto her mother, forehead pressed to her shoulder, eyes squeezed shut like if she opened them the world might rewind to the moment the car hit the wall.

Susie rested her cheek against Ana’s hair.

“I’m so tired,” Ana whispered eventually, voice shredded. “I don’t know how to turn my brain off.”

Susie pressed a kiss into her hair. “Then don’t. Just let someone else hold you while it runs.”

Ana clung to her like a child who had finally reached the end of her endurance.

When the sobs eased into shaky breaths, Susie kept her there anyway, one hand smoothing down her back, steady and warm.

“We’ll go home,” she said quietly. “You’ll sleep. We’ll come back in the morning.”

Ana nodded weakly, eyes red, utterly spent.

Toto stepped forward then, resting a hand at her back—present, grounding, wordless.

And together, the three of them walked down the corridor.

***

Hospital Pasteur, Nice, France -  24 September 2025 

Jos heard the sound before he understood it.

A sob.

Not the quiet crying he had heard from drivers over the years — disappointment, pain, frustration — but something rawer. It cut through the corridor sharply enough that he looked up immediately.

Down the hall, near the windows, Susie stood with someone in her arms.

Ana.

Jos stopped moving.

For a moment his brain didn’t reconcile what he was seeing.

Because the girl he had watched for days didn’t break.

She calculated. She organised. She spoke to surgeons like a colleague, not a frightened twenty-something. She corrected medication timings before nurses did. She had looked at Max’s external fixation frame without flinching while he himself had needed to look away constantly.

He had privately decided she was… strange. Too controlled. Too cold.

Now she was shaking so hard Susie had to hold her upright.

Her hands were gripping Susie’s coat like a drowning person clinging to a rope, shoulders jerking with each sob she couldn’t contain. The sounds coming from her weren’t composed or quiet — they were wrecked, torn out of her without permission.

“I thought he died,” she choked, the words carrying down the corridor.

Jos felt something in his chest shift.

He had expected tears from Sophie. From Victoria when she arrived. From family.

He had not expected this.

“Oh,” Sophie breathed beside him, having followed him out more quietly than he’d realized.

Jos didn’t answer.

He couldn’t take his eyes off Ana.

Susie had her wrapped up completely, one hand cradling the back of her head, murmuring something Jos couldn’t hear. Toto stood a little to the side, close enough to step in if Ana collapsed entirely, his face tight with worry and something like helplessness Jos recognized all too well.

Ana bent forward slightly, almost folding into herself as the crying intensified, Susie bracing her weight and guiding her toward the bench. She didn’t look like the woman who had calmly instructed doctors about transfer logistics an hour ago. She looked young. Terribly young.

“I should have stopped it,” she whispered hoarsely. “I should have seen it—”

Susie held her face gently, forcing her to look up. “You are not responsible for someone else’s violence.”

Ana shook her head, still crying. “I love him.”

The words landed harder than the sobbing.

Jos looked away for a second — not out of discomfort, but because something unfamiliar tightened behind his eyes and he didn’t like the sensation.

He had seen drivers celebrate championships with less emotion than that.

This wasn’t fear of scandal. Not reputation. Not convenience.

This was raw terror at almost losing Max.

Realisation settled slowly and uncomfortably.

She hadn’t been calm because she didn’t care.

She had been calm because she was holding herself together so Max could.

And now, outside the room, when Max was finally stable, when someone else was there to catch her—

She broke.

Jos shifted his weight, suddenly unsure where to put himself. He felt like an intruder on something deeply private. Something sacred.

Toto caught his eye briefly, then nodded once—an unspoken agreement. He stepped closer to Susie, murmured something low and calm. Susie nodded back, pressing a kiss into Ana’s hair.

“We’ll take her home,” Susie said softly. “She needs sleep. Real sleep.”

Ana didn’t protest. She didn’t even lift her head. She just let Susie and Toto guide her up, still clinging faintly to her mother’s sleeve like a child afraid to be left alone.

Jos watched them walk down the corridor together.

Watched Ana’s shoulders shake less with every step as Susie murmured to her, Toto steady at her other side.

When they were gone, the corridor felt oddly hollow.

Jos exhaled slowly, like he’d been holding his breath without realizing it.

Only when they turned the corner did Sophie come to stand beside him.

For a moment neither of them spoke.

Sophie exhaled slowly. “You saw.”

He nodded once.

“I thought…” Jos stopped. He didn’t finish the sentence. He wasn’t even sure what he had thought — that she was detached, clinical, incapable of emotional response. That Max had fallen too hard for someone who wouldn’t fall back.

He had been wrong.

Sophie’s voice softened. “To see our son loved like that…”

Jos looked toward the door of Max’s room.

Through the small window he could see him — pale, alive.

For the first time since Baku, some of the anger inside him shifted into something else. Not gone. Never gone. But changed.

Because he understood something now with absolute clarity:

Max wasn’t holding onto her.

She was holding onto him just as tightly.

Jos rubbed a hand over his face, voice rougher than he intended. “Yeah,” he muttered quietly. “He picked the right one.”

***

Wolff Residence, Monaco -  24 September 2025 

Susie knew her daughter’s panic.

She knew the signs the way only a mother could — the sharp, shallow breathing, the moment Ana’s eyes stopped tracking the room, the way her hands searched for something predictable to hold onto when the world became too loud, too chaotic, too human. She knew how to lower her voice, how to slow her own movements, how to sit nearby without touching until touching was wanted.

She had spent years learning the rhythm of it.

This wasn’t that.

Ana sat in the passenger seat on the drive back to Monaco as if the scaffolding inside her had been quietly removed. No trembling, no pacing fingers, no repetitive motions to anchor herself. She didn’t watch the coastline or the passing traffic. She didn’t even seem to blink much. She simply existed — upright because the seat held her there, hands resting loosely in her lap, gaze unfixed.

It frightened Susie more than any panic attack ever had.

Toto drove in silence. 

Susie could read him without looking directly: the stiffness in his shoulders, the careful control in the way he held the steering wheel, the way his jaw tightened every time the road curved. He was doing what he always did under pressure — focusing on something concrete so he wouldn’t think about what wasn’t.

She reached across the console once and rested her hand over his forearm. He didn’t look at her, but his grip eased a fraction.

When they reached the apartment, Susie didn’t ask Ana what she wanted. Choice required energy, and Ana had none left.

She guided her inside gently, one hand warm and steady at her elbow.

“Come on, sweetheart,” she said softly. “Bath first.”

Ana nodded immediately, automatic compliance — not agreement, just relief at not needing to decide.

Susie ran the water herself. She checked the temperature, then checked it again. She added the lavender oil Ana always relaxed into, the scent familiar and grounding. She moved slowly and without commentary as she helped her daughter out of her clothes — not clinical, not brisk, simply present. No fussing, no questions.

Care, not caretaking.

Ana lowered herself into the bath with a quiet exhale, like gravity had finally caught up with her. The tension didn’t vanish, but it softened at the edges. Her shoulders dipped beneath the water, and for the first time since leaving the hospital she seemed less rigidly upright.

Susie stayed seated beside the tub the entire time. One hand rested on the tile, the other occasionally smoothing damp strands of hair away from Ana’s face when they clung to her cheek.

“You’re safe,” Susie said quietly. She didn’t wait for Ana to ask. “Max is safe. You did everything you could.”

Tears slid from the corners of Ana’s eyes, silent, disappearing into the bathwater.

When she finally helped her out, Susie wrapped her in the largest towel they owned and held it closed around her shoulders, guiding her down the hallway without hurry. Ana leaned into the guidance without resistance.

Susie paused only briefly at the bedroom door.

Ana’s bedroom.

She didn’t overthink it. She pulled back the covers and settled Ana beneath them. The bed was warm and familiar and unmistakably home, and Ana seemed to sink into it as if her body had been waiting for permission to stop.

Susie stood there a moment longer than necessary, watching her daughter’s eyes flutter with exhaustion.

This wasn’t temporary, she realized with quiet certainty. Not the fear, not the attachment, not the place Ana held in their lives. Guest rooms were for visitors.

Ana wasn’t a visitor.

“I’ll be right back,” she said softly.

In the kitchen, Toto stood at the counter, hands braced against the marble, staring down without seeing anything. He looked composed to anyone who didn’t know him. Susie knew better. He was holding himself together by routine alone.

“She asleep?” he asked, voice low.

“Nearly,” Susie said. “She hasn’t eaten.”

Toto closed his eyes briefly. “Of course she hasn’t.”

Susie moved without thinking — cupboards opening, cereal poured, bread toasted, honey drizzled, juice poured. Familiar tasks. Nourishment before questions.

Jack padded into the kitchen in his pyjamas, relief immediate when he saw both parents present.

“Is Ana staying?” he asked.

“Yes,” Susie answered instantly. “She’s staying.”

His shoulders relaxed. He climbed onto a stool and waited with patient seriousness.

They carried the tray together.

Ana stirred when Susie sat beside her, blinking slowly, disoriented for a second before recognizing the room. Susie kept her voice gentle.

“Hey. Just a little bit.”

Ana studied the cereal bowl like it required solving, then accepted the spoon Jack offered. He watched her with intense focus, the solemn responsibility of a child determined to help.

“That one’s good,” he said earnestly. “It has marshmallows.”

A faint smile touched her mouth.

Toto remained in the doorway, arms folded tight across his chest, watching his daughter eat cereal in her bed as though it were the most important thing he would witness that day.

Jack finished his toast, yawned, and climbed onto the bed beside her without asking.

“We’re all here,” he declared, satisfied.

Susie tucked the blankets around both of them, a deep ache of relief settling beneath her ribs.

Ana’s eyes drifted shut again, exhaustion finally winning. Susie smoothed her hair back from her forehead.

“You sleep,” she murmured. “We’ll wake you when it’s time to go back.”

Ana’s voice was barely audible.

“Thank you.”

Susie pressed a light kiss to her temple.

“Always,” she said.

Susie stayed until her breathing evened out, until the house felt quieter again.

Only then did she allow herself to sit back and feel it — the fear, the fury, the relief — all tangled together.

Her daughter was safe.

For tonight, that was enough.

***

Wolff Residence, Monaco -  24 September 2025 

Toto didn’t come to bed immediately.

Susie found him on the balcony.

Monaco was quiet at that hour — the harbor lights reflecting in the water, a few late cars humming somewhere below, the city moving at a softer pace than the one they had just left behind in Baku and hospital corridors and fluorescent stairwells.

He was leaning on the railing, both hands gripping it, shoulders bowed forward like the weight he was holding had finally become physical.

She didn’t speak right away. She simply stepped beside him and rested a hand lightly between his shoulder blades.

For a long moment, he didn’t move.

Then he exhaled.

“She’s asleep,” Susie said softly.

“I know,” Toto replied. His voice sounded steady. That was the problem. “Jack too?”

“Yes.”

A pause.

“And you?” she asked.

He exhaled through his nose. “Working on it.”

For a long moment, Toto said nothing.

Then, quietly, like the words surprised him too, he said, “If that had been my son… I don’t think I would have survived it.”

Susie closed her eyes.

“I watched Max on that hospital bed,” Toto continued, staring out at the dark. “Anastasia holding his hand. Tubes everywhere. That leg…” His jaw tightened. “And all I could think was: if that were Jack or Benny in that bed, I would be feral. Completely feral.”

He laughed once, hollow. “And then I realised — I already am.”

Susie’s hand pressed more firmly against his back.

Toto swallowed hard.  “I don’t know how Jos stood there,” he admitted. “I don’t know how any parent does. I watched Anastasia get hurt this year and that made me want to murder people. But this—” He shook his head. “She loves him, Susie. Completely. If he had died, it would have taken something from her she would never get back.”

Susie understood immediately. This wasn’t about contracts or teams or even the sport anymore.

It was about the fact that Toto had watched a boy who mattered to his daughter almost die in front of him.

Susie reached for his hand. He let her take it, fingers cold against hers.

“I keep thinking I should be… doing something,” he said. “Calling someone. Fixing something. Managing it. That’s what I do. But there’s nothing to fix. He nearly died. Someone wanted him to die. And all I could do was stand there and watch monitors.”

His voice finally cracked.

“I felt useless,” he said hoarsely. “The same way I did when my father was sick. Sitting there as a teenager, listening to doctors talk about tumours and timelines and knowing none of it mattered because I couldn’t change the outcome.”

Susie’s grip tightened.

“I hated that feeling,” Toto went on. “I built my entire life around never feeling that powerless again. And then Baku happened.”

Silence settled between them, heavy but not empty.

He stared out over the water, eyes unfocused. “I felt… useless. Completely useless. Like I did when I was fifteen.”

Susie’s fingers stilled slightly against his back.

“My father,” Toto said, barely above a whisper. “When he got sick. The brain tumour. Everyone around me was doing things — doctors, adults, decisions — and I could do nothing. I remember standing in the hospital and realizing that adults don’t actually control anything. Not the important things.”

He let out a shaky breath.

“That’s what this felt like. I could organize aircraft, surgeons, legal teams, entire corporations — and none of it mattered if his heart stopped on that monitor.”

Susie slid her arms around him from behind, resting her cheek against his shoulder.

“You weren’t useless,” she said softly.

“I couldn’t protect Anastasia from it,” he replied.

“You helped keep Max alive,” she said gently. “And you kept her standing long enough to get him here.”

Toto shook his head slightly. “I still wanted to fix it. Like a problem. And it wasn’t a problem. It was… chance. Violence. Human stupidity.”

Silence settled between them, the kind that only exists between people who know each other too well to fill it unnecessarily.

“Maybe you should call your sister,” Susie said gently. “Not tonight. Just… soon.”

Toto nodded slowly. “Yeah. Tomorrow.” He swallowed. “She’ll tell me I’m catastrophising.”

“She loves you,” Susie said.

He rubbed his face with both hands, forcing himself back into practical thought because it was safer there.

“The surgeons want to do the internal fixation on his leg tomorrow afternoon,” he said. “If the swelling holds. I’ll need to go to Stuttgart Friday — board meeting, engines, and I need to look like a functioning human being.”

Susie turned him gently toward her.

“Shhh,” she murmured, placing a hand against his chest. “Not tonight.”

He tried to keep talking anyway. “There are still statements to review and—”

“No,” she said softly but firmly. “Now you sleep.”

He didn’t argue.

He leaned forward, forehead resting briefly against hers, exhaustion finally breaking through the structure he held himself together with.

And then, almost absently, he said:

“He made me his medical proxy.”

Susie blinked. “Who did?”

Toto frowned slightly, as if realizing he’d said something he hadn’t intended to.

“Max,” he answered. “After surgery, when he woke completely drugged, he looked at me and said I had every reason to keep him alive next year. And I told him I had every reason to keep him alive, period,” Toto said quietly. “That was after he proposed to Ana.”

Susie blinked. “He what?”

Toto froze.

Slowly, he turned his head toward her.

“…I may have forgotten to mention that.”

Susie stared at him. “Toto.”

“He was on painkillers,” Toto said quickly. “Very strong ones.”

“That is not the relevant part.”

“He was extremely sincere,” Toto added weakly.

Susie pressed her hand to her mouth — not shocked exactly, but overwhelmed by the timing, the absurdity, the tenderness of it.

“And she said yes?” she asked quietly.

“She said she wouldn’t hold him to what he said while high on painkillers, but yes.” 

“She didn’t tell me,” she said, half laughing, half stunned.

“She hasn’t really told anyone,” Toto replied. “I don’t think she’s processed it yet.”

Susie leaned back against the wall, exhaling. “Of course he did it high on painkillers.”

Then Susie exhaled softly, emotion finally catching up to her. “Well,” she said, voice gentler now, “that explains a lot.”

Toto leaned into her then, the last of the control draining away.

“We nearly lost him,” he whispered.

Susie held him tighter.

“But we didn’t,” she said. “And she didn’t.”

She pulled him toward the bedroom.

“Come to bed,” she murmured. “Tomorrow we deal with the world again.”

Toto didn’t argue. He just nodded and let her lead him inside.

***

Hospital Pasteur, Nice, France -  24 September 2025 

“You can sit, you know,” Max said, a faint thread of amusement in his voice, because Victoria was still hovering beside the bed like the floor might collapse if she committed to it.

Victoria glanced at the empty chair Ana had left behind.

Then at the bed.

Then she made a decision.

Without asking, she climbed in.

Carefully — very carefully — navigating around the traction frame and wires with surprising precision. She settled beside him, curling against his good shoulder and resting her head on his chest exactly the way she used to when they were kids.

For one disorienting second, Max wasn’t in a hospital in Nice.

He was a kid again in a tiny bedroom in Hasselt, one blanket pulled over both of them while their parents argued downstairs. Victoria pressed into his side because she was scared, and he pretended he wasn’t.

His arm moved before he thought about it, wrapping around her shoulders, hand coming to rest gently in her hair.

The movement hurt — a deep pull through bruised muscle and stitched skin — but he didn’t let it show. He’d taken worse hits in races. This one mattered.

“You okay?” he asked quietly.

She made a small, unimpressed sound. “You nearly died.”

“Technically didn’t.”

“Max.”

He sighed softly. “I’m okay, Vic.” His arm tightened slightly around her. “I’m here.”

They stayed like that for a while, the monitors clicking steadily beside them.

“I watched it,” she admitted finally.

Max winced. “You shouldn’t have.”

“I couldn’t not,” she whispered. “Everyone was texting, nobody knew anything, and then the replay—” She pressed her face into his shirt. “It didn’t look like a normal crash.”

Max stared at the far wall.

“The car didn’t… behave,” he said.

He could still feel it.

Not the impact — his brain refused to replay that — but the moment before. The steering weight vanishing. The rear stepping out in a way that didn’t belong to physics he understood. The instant calculation happening faster than conscious thought.

Wall or Lando.

He swallowed.

“It went too fast to fix,” he said gently.

Victoria was quiet for a moment.

“…Did you choose the wall?” she asked softly.

He didn’t answer immediately.

Because he remembered the orange car in his peripheral vision and the math his brain had done before he even formed the thought.

Then, quietly, “It was the safest direction available.”

Her fingers clenched in his shirt.

“Max—”

“I’m okay,” he said firmly. “Focus on that part.”

She nodded into his shoulder.

After a moment she asked, very carefully, “George Russell.”

Max went completely still.

His chest tightened — not from injury. From something colder.

He looked up at the ceiling.

“I don’t want to talk about him,” he said.

Her voice was small. “He tried to kill you.”

Max closed his eyes.

He didn’t feel anger first.

He felt… confusion. A kind of disorientation deeper than the concussion. Because racing had rules — even unspoken ones. You fought hard. You took risks. But you trusted the other driver wanted to go home alive too.

“I don’t understand it yet,” he admitted quietly. “So I’m not thinking about it tonight.”

He knew himself well enough to recognize a limit. If he opened that door right now he wouldn’t sleep again.

She accepted that immediately. She knew him — when he locked a door in his head, it stayed locked.

Instead she sniffed. “Ana told me you proposed.”

Max groaned softly. “I was high.”

“You did it on morphine,” she said, a weak laugh escaping despite the tears. “Iconic behavior.”

“I barely remember it.”

“Do you regret it?”

He didn’t answer right away.

“No,” he said quietly. “Not one bit.”

He stared at the ceiling again.

“I probably owe her a real proposal though.”

“Yes,” Victoria said firmly. “Preferably while sober.”

She shifted to look at him. “Are you gonna show me the ring?”

He hesitated.

“…maybe.”

“Max Emilian Verstappen.”

He sighed. “It’s in my apartment.”

“Where.”

“In the sock drawer.”

Victoria stared at him.

Then she burst into laughter. “You hid an engagement ring in the sock drawer?!”

“It’s safe!”

“It’s socks!”

“No one touches my socks.”

He could feel her laughter against his ribs. It hurt a little — but it was worth it. The sound pulled something tight out of his chest.

She was still laughing when she asked, “What does it look like?”

Max glanced away, suddenly awkward.

“It’s a star sapphire,” he said.

Victoria blinked. “A what?”

“A star sapphire,” he repeated. “It has this optical thing — asterism — it looks like a star when light hits it.”

She stared at him in disbelief.

“And a double diamond halo,” he added. “Platinum Band. It’s engraved.” 

She pushed herself up on an elbow. “How the fuck do you know what any of that means?!”

Max looked vaguely defensive. “It’s custom. It took like a year,” he muttered. “I worked with a designer.”

“A year?! You, the man who wears the same five T-shirts on rotation, secretly designed jewelry for twelve months?”

“I wanted it to be right,” he said quietly.

He remembered emails sent after midnight, video calls between races, holding stones under different light conditions because he’d asked for photos from multiple angles. He’d learned more about gemstones in twelve months than he ever intended to know.

Victoria’s expression softened immediately.

“…Max.”

He shrugged as much as his shoulder allowed. “I had time between races.”

“You designed a ring for a year,” she said, stunned.

He looked back at the ceiling, almost embarrassed. “Yeah.”

He hesitated, then added more quietly:

“She likes stars.”

His voice softened further.

“She names everything after them. Her simulations. Projects. Code branches. I figured… she should have one she can actually hold.”

Victoria stared at him.

“It wasn’t just… a year,” he said after a moment, voice low. “The design part, yeah. But the stone took longer.”

Victoria lifted her head slightly. “What do you mean?”

Max stared at the ceiling again, seeing not hospital lights but jewelers’ benches and velvet trays and the way light fractured differently depending on the cut.

“I went through a lot of sapphires,” he admitted.

“A lot like… three?” she asked.

He huffed out a quiet, humorless breath. “Like twelve.”

She pushed herself up properly now, bracing on her elbow. “Twelve.”

“Still have them,” he added. “They’re in a safe.”

Victoria blinked at him. “You own a collection of rejected sapphires?”

“They weren’t rejected,” he said, faintly defensive. “They just weren’t hers.”

He remembered each one. Too blue. Too light. Too clean. Too modern. Stones that looked perfect on paper and dead in his hand. Stones that threw light without character. Without… history.

“I wanted one that did the star thing properly,” he continued. “Not just technically. I wanted it to… move. When you tilt it. Like it’s alive.”

Victoria stared at him like she was watching a stranger wearing her brother’s face.

“And the one you chose?” she asked carefully.

Max hesitated.

“Vintage,” he said. “Russian mined — Ural Mountains origin. Old deposit. They don’t really get stones like that anymore.”

Her eyes widened. “Max.”

“It mattered,” he said quietly.

He remembered the moment he’d known.

The jeweler had placed it on the table last, almost as an afterthought. Smaller than some of the others. Darker in tone. Not perfect — a faint inclusion off-center that only showed if you knew where to look.

He’d tilted it under the light.

And the star had bloomed across its surface — not sharp, not artificial. Soft-edged. Like something ancient and patient.

It had reminded him of the way Ana talked about stars. Not romantically. Practically. As constants. Reference points. Things you navigated by when everything else moved.

“That one felt… right,” he said. “Like it had already lived a life before it got to her.”

Victoria swallowed.

“You went through all that,” she said quietly, “and you still hid it in a sock drawer.”

Max shrugged faintly. “Didn’t want it in a hotel safe. Or with security. Socks are… stable.”

She let out a weak laugh, then shook her head, overwhelmed.

“You realize,” she said, “this is the most insane thing you’ve ever done.”

He smiled a little. “I’ve won championships.”

“This is worse,” she said. “This is emotional planning.”

He didn’t deny it.

Because the truth was, designing that ring had been the one thing in his life that had never been about pressure or expectations or performance. There had been no stopwatch. No one watching. No one to impress.

He hadn’t chosen the ring because it was beautiful, even though it was.

He had chosen it because it was durable — sapphire was one of the hardest natural materials on earth.

He’d picked a stone that would survive impact.

“You are so gone,” she said softly.

“Yeah,” he said simply.

“You never actually told me how you met her.”

He smiled faintly — a real one, the first in days.

“After Monaco 2016. Sass Café.”

Victoria perked up. “Oh this is going to be catastrophic.”

“It was,” he admitted.

He could still see it clearly.

“Ana was standing by the bar looking like she wanted to be literally anywhere else on earth. Everyone else was drunk. She was… observing.”

“Of course she was.”

“I tried to flirt.”

“You flirted in a nightclub?”

“I attempted to.”

“And?”

“I used a racing themed pickup line.”

Her eyes widened. “No.”

He winced. “I asked if she was an undercut because she just changed my whole strategy.”

Victoria covered her mouth. “MAX.”

“I know.”

“And she still dated you?”

“She told me it was bad,” he said dryly. “So I tried another one. And then a third.”

Victoria was laughing into his shoulder.

“How did you recover from that disaster?”

“I asked her to leave the club with me,” he said softly. “We got burgers.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

His voice grew quieter.

“We talked for hours. Then we went back to my apartment.”

Victoria studied him — really studied him.

“You love her.”

Max didn’t hesitate.

“Yeah.”

She rested her head back on his chest.

“Good,” she murmured. “Because she loves you like you’re oxygen.”

He looked down, surprised. “You noticed?”

“Max,” she said softly, “she hasn’t slept in three days.”

Silence settled — gentle this time.

He stared at the dark window.

“I scared you,” he said quietly.

“You terrified me.”

He rested his cheek lightly against her hair.

“Sorry.”

“You don’t get to die,” she murmured.

He closed his eyes.

He hadn’t realized until now how close that had been. Not in the car — afterward. The waiting. The blankness he remembered before waking.