agus ☾

You come home from the cold with fingers so frozen you can barely move them.

Toto is standing in the kitchen, stirring something on the stove, humming to himself in that quiet, absent-minded way he does when he thinks nobody’s listening.

You sneak up behind him. He doesn’t notice. Which is perfect.

You lift the hem of his soft cotton T-shirt, and slide your ice-cold hands straight onto his warm, bare back.

The reaction is immediate. Toto screams.

Not a dignified yelp. Not a startled grunt. A full, high-pitched, offended squeak that absolutely does not match a man of his size.

“AH! SCHATZ—!”

He jumps like you hit him with a defibrillator.

You start laughing so hard you can’t breathe.

He whirls around, eyes wide, clutching his chest like he needs a moment to reconsider his entire life.

“Why would you do this to me?” he demands, voice trembling with betrayal. “I thought we loved each other.”

“Oh, we do,” you say, grinning. “You’re just so warm.”

“My back is not a radiator!” he protests, still shaking.

You slide your hands forward and wrap your arms around him, cold palms flat against his stomach now.

He squeals again.

“STOP—! I am a grown man, do not make me scream like this!”

You bury your face in his chest, laughing. You can barely breathe, laughing into his chest, but your hands stay exactly where they are, pressed flat and freezing against his stomach.

Toto tries to wiggle away, but you’re stronger than you look when motivated by chaos. His yelps only make you more determined.

“Schatz, please,” he whines, swaying side to side like that’ll shake you off. “My organs are shutting down. I will turn into ice.”

You grin up at him. “You’ll be the first documented case of husband popsicle.”

He throws his head back, groaning, “Why did I marry you? Why? I had other options.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Name one.”

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Sighs dramatically. And then, with the full weight of a man resigned to his destiny, he declares:

“Fine. Freeze me to death. I am your husband. This is my fate.”

You burst out laughing again, burying your face in his warm chest while your cold hands stay planted under his shirt. He squeaks, actually squeaks, when your fingers shift.

“You are a menace,” he mutters, voice wobbling, but his arms wrap around you anyway, dragging you close as if you're not actively lowering his internal temperature by several degrees.

You nuzzle into him, and he kisses your forehead, still shivering, still pretending to be mortally offended.

“Schatz,” he grumbles, “at least warn me next time before you attempt murder.”

You snort so hard you choke a little.

He sighs, long and dramatic, like he’s starring in an opera about marital betrayal.

To regain his dignity, he tries to tickle your sides, but he’s laughing too much to be effective. Soon you’re both wobbling across the kitchen, half tickling, half hugging, fully ridiculous.

Eventually you collapse against him, breathless with laughter.

His arms cinch around your waist, strong and steady.

“Warm hands now?” he asks, trying to sound annoyed, but his voice is soft, melted around the edges by love.

You nod against him.

“Good,” he murmurs. “Then my sacrifice was not in vain.”

He tucks your head under his chin and holds you there, warm, soft, half-annoyed but fully in love.

———

Escaping the chaotic world around you, Toto decided to take you to Italy for your first weekend together. Of course you were nervous, it was a long time you were with a man alone like this, since you two promised to each other to take it slow and just go on the dates in secret. Which was very hard, but Toto tried his best to be creative by taking you to places where you could just talk, cuddle and kiss like teenagers. Sneaking in one of his Mercedes, thank god for tinted windows.

Stepping out of the car on the driveway of your rented villa, you couldn’t believe your eyes. Beautiful view of Lake Como in front of you. The sun was perfectly clear in the sky, the scenery made by God's creation.

“I take it that you like it.” Toto joked as he got your bags to the house.

Still you were speechless, following him inside, feeling the pebbles on the ground under your feet. Pool outside with a little terrace and roses everywhere. Was this some kind of dream? Probably yes, but you were living it.

While downstairs was the kitchen and huge living room, when you got upstairs there was a nice bathroom with bathtub and spacious bedroom with a whole ass balcony to look over the lake. You stood there to capture that moment with your eyes. Suddenly, Toto was behind you, pressing himself against you, hugging you.

“Impressive, huh?” He whispered while kissing your neck.

“Absolutely.” You were breathless not only from the view.

“Come on, let’s cook something for dinner, you must be starving.”

———

Seeing him swaying through the kitchen was mesmerising. You never took him as a chef but the way he just chopped the onion like Gordon fucking Ramsey got your mouth gaping in surprise.

“What?” The onion was sizzling on the pan along with some olive oil when he caught your expression.

“Uh, I don’t know, I didn’t think that you can actually cook.”

“Time taught me how to take care of myself in a good way. Yeah, I’m rich, I can buy the whole restaurant, but there's beauty in being able to feed myself.”

The way he talked, it didn’t stop to amaze you. You tried to chop some tomatoes for him, but even though you had a certain cooking skill, it was nowhere close to him. He chuckled as he saw how you’re fighting with a knife, sliding over the tomatoes. “Here, let me help you.”

Standing beside you, he held your hand which clasped the knife, guiding you to slice that tomato the right way. Still you weren’t completely used to his close presence, so your breath hitched every time his scent hit your nose and his warm chest hugged your back.

“The trick is that you must relax your wrist a little and do this little whoop and swish and… yeah, just like this, mhm. You’re a natural talent, love.” He smiled when he saw how you’re now chopping tomatoes like a pro.

You chuckled in happiness, feeling great. “Maybe I just need a little guidance.”

“I’ll guide you through everything, if you want me to.” With those words he looked into your eyes as you turned your head toward him. The tension between you was palpable. Every time he locked his eyes with yours, your heart nearly stopped in your chest, your insides clenching in excitement.

The smell of the onion brought you back to reality. “The onion, Toto.”

“Fuck, sorry, yes.” He blinked a few times and turned to the stove, his face holding a wide smile.

———

After you shared a delicious tomato pasta, you sat at the terrace, watching the lazy waves over the lake, sun setting and shining over the surroundings.

As you took a sip from your wine, you couldn’t help but look at Toto. Sun rays were touching his cheek, emphasising his eye colour, the wrinkles on his face making him attractive even more.

His hand was holding yours, his thumb rubbing over your knuckles occasionally. He felt peace. Calm. Like if the storm inside him got finally over. Like if he finally docked his boat to the long awaiting shore.

“I’m so happy we got this weekend off. I needed it.” He finally spoke and you couldn’t help but love how his lips were moving.

You took another sip of the wine, because you knew you’d need it because you felt that this night will be the night.

“Yeah, I’m also glad. No more hiding and we can just enjoy ourselves.”

With a soft hum, he grabbed your glass and placed it on the table. Looking into your eyes for a moment, he searched for a hesitation or discomfort. But he found none. “Sorry for my eagerness, but I wanted to do this when we were back in the kitchen cooking.” And he captured your lips in the most searing and longing kiss. If you could melt you surely would on the spot. Your body reacted by moving closer towards him, while his hands pulled you onto his lap. The way he kissed you with such intensity, it made you breathless.

“Breathe, baby.” He whispered in between the kisses.

It made you chuckle. “It’s hard when you’re like this.”

“Mmm, let’s make it even harder.” He got up from the sofa while holding you under your thighs and you wrapped your legs around his hips. Still your lips were connected when he carried you to the bedroom, only to place you on the bed. He pulled from you for a bit to see you, to take in your flushed face and your body in the dim light of the space.

“Toto, please.. don’t make me wait.” Your sweet plea got him back onto you, this time savouring the skin on your neck. It was his new favourite thing - to make you gasp. It was like you weren’t properly loved by a man.

Few minutes later, all the clothes you both wore were scattered around the room, Toto nearing your aching pussy and you spread your legs even more for him. He couldn’t help but admire your intimate parts. You were like a goddess to him. Spreading your lips with his fingers, you moaned desperately and he placed a kiss on your clit.

“F-fuck…” you choked out, your eyes rolling to the back of your head when his tongue slid through your inner lips ending sucking on them. He really was a man with many talents. Your hands were in his dark hair, pushing him even closer to you. With each lap of his tongue, your insides clenched, and when he added two of his fingers to curl inside you, it was nearly time for you to see heaven.

“God- Toto- I’m gonna-“ but he only managed to hum against your wet folds and you fell apart, screaming his name like crazy, his large hands holding your hips at how wildly you trembled.

Toto moved up to meet you in a hungry kiss and you could taste yourself from his mouth, divine.

Your hand wandered between your bodies to wrap around his hard cock. Soft gasp escaped his mouth and you chuckled at how sensitive he was. “You’re such a tease, baby. But for that would be time later. Now I want you. I’m aching to be inside you.”

Few reassuring glances later, he slid into you so easily like you were born just for him to fit in. Stretching you so heavenly, choked moans left your mouth the same as your eyes were widening, holding his gaze.

“Christian… fuck…” you whispered, your hands dipping into his shoulders and his eyes darkened even more that they already were.

“Say it again.” He didn’t like his middle name much, but the way you moaned it… oh, it made his dick twitch in pleasure.

“Christian. Christ-“

You couldn’t even complete the sentence at how hard he started to thrust into you. Slaps of your naked bodies filled the room, filthy sounds of your wetness ringing through his brain, making him feral with need. As he moved he couldn’t help but run his hand over your breasts, enchanted by your soft skin, pinching your hard nipples hearing your moans intensifying.

“You’re so fucking beautiful. So fucking much.” Looking at your face twisted in pleasure, he managed to choke those words that made you smile even more.

“Being such a good girl to me.. oh yes, oh god..” Toto was so deep in your pussy that your brain went blank. He struggled to catch his breath, feeling how close he was. You started to move your hips to match his pace, his mouth falling open in surprise.

“Sweetheart.”

“Fill me, Christian. Claim me with your seed.” Your filthy gasps was everything he needed to fall over the edge of his pleasure. Loud groan with your name echoing through the walls, his hips moving harshly against you, the thick stripes of his cum filling your cunt.

He collapsed onto you, his hot breath on your shoulder making your skin get goosebumps. This was something you were craving your whole life. To have a man who actually knows how to handle you. How to make you see stars.

Settling next to you, he pulled you close to him, as if he wanted to imprint you into his flesh. “Woman… you are amazing.”

“You’re the one who’s amazing.. fuck, I haven’t felt like that ever.” You laughed softly.

He kissed your cheek with a mischievous smile. “Oh, you’re gonna feel many things. I’m not done with you yet.”

———

In the morning, your blissful sleep was interrupted by Toto’s phone ringing. Holding onto his hand, you didn’t want to let him go, but he just slipped from the bed. The buzz of the water at the lake was soothing, and you just hummed with a smile on your face.

“Why are you calling me on Saturday? I said I’m on my vacation and I won’t be available until it's an emergency.” Toto paced through the bedroom, naked in all his glory and you just admired his body from where you laid on the bed, wrapped in sheets.

“Call me on Monday. Then I’ll be ready to hear about your shit.” He ended the call, throwing his phone somewhere on the sofa in the corner of the room, standing there, in the morning light of the balcony doorway, ruffling his hair frustrated. You chuckled softly, nuzzling your cheek to the pillow. His eyes finally fell on you. You. A gorgeous woman, who made his heart skip a beat, who became his whole world. He took in how you laid there, simply and relaxed, with that soft expression on your face, your naked body he devoured the night before, wrapped in the delicate silk covers. The core memory he'll be thinking about for the rest of his life.

“Christian…” your whisper ran a shiver down his spine. You got to like to call him by his middle name. And he strangely loved how you moaned it last night.

“What is it, princess? Like seeing me all mad in the morning? With my dick on display?” He laughed softly and it made you burst into laughter.

“Well, it was a romantic and epic scene and you just ruined it by the dick thing.” You talk into the pillows with laugh.

Toto walked to the bed, crawling back to you, his large arms wrapping around your torso, kissing your temple. He just held you against his chest, that moment was only yours.

“I love you.” He whispered into the silence of the room, the chirping of the birds being heard in the background.

You bit into your lips, fighting the tears of happiness. Closing your eyes, taking a deep inhale and exhale you just “I love you too, Toto.”

———

Please don’t use my writings without my permission! Pictures found on Pinterest.

-

—

Saying that you were mad was a misunderstanding. You were so pissed off.

Another victory that George brought into Mercedes and Toto was nowhere close to signing him for another season.

While the team celebrated the successful race, spraying themselves with tons of champagne, you stormed into Toto’s office without further notice. Other investors of the company sat there, surprised by your presence.

“I need to speak with Mr. Wolff alone.” You demanded, standing straight in the doorway.

Toto furrowed his brows in disapproval, trying to argue, but he saw the sharpness of your expression and he just shut his mouth, gesturing for the men to leave them alone.

The door closed with a soft click, and you were standing in front of his desk, fire burning in your eyes.

“What are you fucking waiting for?” As George's manager, you fought for his career like a tigress protecting her cub.

Toto crossed his arms over his chest, giving you an unamused expression. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, I think you know exactly what I mean. What more do you need for him to prove to you that he’s great for the team and that he deserves that contract?” You were literally shaking with anger.

“It takes time.”

“Fuck your time.”

“I don’t like the way you talk to me.”

“I don’t like the way you’re treating your best driver as a shit.”

“Hm.”

“I’ll do anything to get you to sign him up. You’ll see.” The determination in your eyes ran a strange shiver down his spine.

—

“You’re coming with us, no?” George was still slightly tipsy in the morning from the alcohol intake of the celebration night, looking through his passport at the airport. You always traveled with him by those private jets but today, you had other things planned.

“I’ll take another plane. I have some business to do.” Smiling softly you reassured him and he nodded, adjusting his sunglasses on his nose.

When George departed from the airport along with Lando and Oscar, you walked through the gate where Wolff's private jet was waiting. Everybody greeted you with a smile, offering you champagne while you climbed small steps inside the plane. Never travelling with Toto, you were taken aback by the interior, luxury screaming into your face. He wasn’t there yet, so it was a great opportunity to get settled.

Once you sat in the plane seat, sipping the champagne, Toto got inside the cabin, stopping in his tracks when spotting you, his eyes wide. There weren’t many occasions to catch this old man off guard, but you managed it right now, it was so amusing.

“Welcome on the board, Mr. Wolff.” Your voice echoed through the space, a smirk plastered across your face.

He looked as if he saw a ghost. “Who let you in here?”

“I have a boarding pass.” You beamed innocently, but mischief was written in your eyes.

“That’s not possible.” His expression tightened, jaw clenching.

“In my world, everything is possible, Torger.” Taking another sip from the champagne flute, you absolutely loved how you made him flustered.

“Please, take a seat, we’re about to take off.” The stewardess said to him, urging him to sit across from you. To his displeasure, he did it, not liking that he’s not in control of the situation.

You both buckled your safety belts, ready to get high up to the sky. It was gonna be a long flight from Singapore to Monaco.

When the pilot informed you that you can get comfortable as he steadied the plane at standard altitude, you undid your seat belt, leaning closer to Toto, placing your hands on the table that was separating you.

“Now. We have plenty of time to discuss George's contract.”

He rolled his eyes, letting out a soft huff of annoyance. “You really are an insufferable woman.”

With a chuckle, you brushed some of your hair from your face. “Let’s say I’m very purposeful. I want the best for my client.”

Getting his phone from the pocket of his pants, he placed it to the side on the table, tapping on its back. “I’m not gonna discuss this with you. If anyone, that would be with George.”

You laughed softly. “I like how stubborn you are, Torger.”

“Don’t— I’m Toto for fucks sake.” You were getting under his skin.

“Well, Toto, a little birdie told me that George had a meeting with McLaren. And that they’re very generous about their offer.” Your eyes gleamed with joy.

Toto nearly passed out, his eyes flaring with anger, his cheeks burning up from how mad he was. “What?”

“Mhm.” You just hummed softly, almost dreamily.

“You’re bluffing.” His voice shaking.

Pulling out the papers, you slid the file towards him. “Read it. There’s everything.”

His hand snatched the file, listing through it frantically, his eyes darting over the words. Grunting in disbelief, he closed it and shoved it back to you.

“This is bullshit. It means nothing.”

You looked outside of the window for a bit, sighing softly. “So, it won’t push you to sign George up?”

“No.”

Pursing your lips, you nodded and stood up from your seat, kicking off your heels. He watched you, his gaze full of awareness, not knowing what to expect from you.

“You think you have all the power, hm? Control over somebody’s life, keeping him on the verge, unsure, you love it, don’t you?” You were like a hawk, stalking its prey. Sitting on the table in front of him, your legs brushing over him, he shifted uneasy in his seat, his brow cocking up at your motives.

Lifting your leg slightly, you trailed your foot up his thigh, further towards his groin. His gaze falling down to see what you’re up to, your sole clad in black nylons teasing him through his pants, toes grabbing him softly by his hardening cock.

“Ah, ah, what do we have here, Mr. Wolff?” You chuckled darkly, massaging him skilfully.

Toto glared up at you, eyes full of something he was truly ashamed of, being turned on by your touch, he wanted to stop you. Really.

“Are you sleeping with George, that you insist so much on this contract?” He muttered through gritted teeth and it was something that flared up your annoyance to the highest level.

“You’re disgusting, Wolff.” You pressed your heel to his groin more, almost making him whimper.

“Argh. You bitch.” He whispered.

Dark chuckle vibrated through your chest, noticing how he gripped the arms of the seat. “Come on, get your nasty dick out so I can see it nicely.”

Toto snarled at your command, shuddering in discomfort, he wasn’t the one to obey. But when you poked into his hardness more aggressively, he unzipped his pants, opening it and pulling down his boxers to free himself. His firmly hard cock sprung out against your foot and you couldn’t help but sigh at how perfect he was.

“Mmm… you’re such a naughty man.” You lifted your other leg up to rub your feet against him. He leaned more into the seat, head back against the head rest, his expression stone cold.

“If you wouldn’t like it, you would shove my feet away, but I guess you’re trying to hold back your stupid, pathetic moans.” You chuckled again, and you felt yourself becoming wet underneath all your clothes, you wouldn’t be surprised to have a damp stain on the back of your skirt.

Suddenly his large hands gripped your feet, he straightened in his seat, navigating his cock between your heels, controlling the movement of your legs. You let out a surprised breath, watching how he fucked your feet while holding an intense eye contact.

But it wasn’t enough for him, he tore the material of your nylons to have your skin bare and his hotness was seeping into your delicate skin.

“You thought you could control me, huh?” He smirked, not stopping to move your feet, grunting in pleasure like a hungry animal.

Your cheeks were hot, you were slightly losing your composure, but then you managed to push into his chest, to land him back against the seat. He gave you a look full of pride, grin wide.

A sinful idea crossed your mind. “Suck on my thumb, Torger.” You wandered up his chest with your foot, pushing your bum to the edge of the table you were sitting on to be more steady and also a bit closer.

With a displeased growl, he grabbed your foot bringing it to his lips, placing a soft kiss against your thumb, while having his eyes locked into yours. Get this man to obey your commands was so fucking sweet.

And then he slowly wrapped his lips around your thumb and he started to devour it, giving it a proper touch with his tongue, swirling around it, sucking on it, biting into it. You didn’t expect him to be this good, so it really caught you off guard, your insides clenching like crazy and your moans filling the cabin.

“Fuck—“ you choked out of your chest, holding the edge of the table while Toto held your leg close, his hands caressing your calf while he literally sucked on your toes, leaving every one of them caressed with a loud pop.

Your eyes were hazed by the desire you couldn’t deny anymore, he truly knew what to do, how to unravel you.

“Enjoying this far too much, aren’t you?” He whispered against the sensitive skin of the back side of your foot, licking it up and down to your heel.

“I hate you.” You murmured, whining softly, your face flushed at how he saw through you.

“So, if you want a contract for your Georgie boy, I'm gonna need something from you in advance.” He smirked darkly, pulling you from that table on his lap.

You yelped, wrapping your arms around his neck, his broad chest somehow intimidating against your frame. “You were supposed to be the one crying in despair, giving me that contract.”

Toto laughed at your pout, running a hand though your hair to grip it tight, tilting your head back to expose your neck. Placing a soft kiss on your delicate skin, his cock achingly twitching and poking at your stomach, he inhaled your scent. “I was watching you lately. How you’re swaying when I’m near, how you’re staring at me with your fierce gaze, planting small ideas into George’s brain to rile me up. You try to hide your motives behind your care for him. But all you had to do was just ask.”

Your skirt was rolled up at your hips, his precum staining the silky black fabric, your hips buckling into his, trying to get a friction of his arousal against yours.

“I hate you so much, Torger.” You murmured, sigh escaping past your lips, Toto let go of your hair, his hands falling down your sides landing at your bum, massaging it, spreading it.

“Let’s have some nice hate sex, hm?” He laughed into your face, tearing those nylons on your ass, the slit going to the front where you were hiding your lacy underwear.

”But before we do that, I have something for you to read through.” With you still in his lap, he reached for some papers clasped together at the side drawer. Placing it on the table before his seat, he turned you around, getting you back on your feet, unzipping your skirt and letting it fall on the luxurious floor of the jet. The way your nylons were torn was the way that turned him like hell. Hooking his fingers around your panties, he put them to the side, growling at how dripping you were. Sucking your juices for a little, you gasped surprised, leaning for the support of the table, but he got back from you immediately.

“Delicious. Now, sit down comfortably and read out loud.” Toto patted his dick, gesturing for you to take a seat on his breathtaking size.

Without hesitation, you slowly bent in your knees, his tip surprising you at your entrance and you slowly sank down onto him, his shaft grazing its way through your tight walls.

Once seated on his cock, you shivered, bracing yourself with your hands on his thighs, sweat covering your face as you breathed through the stretch.

“Awfully quiet now, huh? I’m gonna change that.” He chuckled behind you, grinding his hips into you that you gasped from the way he abused you from inside.

Trying to avert your attention to the papers on the table, you reached them, reading it.

“Loud, liebes.”

“Con— Contract form for— George Russell, born on 15th February 1998 in King’s Lynn. Subject of this— fuck—“ you tried so hard to read it but it was difficult to do so when he was prodding your cervix slowly but brutally.

“I don’t remember putting a word ‘fuck’ there, focus, darling. Focus.” Murmuring against your shoulder, his hands traveled underneath your shirt, groping your breasts, his touch carving into your hot skin.

As you were reading further and further, you clenched violently around his stiff dick, covering him with your arousal, your voice shaking with need.

“You’re so talented at cockwarming, baby.” Finding your clit with his right hand, his fingers circled that sensitive bud, your mind shutting off surely.

“— this contract will guarantee an extension for another two years, exclusive collaboration with Mercedes’ sponsors and also— oh dear god— Toto—“ you whined desperately, your pussy spreading more by his girth, your belly pooling with that fire of forming release.

“Nuh, uh, you’re not gonna come until you’re done with reading.” His sinister voice echoed through your head, tears welling in your eyes, you sobbed like a child.

“— this contract is also a guarantee of income for Mr. Russell in the amount of 35 million dollars— per year—“

“Mhm, continue, you're doing great. The last part is the best, come on.” He encouraged you, the pace of the circles at your clit being painfully slow.

“— his manager is obligated to attend every meeting and events with him, being a part of the team, including the special sessions for consultation with the team principal Torger Christian Wolff.” You gasped at the meaning of that.

“You see? We’re gonna have so much fun. You brought it on yourself.” He smirked, kissing your neck, your backside moulded into his front.

“I — I hate you.” You choked out, almost passing out on the table from how much you needed to come.

“You don’t, baby. Don’t lie to yourself.” He sunk back into the seat with you, pulling your back against his chest, spreading your legs wider.

Your head resting on his shoulder, you huffed, his fingers back on your clit. “Torger—“

“You want it bad, don’t you? You want to come around my dick? The one you called nasty earlier? Now it feels so fucking good, huh.” He mocked you, while your heart was racing that you swore it would burst out in your chest any moment.

“Please— Toto— make me come. I need it, please, please, please.” Your voice sweet and squeaky, body trembling, sweat seeping into his clothes.

Toto was satisfied with the way you were begging and he pinched your bud, gasp choking you and he tapped it fast, sloppy sounds of your mess echoing through the space. With the way you were overstimulated, you came almost with a snap of the finger.

The staff of the private jet must’ve been traumatised with the way you screamed through the orgasm that ripped through your body.

Toto was thrusting into you, guiding your hips by his hands, not caring about how out you were, your eyes rolled to the back of your skull.

He wanted more, he wanted to assert his dominance. One swift move later, you were placed on the table, him standing between your legs behind you, filling you like a mad man. The table was shaking from the force he was taking you. You weren’t even moaning, your throat dry and sore, you just grunted and gasped for air while your pussy clenched hungrily for his cock.

Having a handful of your torn nylons at your waist along with your ruined panties, the plastic fabric dug into your skin, leaving bruises.

“I’m gonna fill you up, darling. Spray that cunt of yours with my delicious seed. You’re gonna feel me for days.” he chuckled, the well known sensation forming in his abdomen.

“You— can’t— no protection—“ you blurted out in panic, trying to turn around to look at him, but he pushed your head against the table, against that damn piece of contract and you whined loudly.

“Fuck— tell me about protection when you seem to be turned on by the fact of being bred by me. Oh god, I’m — coming.” His voice faltered for a bit, his hands gripping your hips tight, hilting inside you, his thick cum covering your insides, the load creating a creamy ring around his already softening shaft.

Panting, breathless, you couldn’t believe what just happened. What you thought you had under control ended absolutely wild.

Toto slid out of you, adjusting his pants and shirt, giving your ass a playful smack, causing your body to jolt at how sensitive you were.

“Enough—“ you whimpered, trying to stand upright. He reached out to put your panties to the place, your juices mixing up and he was chuckling at how those fluids were dripping down your thighs.

“The bathroom is that way. Do you need a hand?” His cockiness made you mad.

“No.” You grabbed your skirt and stumbled into the bathroom to freshen up.

—

As the jet was about to land, Toto signed the papers. You were watching him from across the table, snuggled in your seat, sipping the champagne. This was filthy and bad, but deep down you liked this new dynamic.

“All done. You’re truly a great manager, advocating for your client. George couldn’t choose a better one.” He smirked smugly, handing that contract to you.

You only hummed and slid it into your bag.

Once you got off the plane, you walked down the airport slowly and carefully, your legs felt bare under your skirt when you must’ve taken off your torn nylons to appear representative. Toto kept your pace and when you were about to meet with George and others, he stopped you, leaning closer to your ear.

“Don’t forget who owns you now.”

Shiver ran down your spine, you continued to walk with your bag in your hand.

George gave you a smile, being tired after a long flight. “I see you flew with the boss.”

“Yeah. I got you something, by the way.” You took the papers out of your bag, shoving it carefully into his hands.

George was shocked, his eyes wide with surprise and his mouth hanging open. “How—“

“Don’t ask. Just sign it and—“ you turned around to take a glance at Toto, who was full of pride, the powerful dominance floating around his figure.

“— and I’ll hand it back to your boss.”

—

© All stories and written content created by me is not allowed to be used without my permission. If you wish to share, quote, or use any portion of my stories, please contact me directly.

—

time to intervene.

"you need to cut it out. you're acting like a child. you of all people know tantrums get you nowhere."

at his sentiment, her head swivels, nothing but pure, fiery rage flickering about in her stare. strands of hair are plastered to her forehead, her lip curling into a sneer.

"your orders cost me two positions. it cost me a podium this weekend. i think i deserve to be a little upset about it."

"it's only the beginning of the season, love," toto wolff tuts, folding his arms across his chest, "you have time to make up for it. you have so much time to win the title."

at his statement, she pauses, her brows furrowing together. he can sense her fury dissolving by the second, her rigid muscles relaxing as her shoulders slump. silence creeps in as she crosses over to the couch, curling up in the fetal position.

to put it lightly, it was a tough opening weekend in melbourne.

not only did she have to deal with the wake of the loss to max, she had difficulty familiarizing herself with the new car. the media was in a frenzy, circling around like vultures every single time she moved or spoke. fuck, she could barely even breathe without a microphone close by.

toto couldn't imagine how draining it must have been to deal with it all. there was an instance over the weekend where a reporter inquired about their sex life. following that, there were numerous questions involving when he was going to propose, when they were planning on having kids, and if she would retire if they had children.

she executed a brilliant drive during qualifying, managing to snag the third position on the grid, just behind lando and max. if all went according to plan, she would be able to push past lando at the start of the race, and be able to battle it out with max for the victory.

at the start of the race, she drove beautifully. she was able to surge ahead and get past both max and lando, sailing into the first position.

it was going perfectly until lap twenty-three, where there was a mishap with the steering. following the error came a miscommunication with strategy. although toto knew the tires would last a few more laps, it was not his call to bring her in to the pits.

the pit crew was not quite ready, fumbling with two of the tires. it was a painfully slow stop, her radios reflecting exactly how toto felt about the fiasco.

the call for the early pit ultimately cost her three positions, which ended up crushing her hopes of a podium on opening weekend.

following the race, she exchanged some heated words with the media. something along the lines of, "fuck off or you're going to feel that boom mic up your ass." of course, that sent social media into a frenzy.

so, when she decided to release some pent up emotions in her driver's room after the race, toto let her.

he couldn't blame her, really. this weekend was an absolute shit show.

yet, he knew they had to move forward from it. the helmet could be replaced. the dent in the wall could be patched. the team strategy could be tweaked.

there was nothing he wanted more than to just wrap her up in his arms, bringing her tightly against his chest. he ached to just hold her, murmuring all of the reassurances she needed to hear. he yearned to just pepper her beautiful face with endless kisses, just to hear that melodic giggle ring in his ears.

he couldn't though.

at least, not yet.

the team principal stays put, waiting until she gives him the cue.

it wouldn’t be verbal. it would be the way her body would shift toward him, inviting him over. it would be the way her arms would droop, begging to be held.

it wouldn’t be too much longer. any minute now.

as expected, she practically sinks into the couch, pleading for some sort of comfort.

there it was, that cue he was desperately waiting for.

he strolls over, settling into the cushion next to her, wrapping an arm around her frame.

"i-i just wanted to get a head start," there's a tug at his heart as her voice falters, "i wanted to prove to everyone that i could compete with max this time. i just wanted to win a fucking race after what happened last ye-"

"my love," the team principal exhales, a tender hand connecting with her back, just between her shoulder blades, "you have to keep your head up. you are not a failure just because you didn't finish on that podium. you are not defined by what happened last season. things are different now, so much more different."

in the light, he catches the gleam of a tear as it rolls down her cheek, "i just know they're all talking about me. they want nothing more than to see me lose. i just wanted to prove them wrong."

"we have so much time do that," his voice is barely a murmur, "we will make you a champion, my sweet girl. don't worry about what they all think. focus on me. focus on us. focus on how we can correct our mistakes."

the tears are flowing now, the streams glistening as she sits up, pressing her body against his. her head nuzzles into his chest, lashes fluttering as his hand begins to roam, gently kneading into her sore muscles.

"i-i'm sorry."

the words are merely a whisper, but toto hears them.

"why are you apologizing, sweet girl?"

"for acting like a brat," she still won't meet his gaze, her eyes fixated on the door, "i shouldn't have thrown my helmet."

the team principal hums, his fingers treading along the zipper of her suit, "it's all right, love. i think you should do it again, actually."

"stop it," she huffs, rolling her eyes, "you just thought my little outburst was hot."

"quite," his mouth ghosts over her ear, "take that anger out on me, actually. you know, you're quite sexy when you're all riled up."

"maybe i will." the corners of her lips twitch, and toto can't help but feel a twinge of satisfaction.

she was fighting a smile, and fuck, was she fighting one hard.

carefully, she swings a thigh over his lap, straddling him as the tip of her nose brushes against his, "maybe i will take my anger out on you, toto. i want you to do something first, though."

in his khakis, he feels his cock stiffen, his throat tightening as she leans in even closer, "w-what is it, my love?"

fuck, he did he loathe how much power she held over him.

she cocks her head, a hand drifting to his cheek. her thumb trails along his cheekbone, relishing the way he completely crumbles under her touch.

"i want you to inform the fia that i will not be participating in any press for the next three races. will you do that for me?”

“sweet girl, you know i can’t do that—“

“please?” he can’t help but notice the way her bottom lip juts out ever so slightly.

all it would take is for her to bat those lashes once, and he would be done for.

and to his dismay, she does just that, “i just can’t handle the press right now. it’s too much and—“

“consider it done, my love. a statement will be out by the morning.”

“good boy,” she purrs, pressing her forehead against his, “you’re the best.”

“anything you want or need, it will be handled. i can promise you that. i will do everything in my power to make sure that you become champion.”

her lips press against his, a shiver running down his spine as she smirks, rolling her hips. it takes everything in his power to stifle a groan as her fingers delve into the waistband of his khakis, his cock throbbing.

she has him right where she wants him, but he doesn’t mind.

not. at. all.

she was his princess, after all.

and what his princess wanted, she got.

it only takes four words for him to come undone, any coherent thoughts slipping from his mind as her hand wraps around his shaft, his breaths coming out in pants.

Yet, she haunts Mercedes with vengeance. Her presence is felt above the deafening roar and below the absolute silence. She lives in the unsettled tempers and the cold rain.

She exists in the phantom number on his family tree, the only one whose name never reaches the public. She exists in the vague recollections of Lewis Hamilton, Peter Bonnington, Andrew Shovlin, James Vowles, and any other senior Mercedes figures, who remember working for him in the early days.

She exists in the date forever circled in red on his calendar. She exists in the signed music albums he never allows dust to touch.

She exists around him, but never with him since she boarded Flight OZ731 and chased a dream he didn’t approve of.

Now, twelve years later, Mercedes is abuzz with whispers they don’t yet understand: the custom VIP pass they had only heard of just scanned into the paddock.

"I feel like I should fix myself up a bit," one of the mechanics fidgets with his standard-issue uniform. "How’s my hair?"

"Hey, can I hang out here for a bit?" Another finds himself at a different motorhome, seeking refuge. "Mercedes is a jittery hub right now. Something about a ghost visitor."

The air crackles with a nervous energy, a tense anticipation that hangs thick and heavy. They stand on the precipice of a moment they can’t possibly prepare for, holding their breath.

Then, in a single, heart-stopping instant, the wait is finally over.

The fabled VIP access pass swings from the neck of a visitor, catching the light as she moves. A ghost of the man she came from haunts her features, from the determined set of her jaw to the stoicism in her gaze. She's surrounded by thirteen men who move as an impenetrable, well-oiled unit. She’s not their leader, nor their youngest, but their protective wall around her is unmissable.

The whispered "hana, dul, set" halts the paddock's murmurs just in time for the authoritative start of a group introduction. "Say the name—"

"SEVENTEEN!" Fourteen voices echo in the paddock hospitality, synchronized in every beat—down to the humble bow. "Hello, we are— SEVENTEEN!"

As she offers a blinding smile to the murmuring crowd, it's a silent declaration: she belongs to both worlds, yet it's the men standing beside her who truly bring her home.

Toto Wolff can only watch. The world around him blurs, the seemingly ceaseless chatter of the crowd fades into a distant hum. His vision tunnels, narrowing until all he can see is her.

Her—the phantom of a child he once held, a ghost of a daughter who exists only in his memories, superimposed over the woman standing on the makeshift stage. He doesn’t know her.

For a fleeting, agonizing moment, he feels the stoic mask he prides himself on almost shatters. He doesn’t like the thought that just crossed his mind, but her twelve-year absence is a physical weight he can’t ignore. He doesn’t know her.

An F1 staffer purposely hands her a microphone, their hidden agenda as secret as Mercedes’ loud whispers. She accepts it with an inaudible "thank you" before skillfully passing it down the line until the microphone eventually lands on someone who owns it. The familiar, practiced gesture of teamwork makes his chest tighten.

"How does it feel to be here at the F1 paddock?" The interviewer asks.

"Honestly surreal," a clear American accent booms from the foamed microphone. "We’ve been fans of Formula One since our YN—" the possessiveness preceding her name stings, especially with the soft, adoring chuckles the rest directs her way— "introduced us to the sport back in our trainee days. We all came from different backgrounds and had some language barriers then, but watching the races together really brought us closer."

Toto takes every cut each word makes. "Our YN" twists in his gut, a stark reminder that she belongs with them now.

"It’s a dream come true to be here," another member continues succinctly, with a short nod. There’s a slight tremble in his voice, but it fades away when she taps him encouragingly. "It feels like everything’s come full circle."

The ease of their existence around each other pierces through him. He doesn’t know these men whose hearts beat the same way as hers, just like he doesn’t know her.

"Yeah, we just want to say a big thank you to Formula One for having us here," a third member adds on. His American accent sounds more casual than the first, "especially during the year of our tenth anniversary. It really means a lot."

"Congratulations on your tenth anniversary! That’s a huge milestone." The assembled crowd watches as the members pass around the two microphones—almost playing hot potato with them. "Are there any special plans to celebrate the occasion?"

"Thank you," the fourth member unlucky enough to hold a microphone responds. The rest nod along in supportive agreement. "As this is our tenth year as a group, we planned to celebrate the whole year." He chuckles lightly, some chuckling along with him. "But so far we’ve released our fifth full-length album and held a birthday concert with our CARATs."

"We’re actually filming something special while we’re here," her sudden interjection catches a number of people in the crowd off-guard, including him, "but we’ll try our best to stay out of everyone’s way."

Unlike her members, her response is curt and dry. She doesn’t have the playful and friendly undertone the rest had—just professionalism through and through. Even if she tried to smile it off in an attempt to add humor, it’s obvious she says the last part for someone in particular.

Her gaze finds and holds his for a split second, and in that fleeting, devastating connection, he understands. She isn’t there for him.

It makes the most logical sense, yet it doesn’t make it hurt any less.

Toto’s ears ring. The air around him thins. His entire world narrows to a single point: her—the phantom of his little girl who loved music more than she loved him.

The interviewer tries his best to bring the energy back. "Since you’ve mentioned you guys have been watching races since your trainee days, which teams or drivers are you guys rooting for this season?"

The one with a clear American accent immediately obliges to his mission. "Oh, we’re all rooting for the same team."

The rest corroborate with a solemn nod—before a cacophony of answers erupts.

"Ferrari."

"Williams!"

"McLaren!"

"Haas."

"Red Bull!"

"Sauber."

"Aston Martin."

"Mercedes!"

"Racing Bulls."

"Alpine!"

The thirteen men name all ten teams at once, effectively making the crowd laugh. It’s a comedic timing perfectly executed. They are cogs of one machine—and he feels the sting of knowing his eldest completes them.

The interviewer chuckles. "It sounds like you guys are a little divided! So which team is the true favorite here?" he asks, looking directly at her. It’s the perfect set-up he must’ve been waiting for.

The entire assembled crowd holds their breath. He finds himself swept up in the silence, his own breath held tight in his chest.

She takes the bait with a nonchalant shrug. Her gaze, cold and steady, finds his, looking away just before her answer changes their lives. "My heart has always belonged to Mercedes."

The backrooms of the Mercedes garage is relatively the quieter part of the entire building, with its padded walls meant to keep the chaos of the paddock out. Toto, as the Team Principal, gets the luxury of occupying the quietest corner, the furthest room from all the action.

In there, he’s just Toto—no decorations attached. Still a boss, a father, and a husband with responsibilities, but with a lifted pressure to perform and be seen. The sterile, white walls of the room serve as a canvas—not an extension of his public persona, but a private space where he can simply exist. It's a sanctuary where he can momentarily step away from the relentless demands of his role and just be.

A knock resonates from the door, breaking his concentration just enough to respond. "Come in!"

He already knows who entered before he looks up. After all, he exists in the fast-paced world of Formula One—his usual visitors start talking as soon as they enter.

His eldest’s silence is purposeful, a deliberate pause between musical notes meant to build anticipation. Her presence, too, vibrates in a frequency distinct from the high-energy rhythm of Formula One—resembling a softer, more complex melody he doesn’t understand.

He doesn’t meet her eyes right away. Instead, he looks up and watches as she scans the room with mild interest, taking in the minimal personal touches he's added. There are photos of his wife, Susie; Lewis and Bono celebrating one of their championships; George and Kimi; Benedict and Rosa at Benedict's university graduation; and Jack with his kart.

"I just wanted to drop this off," she eventually says, her voice clear and professional as she places a white-and-green album on his desk. "For your collection."

"Thank you," his response sounds as disconnected as she did despite his sincerity. "I’ll put it with the others."

He sees her gaze linger on a specific empty spot on his desk, where a frame of them during one of her science fairs once stood.

He catches the second a flicker dies in her eyes—and how quick it was for her shoulders to drop ever so slightly and for the determined set of her jaw to harden.

The blow hits him like a Formula One car coming at top speed. He almost tells her about the custom-made, dust-proof cabinet at his office in Brackley where he keeps his favorite childhood photos of her and all the music albums she has sent. He almost tells her how he doesn’t allow anyone else to see them because he doesn’t have the strength to talk about her without being reduced to tears. He almost— but he doesn’t.

And almost is never enough.

"I won’t keep you, Vater." There’s no warmth, no flicker of emotion in her professional tone. "Thank you for having us."

Without waiting for a response, she turns and walks out, leaving him alone with an echo of "Vater"—a title so foreign it contaminates his memories of a little girl who used to call him "Papa."

His eldest earned the nickname "nightingale" early. She was always singing— performing whenever she had the chance. Her favorite toddler toys were a xylophone and a singing contraption, which were later replaced by a toy microphone and a guitar. Eventually, there were formal lessons. Throughout it all, their home never knew true quiet—and he didn’t prefer it any other way.

Toto was proud of her musical talent, but he saw it as just one of her many skills. She was equally gifted in science and never shied away from working with him on projects. He encouraged the music, believing it was important for her to be a well-rounded person, but he never mistook it for her true path.

He never would’ve thought his well-intentioned encouragement would eventually backfire on him.

YN barreled into his office, vibrating on her feet. A Mercedes hat sat proudly on her head, a VIP access pass comfortably resting around her neck. "Papa!"

"Yes, YN?" He looked up, a ghost of a smile appearing on his lips as he met her sparkling eyes.

She could barely contain herself. She squealed, "Ich habe eine Zusage von Pledis bekommen!" ["I got an acceptance from Pledis!"]

He gestured for her to sit down, secretly afraid she’d start bouncing off the walls if he left her standing. "Pledis?"

She obliged, humming in affirmation. "Remember I told you about that one judge in my last competition? The one that said she liked my performance so much, she sent a video of it to her boss in Seoul?"

He took a moment to think. He stopped attending her music-related activities when she turned ten, so he was left to rely on her relays and debriefs since. Admittedly, it was more difficult to riffle through memories of her retelling than of her actual performances. "The one that said you might be a good fit to train to be a performer in South Korea?"

"To be an idol, Papa," she corrected, her voice filled with undeniable reverence, "but yes, that. Apparently, the company she works for is Pledis."

He considered it with a slow, thoughtful nod. "Herzlichen Glückwunsch, schatzi." ["Congratulations, darling."]

"Danke, Papa," ["Thank you, Papa,"] she beamed, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "Ich überlege, ihr Angebot anzunehmen." ["I’m thinking of accepting their offer."]

Toto froze at that. He wasn’t versed in what training to be an idol entailed, but the mere fact that she would have to be in South Korea—where he wouldn’t be—was already an unpleasant thought. "Willst du ein idol werden?" ["You want to be an idol?"]

"Well . . . ja, mach i." ["Well . . . yes, I do."]

He couldn’t believe his ears. Not when he had a photo of them during one of her science fairs framed on his desk. Not when two more hung on his office walls: one of her mid-laugh after an experiment exploded on her face; another of her grinning, covered in soot and grime, with a wrench in her hand.

She wasn’t supposed to be a performer. She was supposed to be a problem-solver. An engineer.

"I hob glaubt, du willst Ingenieur werden?" ["I thought you wanted to be an engineer?"] He blurted out, the words tasting like ash laced with desperate hope.

"I hob des nie gsogt." ["I never said that."] YN quickly rebuffed, words sharp. "I hob nur gsogt, 'Ingenieurwesen mocht Spaß.'" ["I only ever said, ‘Engineering is fun.’"]

"Ingenieurwesen mocht Spaß" burn him like a soldering iron. Fun. Not a calling. Not a passion. Not the life he had so meticulously—and silently—planned for her. Just fun.

The foundations of his world began to crumble beneath him, but he persevered like a driver pushing old tires to the checkered flag. He had to make her understand. He needed her to know she’d be making a mistake if she pursued that fleeting path. "Becoming an idol . . . Des is ned praktisch, YN. Des is ka sichere Karriere." ["Becoming an idol . . . That’s not practical, YN. It’s not a stable career."]

He almost took it all back when he saw the light in her eyes dim, with her shoulders tensing and her jaw tightening. A short, desperate plea for her to smile again was already on the tip of his tongue, but his fear for her future was far stronger than his immediate regret.

"Owa du host gsogt, i kann do whatever makes me happy." ["But you said I can do whatever makes me happy."] Her voice was quiet, but heavy with accusation.

"Jo, und i man's ernst," ["Yes, and I mean it,"] he confirmed, his voice a touch softer. "But I didn’t mean this."

"Then what did you mean?"

It wasn’t the first time he and YN didn’t see eye-to-eye. It had been an occasional occurrence since she reached thirteen. Still, it was the first time he felt their relationship was truly on the line.

It didn’t help that this was something he wasn’t prepared to discuss with her, either. Frankly, he didn’t even think he would have to. He thought—

Toto sighed, massaging the bridge of his nose, "Let’s talk about this later, after dinner."

YN didn’t move right away, her body a statue of disappointment, but eventually stood. "Okay."

He hated how the conversation went. It left a bitter taste in his mouth. A part of him was convinced he’d have to thread carefully, else he’d risk completely fracturing his relationship with his eldest. He didn’t want that.

"I hob di liab," ["I love you,"] he called after her, subtly seeking a signal that they were still okay.

YN paused by the door, a small smile returning to her features, "I di a, Papa." ["(I love) You, too, Papa."]

Toto blinks, returning to the reality far removed from what it once was. He’s still behind his desk—in same the office, under the same pin on the map—but nothing else stayed the same. Not the scattered decorations serving as peeks into his personal life. Not the title that still rings in the silence he’s left alone with. Not the distance—chasm—that separates him and his eldest.

It’s difficult to believe he was once, as she put it at seven years old, her "most favorite person in the entire universe."

Now, she can’t even look at him for more than three seconds.

The white-and-green album she left mocks him. The bold, emerald green title blazes like a neon sign—screaming at him with an irrefutable taunt that it knows more about the woman his eldest grew up to be than he ever will.

It jeers him—daring him to look at the woman he created a stranger of.

Toto reaches for the album, fingers tentative as if he’s touching thin glass.

He sees a handwritten letter first. He doesn’t recognize the handwriting, but he identifies the capitalized block letters of a budding engineer before the familiar script of "Papa" does.

She always wrote "Papa" on the music albums that found their way to him.

Papa, As we cross ten years since our debut, I want to extend my utmost gratitude to you. I know this isn’t the life you wanted for me. You raised me to be someone else—someone with a stable career, someone who builds things and solves problems, someone who follows the path you laid out. I’m sorry I couldn’t be the person you wanted me to be. I’m sorry I used the blueprint you drew to follow a path that took me away from you. I used every lesson you ever taught me—to trust myself, to work hard, to stand back up every time I fall—because I was too afraid to hold onto you. I couldn’t bear the thought of being a burden or of you regretting letting me go. They were all I had. It wasn’t easy reaching ten years. As the only girl in a group with thirteen boys, there were moments I wanted to quit, to find someone who could contact you and just take me home. But every time I almost did, I remembered what you told me once: failure is a necessary part of the journey. You said a true champion’s mark isn’t in their wins, but in their ability to keep going. I never forgot that. It’s probably not what you want to hear, but a part of you is the reason I made it this far. So, thank you, Papa. Really. With love, Your YN P.S. I hope it’s not too much to ask for a hug when we meet.

Toto’s eyes blurs as the stoic façade he has fought hard to maintain fractures with a hot, single tear. He doesn’t bother to wipe it away.

He stares at the last lines like they’re his lifeline.

His breath shudders, hands suddenly unable to hold the feather-light paper.

For twelve years, he had foolishly believed his little girl merely haunted him because he refused to let her go. His secret, dust-proof cabinet was a shrine to a time he couldn't get back and to a person he had lost. He had convinced himself that the albums bearing her name and face were just artifacts, not messages.

Worse, he had assumed she was gone because he didn't recognize her in the woman before him. She didn't smile or laugh the same. She didn't look at him the same. She no longer addressed him the same.

But that wasn't the case.

His little girl hadn't left; she had simply learned to protect herself and be self-reliant because she thought she couldn't count on him. She was still here, hidden under all the calluses and the wounds she had endured alone in twelve years.

It was all his fault.

Toto lifts his gaze in a futile attempt to discourage another tear from escaping, but it merely lands on the empty spot on his desk, where a frame of them during one of her science fairs once stood.

His eldest— YN came to his office with a hope for reconciliation, eyes searching for a sliver of love, and found herself completely erased from his life.

She walked out the door thinking he didn’t love her—and he let her.

It’s strange to be back at the paddock where she received the email that changed her life forever. She was only fifteen years old then; now, a lifetime later in her late twenties ("Practically thirty," as she and her members would joke whenever their muscles strained a little too much), she’s a stranger to her own life.

Being back in this domain of her childhood with her members is a surreal full-circle moment. She had first introduced them to this world when a language barrier stood between them. Now, she’s finally sharing its magic with a group that understands her beyond words.

Frankly, she was excited when their staff told them Formula One had allowed them to film here. She would have assumed a working race week would be off-limits for a film crew, but a part of her suspected her birth surname had something to do with the special permission.

Alas, as she just realized, it couldn’t be a string her father pulled.

YN tries not to think about it, but she sees the empty spot on his desk every time she blinks.

"Excuse me," a voice breaks her out of her thoughts just before she reaches the front of the Mercedes garage. She halts. It’s George Russell.

She guards her expression to mask her confusion. Why is an F1 driver approaching her? "Yes?"

"Do you mind if I tag along to the tour for you and your mates?"

She fights hard to not squint at him suspiciously. "Mr. Russell—" she sees no need to pretend she doesn’t know who he is— "with all due respect, don’t you have more important things to do than follow along to a tour of your workplace?"

"Just George, please," he offers an easy smile with his polite request. "And technically, yes, I do. I’m between debriefs and simulator sessions, so I’m free to roam."

She doesn’t buy the flimsy excuse. The paddock is a hive of activity, and an F1 driver doesn’t just "roam." Her eyes flickers to the closed office door she just left, a clear accusation forming on her tongue. He sent you, didn’t he? As his spy, his proxy?

She bites the thought back, in the name of her SEVENTEEN, and reminds herself can’t afford to burn a bridge when she’s a ghost so thoroughly erased. Right now, she’s not just an unwanted reminder of the past her father had apparently buried, she’s also a shield for her thirteen brothers, and she won’t let this man—or the man who sent him—breach her defensive wall. "It’ll be in Korean."

George doesn’t let it deter him. He merely shrugs, his natural charm oozing through, "It’ll be fun."

YN is really contemplating asking if he knows her, because why else is he insisting on tagging along with a bunch of foreign strangers? He doesn’t look like he knows Kpop, much less SEVENTEEN. Alas, she isn’t mentality available to hear any of his possible answers to that, so she just sighs. "I’ll ask."

After all, as her brothers often remind her, she isn’t alone—and SEVENTEEN makes decisions together.

Before either of them can say anything else, she feels her members’ presence before they appear in her line of sight. It's a low hum of energy, a familiar, chaotic rhythm that her body instinctively relaxes into. It's the same feeling she gets just before a show starts or a song drops.

Kimi Antonelli is in front of them, looking every bit like a guide assisting a lost group, his politeness is a stark contrast to the boisterous energy that radiates from the thirteen men behind him. "Here we are," he says with a wide, polite gesture, "the Mercedes garage."

"Thank you, Ki—"

"YN!" Mingyu’s polite gratitude is effectively interrupted by Soonyoung’s unrestrained glee. The sound of her name, shouted in pure excitement, releases endorphins in her brain—dissolving the armor further hardened by her cold encounter with her father.

A smile immediately decorates her features, starting from the corners of her lips and reaching her eyes. Relief visibly spreads through her entire body, relaxing her posture from a tightness she didn’t even realize.

She excuses herself to George with a slight bow, her feet already closing the gap between her and her members. "멤버들!" ["Members!"]

"우리 Max Verstappen 만났어!" ["We met Max Verstappen!"] Her older brother excitedly reports, his voice still filled with awe, as soon as she approaches.

The pure, unadulterated joy on his face is contagious. "Max 만났어?" ["You met Max?"] She asks, her own voice full of genuine, wide-eyed wonder. "와아. 대박! 너희 사진 찍었어?" ["Woah. That’s awesome! Did you guys get a picture?"]

Jihoon hums, his usual dry humor making her smile even wider. "우리도 순영이만 같이 사진 찍게 했어." ["We also got him to pose for a photo with just Soonyoung."]

"순영이형 Max한테 호랑해 시켰어," ["Soonyoung made Max do Horanghae,"] Minghao reports, a hint of playful accusation in his voice. He grins at her, knowing she’ll get the joke.

YN laughs at that, the sound warm and genuine. The heavy weight of her father's disapproval and her own painful memories falls away, replaced by the simple thrill of her members' happiness. She’s the one who told them that Soonyoung and Max should take a picture together, because he's SEVENTEEN’s tiger and he’s F1’s lion.

For a moment, surrounded by the familiar comfort of her brothers, she feels a profound sense of peace—and utterly forgets where she is. "나 그거 좀 봐야 돼." ["I need to see that."]

Unfortunately, it’s not meant to last long, for Chan unknowingly brings her back to the reality. "저 남자가 자꾸 쳐다봐, 누나." ["That man keeps staring at you, YN."]

Her brothers’ expressions change in an instant, sharpening with a promised threat. Twelve older wolves follow the youngest’s line of sight, eyes already narrowed, before she can even comprehend.

"그 남자가 우리 YN 좋아해?" ["Does he like our YN?"] Jeonghan questions for the rest, voice dangerously low and almost conspiratorial.

YN’s sensitive ears picks up Kimi’s amusement from somewhere behind her. "They’ll eat you alive."

The air around her cackles as thirteen pairs of eyes cage George Russell.

YN can’t stop the laugh that bubbles up from deep within her, melting the tense cage of eyes into endeared looks.

George Russell joins the tour, in the end. Not because YN vouched for him, but because Kimi did. She is yet to hear how her members unanimously approved of the younger Mercedes driver and his judgement, but she has no complaints. It’s just a shame that his word landed opposite of what she was hoping for.

She could’ve vetoed it, but her curiosity about George’s endgame is a stronger force than her apprehension, so she simply lets it happen.

George doesn’t fight to be their tour guide, but he doesn’t question why she wants to be, either, instead of getting a Mercedes team member to do it. Unfortunately for him, that doesn’t help loosen up her apprehension—if anything, it just strengthens her suspicion that he does know who she is; that he’s sent to her way with a mission.

YN decides to give him a show. After all, she is a performer, and she knows how to play a part.

"Alright, 여러분." ["Alright, everybody."] She claps once, perfectly mimicking the opening of her group’s iconic set opener "Clap." It doesn’t resonate as loudly as Seungcheol’s, but it does its job. "들어가기 전에: 프라이버시 문제로 촬영은 불가하다는 점 다시 한번 말씀드립니다. Capisce?" ["Just a heads-up before we go in: filming is not allowed due to privacy concerns. Capisce?"]

"Capisco!" Her members and George reply in unison. She grins, satisfied. She’s the one who taught her members that, back when Italian was still strong on her tongue.

"Yeah! Let’s go!" Seokmin cheers, visibly—and audibly—excited. "여행 가이드 Wolff!" ["Tour guide Wolff!"]

On any other day, she wouldn't have even blinked at the sound of her own surname. Her members call her "Wolff" so often, on- and off-camera, that it's become their special nickname for her. Her representative emoji is a gray wolf, too, so even their fans—CARATs—sometimes call her "wolf," even though they don't know her birth name. She’s simply too used to the name.

Unfortunately, today is different. Today, she's at the paddock, surrounded by the past she traded away for a future in a field she loves. Today, she's carrying the heavy weight of being erased by someone she'd held onto for twelve long years.

She doesn't even notice her own flinch at the sound of her surname, but she prays it was quick enough that her members missed it.

YN decidedly nods before guiding them towards Mercedes’ F1 cars for this season, signaling the official start of her special tour. "In front of you is the W16—"

She goes to describe the car in great, easily digestible detail, in a mix of Korean and English. She continues to do the same even as she continues on with tour and guides them deeper into the Mercedes garage, often also relating things to what her members understand best. She doesn’t shy away from their—nor George’s—technical questions, either, and actually relishes them.

"Over here are the offices for the team engineers," she gestures to the closed doors around them. "We have race engineers—걔네들은 완전 지훈이랑 범주 같아! 그리고 순영오빠! They make sure all the parts are working properly, and the 최종 제품 is 무대에 오를 준비가 되었는지 확인해." ["We have race engineers—they’re like Jihoon and Bumzu! And Soonyoung! They make sure all the parts are working together properly, and the final product is ready for the stage."]

"The performance engineers are," she pauses to think of a new analogy, but comes up short, "also like 지훈오빠 and 범주오빠. They’re like songwriters—all the data를 보고 driver한테 차를 최대한 잘 쓸 수 있게 얘기해주는 거지." ["The performance engineers are also like Jihoon and Bumzu. They’re like songwriters—they look at all the data and tell the driver how to get the most out of the car."]

YN’s pride bubbles up from her stomach. The utter fascination in her members’ faces is the exact reason why she denied the tour guide Mercedes offered them. Their guide had to be her—not because she spoke Korean, but because she’s one of them.

Besides, she has been waiting to introduce them to the world she grew up in beyond the limitations of a television screen and a yearly subscription. They have immersed her into the contrivances that led them to her throughout their ten years together, and today’s simply her turn. Never mind that she discovered herself nonexistent in what she had considered her home.

"You should say your name, too, YN," Jihoon—the member who has constantly seen her post-11 AM self under neon lights for the past twelve years—pipes up, voice clear despite being in a language he’s not confident in. "You’re our engineer, too."

Heat rises up from the back of her neck to the tip of her ears. She may be used to receiving compliments in her idol life, but one from her members always weighs more than others. Especially one from Jihoon, whose affections rarely escape outside the form of a song.

"Yeah, Producer NIGHTINGALE," Joshua chimes in with a grin.

YN lets out a soundless, slightly embarrassed laugh. Her members have absolutely no idea how much their words mean to her right now, while she’s surrounded by a world that didn’t love her back.

"You flatter me," she playfully waves away their indirect compliments before flashing them a bright smile. "고마워요, but let’s go back to the tour." ["Thank you, but let’s go back to the tour."]

However, before she can continue with her descriptions of the different engineers in the team, one of the doors behind her opens. Her idol manners immediately kicks in, and she turns to greet whoever it is. "Hello!"

It’s Peter Bonnington, the very man she looked over telemetry and data with more than a decade ago. "Oh, hello! I’ve never seen you around here before."

She smiles through the pang that she felt in her chest. "Oh, no, no. I’m not from here." She quickly gestures to the group behind her, unwilling to have the mistaken belonging on her shoulders for longer than necessary. "I’m with them."

"Hello!" She hears her members greet in not-so-perfect unison. She doesn’t need to turn around to know most of them smiled politely.

Bono greets them back, returning the polite gesture. He turns his attention back to her, eyebrows slightly scrunched. "But you’re leading a tour?"

The lie spills out too easily, her voice laced with the conversational professionalism she mastered in the ten years. "My father used to work here, so I remember my way around." But, then again, is it really a lie if the father she met today isn’t the same one that drove her to the airport twelve years ago? "I just wanted to give my members a more personalized tour."

She doesn’t miss how he tried to catch a glimpse of her pass, presumably to get her name. Unfortunately for him, she intentionally wore it the wrong way around. "You must’ve been in here a lot."

She opts to give a non-answer, starting with a half-hearted chuckle. "We’ll try to keep it down, Mr. Bonnington."

YN knows she can just introduce herself. Yet, she has concluded it inappropriate. Not because she’ll be using her birth surname to validate her return, but more so because she has obviously been removed in this world for a reason. She may not know why, but she wants to try and respect that—regardless of it hurting like she has been ran over by an F1 car on a straight.

"Right, well," he takes one hesitant step away without taking his eyes off of her. She tenses under his analytical stare. "I’ll leave you kids to it, then."

She only relaxes once Bono disappears in a corner, full attention returning to the crowd curiously looking at her. For a second there, she was frightened by the thought of being recognized. "You probably recognize his 목소리. That was—" ["You probably recognize his voice. That was—"]

The Mercedes tour continues without any more surprise interruptions. Eventually, she finally leads them to a hidden corner of the garage. Its door is unassuming, perfectly blended with the surrounding walls. There’s also a trick to opening it—something that only a few people back then knew how to do.

And, by the looks of it, that still holds true to this day.

The room looks almost exactly like how she last saw it, with a singular tire at the bottom of the tire rack and a cushioned nook seat. There’s no sprinkle of dust.

"여기서 낮잠 잤었어요," ["I used to take a nap here,"] she says, her voice thick with emotion, looking at the cushioned nook. A familiar, sharp ache blooms in her chest. "Pledis 합격 통보 받았을 때, 여기 있었어." ["I was here when I received the acceptance from Pledis."]

She catches Seungcheol share a look with Junhui, and she takes it as a sign to disperse them and let them explore the room. There’s admittedly not a lot going on in the room, with it being the most uninteresting part of the garage, but—it means something to her, and she knows her brothers can appreciate that.

George slides next to her the second they disperse. For a moment, neither of them says anything. The quiet of the room weighs between them, a stark contrast to the distant rumble of the garage.

"How did you know about this place?" He asks, his voice a low, awed murmur that barely breaks the silence.

YN keeps her eyes trailed on her members, a small, sad smile playing on her lips. She doesn't look at him, but she can feel the weight of his stare. "I used to be here a lot," she replies, her voice softer now, echoing Bono's words like a ghost.

At her peripherals, she sees him turn fully to look at her. The expression on his face is a raw, unguarded look of awed confusion. It’s a look she doesn’t understand, as if her simple answer has shaken his entire perception of this place.

"I didn’t even know about this place," He says, the disbelief in his tone palpable. "And I’ve been here for years."

She finally turns to him, a hint of her old self-assurance returning in a wry smile. She shrugs, pushing back a comment about him being a terrible spy. "Now you know."

You’re a good actor, but not quite as good as me.

She walks away to join her members, the wall between them back in place.

YN almost makes it through. She just has to guide her members and George back to the front of the Mercedes garage, and give her closing remarks. She just has to fall back to her place next to her members before they address the crew for a general thank you—for their hard work, for letting them momentarily invade. She just has to do those three things.

But she doesn’t make it.

Because she made the critical error of freezing as soon as she spots the model car for the W04, Mercedes’ F1 car for the 2013 season. It's the very same model car she last saw in person, the very same one she had asked her father if she could put in the display.

It might’ve been a split-second freeze, but a split-second is enough for them who understand each other beyond words.

The corners of YN’s eyes start to burn.

"Ow!" She hears Seungkwan somewhere behind her, effectively snapping out of her trace. She’s next to him within a blink, as are the rest of their group. "I— I think . . . Too much coffee . . ."

Her personal sorrow is immediately forgotten, having been replaced with worry for a younger brother. "어디가 아파?" ["Where does it hurt?"]

She mentally goes through the paddock blueprint in her head. She needs to calculate the quickest way to the medical center. Perhaps if they—

"아이구!" ["Ugh!"] Seungkwan almost doubles over, but is saved by Wonwoo who steadies him.

"잠깐만, 승관아," ["Hold on, Seungkwan,"] Seungcheol’s leader tone is tainted with concern. "YN—"

She doesn’t wait for him to finish. "어디로 가야 할지 알아." ["I know where to go."]

"알았어—" ["Alright—"] Wonwoo takes that as his cue to lead Seungkwan out the door, with Seokmin hovering on the other side in case he needs extra support. YN follows, with Mingyu’s hand on the small of her back.

"It was wonderful meeting you, George!" Vernon calls over his shoulder. She’s glad her brother did that courtesy for her, because she certainly doesn’t feel like extending it to her father’s proxy herself.

She doesn’t look back as she guides Mingyu’s hand to hold hers instead.

SEVENTEEN doesn’t relax their protective wall around Seungkwan until they’re halfway to the Mercedes motorhome. Despite their extreme proximity barely giving them enough room to walk, their formation—unconsciously formed as it may be—never breaks.

That is, until YN tries to take a turn to the medical center . . . just for Mingyu to tug her back.

"이쪽으로 돌자," ["Let’s turn this way,"] she instructs, lightly gesturing with her head.

Her eyebrows immediately touch when her same-age brother merely lets go of her hand to put an arm around her shoulders. "아니." ["No."]

"근데 승관이—" ["But Seungkwan—"]

"—는 연기를 너무 못 해!" ["—Is terrible at acting!"] Junhui completes her sentence from the back. He sounds incredibly offended, somehow.

YN suddenly stops in her tracks, causing those behind her to stumble on their feet. No one falls, thankfully. "뭐라고?" ["What?"] Her disbelieving eyes search their faces.

Seungcheol intercepts before she can say everything else that’s on the tip of her tongue. "먼저 들어가자." ["Let’s go in first."]

She knows better than to argue with her leader.

Once Joshua finally closes the door to their assigned guest room inside the Mercedes’ motorhome, YN wastes no time. She finds Seungkwan, her gaze still edged with concern amidst her confusion. "승관아, 괜찮아?" ["Seungkwan, are you okay?"]

Seungkwan gives her a thumbs up, his smile a little sheepish. "나 괜찮아, 누나." ["I’m okay, YN."]

"그랬으면 왜—" ["Then why did you—"] She halts, thoughts racing. She thinks back to the garage, to the exact moment she heard her younger brother shout in agony— "Oh."

"‘Oh,’ indeed," Vernon echoes with a short nod.

It’s not the first time one of them feigned an illness to get out of a situation. They’re not exactly proud of it, nor the number of times they’ve resorted to it, but some situations are just too difficult to escape using different methods. Truthfully, they continue to be amazed that they’re still finding new kinds of situations they desperately need to get out of.

Had she been in the right state mind, she would’ve effortlessly seen through the act. She would’ve remembered that such dramatics are reserved for what they codenamed as ‘last resort.’ But, alas.

Her relief manifests in an audible breath. "우리 차 빌려야 할 줄 알았어." ["I thought we’d have to borrow a car."] Unfortunately, that relief also comes with weakened knees and opened tear ducts. "괜찮아서 정말 다행이에요." ["I’m really glad you’re okay."]

There’s already a crowd around her before a tear even escapes. YN’s cries intensified the more seconds passed—starting with a mere silent waterfall on her cheeks, to a loud, sobbing mess. She clings to the closest member—Joshua, judging by his perfume and built—and buries her face.

"미안해." ["I’m sorry."] She apologizes hoarsely, voice breaking with every syllable, overwhelmed with emotion. "I ruined—" her words slips in English, suddenly too emotional to translate them into Korean— "I can’t—"

As always, her brothers understand before she even expresses herself correctly. "괜찮아, YN아, 영어로 말해도 돼. 우리가 이해하려고 노력할게." ["It’s okay, YN, you can talk in English. We’ll try to understand."]

And, right now, that’s all YN needs.

When the program Seventeen TV welcomed its sole female trainee during its third season, her brothers gained a sister who would one day teach them the quiet tragedy of a man’s loss.

She joined them with no Korean they could understand, but they understood her heart all the same. They saw the fire they all had, burning bright and glowing hot. They understood that her passion wasn’t just a dream; it was a lifeline. It was a purpose that gave her strength, a drive that gave her a future, and a dedication that gave her a new life.

Her words might’ve been foreign and broken, but her actions bared her heart—and that was enough.

She was their sister, their YN, from there on out.

YN introduced them to the fast and furious world of Formula One. With table napkins and nearly ink-less pens, she drew them into the horrifying wonders of high-speed corners and the bewildering ballet of strategy. Soon, she hooked them with the blurred colors of dangerous speed, and before they knew it, they were eleven teams and a thousand questions deep. Practices didn’t just end with replays of their final take; they ended with replays of races they were too busy to watch on time. Their performances weren't just powered by sheer energy and passion, but by the lingering thrill of high-speed chases and team rivalries as well. Formula One gave them a drive on nights when all else failed.

While YN introduced them to the vast and open ocean of Formula One, her personal life remained a quiet island they could not reach. The only map they had was an ‘all about me’ worksheet meant for grade schoolers, a single page full of conversation starters that never did.

They learned every detail of her talents, from the formal lessons that taught her piano, guitar, and violin to the raw, self-taught passion behind her every dance. They knew her favorite pieces to play and which choreography was her favorite to perform. They had heard her offer elaborate explanations for her chosen lyrics and composers, yet they had never once heard her utter her father’s name. They knew the names of her favorite fictional characters, the titles of songs that made her cry, and which movie she had seen a thousand times, but they did not know the name of her favorite person in the world: her Papa.

Over time, the surface of her quiet island became charted territory, but the secrets beneath it remained a mystery. Her heart, once a closed off cove, began to open its shores only after their debut. The secrets she carried were not hidden behind grand, fortified walls, but would slowly surface with the rising tide of their trust.

For a long while, the word "Papa" only existed on the ‘all about me’ worksheet she had to fill out during their trainee days—right next to My favorite person is.

Then, there was the "My Papa would’ve liked this" after she had the taste of the Korean dish they made her try during their strictly timed breaks. Back then, it held no real weight, but they agreed it must’ve been a compliment, based on how she went for seconds.

Next was her nonchalant "I used to do this a lot with my Papa" as she expertly loosened lug nuts, her movements quick and precise, the afternoon one of their group vans suddenly needed a tire change on their way back from a television program. Their driver/manager then didn’t know how to do it himself, and she was already on it before he could call for assistance. She didn’t elaborate, even when she said the same thing on a separate morning when their van broke down on their way to a schedule, and she correctly identified the issue after taking a short good look under the hood.

Their curiosity almost overflowed that day, with their own knowledge of cars limited. Thanks to Wonwoo’s cheers ("우리 YN이 가는 것 좀 봐!" ["Look at our YN go!"]), they were able to start building sandcastles on her island’s shore. For her equally nonchalant "별거 아니에요" ["It’s not a big deal"] told them everything they needed then.

The sandcastles of their assumptions were built from those nonchalant, unelaborated statements. The best they could do, given the very limited information, was assume that YN was very close with her father and that he had probably passed before she moved to Seoul. It made sense, consistent with her unwillingness to share anything else. They didn’t want to push through her tides, with the uncertainty of death, so they just let the waves take them adrift.

However, that sandcastle was ransacked by a powerful wave almost a year into their debut. They had just gotten their first music show win for "Pretty U" in Show Champion. Their emotions were high—they had cried on stage, on camera. They were on calls with their parents almost as soon as they were able. Even Joshua’s mother in Los Angeles and Minghao’s parents in Anshan celebrated with them through a video call. Thirteen calls, fourteen members—and YN just shrugged off their expectant looks with, "My Papa hasn’t attended any of my music-related activities since I was ten years old," before asking them if they were up for watching the replay of the F1 race last weekend to celebrate.

Mercedes got a 1-2 in that race, with Nico Rosberg ahead of Lewis Hamilton. They only remember that factoid because YN’s reaction to the win mirrored her reaction to their own. (That, and because Jihoon broke off of the Red Bull Alliance™ with Seungcheol to pledge his loyalty to Mercedes.)

It was difficult to warp their heads around the new information they heard about her Papa. How could he and YN be so close, but he stopped attending something important to her a whole five years before she became a trainee? Is he really dead like they’ve been assuming?

The half-formed new sandcastle crumbled when Chan innocently asked, awestruck, "Mercedes가 네 Papa 팀이야?" ["Is Mercedes your Papa’s team?"]

". . . 네." [". . . Yes."]

It didn’t disprove the strengthened ‘death’ theory, but it did give them a new angle to ponder. Suddenly, her western surname felt heavier than a mere coincidence. Suddenly, her choice to keep it hidden felt heavier than a mere plea for privacy. Suddenly, her body language whenever Mercedes’ Team Principal appeared on screen felt heavier than they ever noticed before.

Suddenly, the new sandcastle was a walled fortress caging a thought: What if YN Wolff is actually Toto Wolff’s daughter?

They collectively hated that thought. Because it’d mean something they couldn’t help her with; something that they couldn’t even begin to understand.

Time helped them to be fluent in silence with each other. Along with that silence came a quiet recognition of the pain and sadness that subtly manifested in YN’s every move, and a growing comfort in knowing their presence hopefully offered enough.

When their managing staff gathered them for a meeting about an offer from Formula One, they were equally ecstatic and skeptical. While it was an honor to be recognized by the very sport that played such a big part in their lives, they were also collectively concerned about how YN would take the offer.

"네 생각은 어때, YN아?" ["What do you think, YN?"] Joshua had innocently asked then, after he sharing a subtle look with the others within his line of sight without moving his head.

It was only appropriate. After all, she was the one who introduced them to the sport. It would be uncontestedly more important to her than it’d ever be for them. "내 생각에 . . . 우리 그 제안을 받아들이는 게 좋을 것 같아." ["I think . . . We should accept the offer."]

"정말 좋은 기회라고 생각해," ["It is a good opportunity,"] Minghao supported slowly, his voice almost dipping, Is that what you really want?

"우리 기념일에 좋을 것 같아." ["It’ll be great for our anniversary."] Yes.

They didn’t contest. They couldn’t. Their concern might’ve been a lingering whisper in their minds, but the sheer, unfamiliar light on her eyes was a resounding promise they had to keep. They supported the choice because it was hers to make.

The members' months were a blur of Caratland, a comeback, and a dozen other packed schedules. YN's anticipation, however, was a steady, quiet beacon they learned to read. They didn’t need her to mention the upcoming schedule; they were fluent in her subtle cues. They saw her joy in the ghost of a smile that seemed to etch itself at the corner of her mouth, in the extra spring in her steps, and in the way she needed less of her usual creative fuel to keep her focused during long nights in the studio.

Up until they saw her with George Russell by the entrance of the Mercedes garage, they had been convinced they made the right choice.

Then they saw her flinch at her own surname, caught her lying to her favorite driver's old race engineer, heard her voice break while talking about her Pledis audition, and witnessed her freeze in front of the car models. (Not to mention her forgetting about their years old ‘last resort’ and believing Seungkwan’s poor execution.)

They didn’t have time to confer, but their shared conclusion was immediate. The team YN loves with her whole heart—Mercedes—is the heart of her pain.

And now, YN’s crying in Joshua’s arms like she hasn’t cried for twelve years.

It’s supposed to be an inside joke between them and CARATs that she has thirteen useless brothers, but in this moment, those words have never felt truer.

The feeling of helplessness is brief, however, because the group’s response is a swift and practiced choreography. Only Minghao and Seungkwan remain, a quiet barrier against the rest of the world as YN leans into Joshua. The others splitup, each with an unspoken purpose: Junhui, Seokmin, and Mingyu go to find something for her to eat; Jihoon and Vernon, in a bittersweet effort to bring her comfort, go to get the Red Bull she drinks like water; and Soonyoung and Chan go to fetch her actual water.

This leaves Seungcheol, Jeonghan, and Wonwoo to do what they do best. This is a crisis, and it is time to strategize.

"우리 여기 오지 말았어야 했어." ["We shouldn’t have come here."] Wonwoo’s observation perfectly encapsulates the unspoken consensus. His voice is a soft whisper, yet firmly absolute.

Jeonghan, who hasn’t found the strength to look away from YN’s shaking form, rebuts with a fact they’ve forgotten as soon as her tears started flowing. "근데 걔 너무 기대했었어." ["But she was so excited to go."] His voice, too, is heavy with the same sadness as the younger one. "걔가 하고 싶었던 거야." ["It’s what she wanted."]

Seungcheol’s shoulders are heavy with self-inflicted blame. As their general leader, and her unit leader, he feels the full weight of their decision. "그리고 우리 더 잘 알았어야 했어. 우리 그랬어야 했는데 . . ." ["And we should’ve known better. We should’ve . . ."]

"아니." ["No."] Wonwoo doesn’t let the eldest continue. He acts as a voice of reason, leaving little room for argument. "그럴 수 없었어. 그때는 그냥 추측뿐이었잖아." ["We couldn’t have. All we had then were assumptions."]

Seungcheol shakes his head, his face an indescribable mix of frustration and sorrow. "봐, 결국 이렇게 됐잖아. 우리 YN만 더 힘들어졌어. 지금 너무 슬퍼하고 있어. ["Yeah, and look where they landed us. Our YN’s worse off. She’s mourning."]

The word mourning hangs in the air, a vacuum of silence. Across the room, Seungkwan and Minghao halt their efforts to soothe YN, their hands freezing in mid-air. They both look at Seungcheol, but say nothing; they, as Jeonghan and Wonwoo, know he’s right.

This isn’t the first time they’ve witnessed YN cry, but it is the first time they have heard her wail—a raw, gut-wrenching sound that tore from her very soul. It was a grief so complete, so all-consuming, that mourning was the only word that could describe it.

No one can blame the other seven who thought of ways to leave the room in a fragile hope of alleviating her sorrow.

"그녀가 여기까지 온 데에는 이유가 있었어요." ["There was a reason she came here."] Jeonghan is the first to break the latest wave of silence. His eyes, still fixed on YN, are glossy—not with tears, but with memories the rest can’t see. He swallows, a quiet effort, before adding, "어 . . . 뭔지는 모르겠는데, 걔는 여기에 와야 했어." ["I . . . I don’t know what it is, but she needed to be here."]

YN’s eyes are swollen and bloodshot by the time half of SEVENTEEN comes back with the physical offerings of their fragile hope.

On the floor of their borrowed room, a modest feast is laid out just for her. There are apparently no foldable tables in the Mercedes motorhome, and she refuses to move from her post-cry state.

She sniffles into her newly cooked ramyeon, the steam a poor comfort against the remnants of her heartbreak. With the blanket pulled tight around her shoulders, she looks feverishly sick, a poster-child for a pain that has nothing to do with a fever.

On any other day, this scene would have been material for a photo, a joke, a birthday post. But her current state was too far from amusing, her stillness too heavy with what she carried.

This isn’t stress, and it isn’t something a few days off can fix.

She has lost a love, and she needs to mourn it.

They cannot fix a loss so fundamentally irreversible, but they can be her home while she navigates it—no matter how long it takes.

YN chews the ramyeon with a faraway look in her eyes, her movements mimicking a machine running on autopilot low on oil. Her voice, light and hoarse, ripples through the weighted silence. "He erased me."

The acceptance in her voice is jarring, as if she has finally surrendered to a fight she had been fighting alone for years. Her resignation needs no translation.

There is no question in their minds who she’s talking about. After all, after the thirteen of them, there is only one "he" they associated with her. Her Papa.

Her Papa who has enough power and influence to never lose touch—and chose to erase her instead.

All twelve members look at Seungcheol, a wordless understanding passing through their gazes. His blink serves as a discreet nod. "갈래?" ["Do you want to leave?"]

YN’s mechanical movements abruptly shudder to a stop. She doesn't flinch, but her gaze, which had been lost in some distant, private world, snaps back to focus on Seungcheol. The gears in her mind slowly begin to turn, and her response, when it comes, is not quick. "못 가—" ["We can’t—"]

That was the beginning.

The days that followed passed like a slow suffocation. The walls of your new chambers were made of dark stone and darker silences. The servants bowed, but they spoke in hushed tones when you entered. The courtiers smiled with pity you refused to acknowledge. And your husband, your prince, spoke to you less than anyone else.

You would hear his boots in the hall, the low murmur of his voice as he dismissed guards or issued orders. But when he crossed the threshold into your shared spaces, he barely looked at you. He dined without speaking, drank wine until his tongue loosened for others, but not for you. His gaze remained distant, drifting past you, seeing everything but you.

He did not touch you. Not in anger, nor affection. Not even to claim what had been handed to him in marriage. And in a way, that hurt more than any cruelty ever could. Because indifference is its own kind of violence.

You stopped hoping for more after the first fortnight. You stopped dressing to please him. You stopped waiting for him to ask questions about your past, your interests, your favorite poems or perfumes. He did not care. And so you buried the girl who cared beneath layers of courtesy, compliance, and quiet. You learned to live beside a man who wished you were someone else.

The days turned into weeks. You slept alone, even in the same bed. He came and went as he pleased, always shrouded in armor or irritation. The only thing that seemed to spark any emotion in him was a blade, or his dragon, or Viserys’s ever-disappointing council meetings. You became part of the furniture. A shadow in his household. A silent woman in a home filled with echoes.

And then you began to bleed. Not the kind that came with moons, but something darker. Heavier. Something that made your limbs tremble and your head swim. You collapsed once in the corridor, and the maesters rushed to your side with furrowed brows and worried murmurs. They examined, they prodded, they whispered behind closed doors. When you asked for the truth, their voices softened with grief.

Your body was dying. Some sickness in the blood. Something slow, merciless, and beyond their skill to cure.

You kept it to yourself.

You had already grown used to the idea of not being loved. You could grow used to the idea of not being alive.

It wasn’t until the second collapse, in front of a noble visiting from Oldtown, that Daemon noticed something was wrong. You had tried to excuse yourself, to stand, to hide the trembling in your hands, but your legs gave out and the world tilted sharply. And suddenly he was there, catching you before you hit the stone. His arms were stronger than you expected, rough where yours were delicate, and he held you for a moment too long. Long enough for your breath to catch, long enough for his to slow.

He carried you to your chambers without a word.

After that day, something changed. Not immediately. He still vanished for hours. Still spoke little. But sometimes you would look up from your books and find him watching you from across the room, his expression unreadable. Other times he would brush your fingers with his as he passed you a cup, and though it might have seemed accidental, you knew it was not. He began to sit with you at meals instead of eating in the solar. He would speak, just a few words at first, asking after your noon activities or the book in your lap. But his voice no longer sounded like steel. It sounded curious. Careful.

He asked you once if you feared dying. You were lying in the garden, the sun warm on your face, the scent of lemons in the air, and his voice broke the silence like a knife in water.

“No,” you answered softly, eyes on the sky. “But I fear never having lived.”

He did not reply for a long while. Then he lay beside you on the grass, so close your fingers nearly touched.

“I hated you,” he said. “At first. Because you were a cage. Another chain Viserys wrapped around my throat.”

“I know,” you whispered.

“But you are not a chain. You are the only thing in this castle that does not suffocate me.”

The breeze carried your breath away before you could find words.

After that, he stopped pretending not to care.

He brought you wildflowers. He sat with you by the fire and told you stories of Dragonstone’s past. He ran his fingers through your hair when you could no longer braid it yourself. He kissed you for the first time in the courtyard after the rain, your cheeks wet and your lungs tight, and it felt like something desperate, something he had been holding back for too long.

You let yourself hope. You let yourself believe.

And for a little while, you were not just Daemon Targaryen’s wife. You were the woman he wanted. The woman he held when sleep eluded him. The woman he murmured to in the dark.

He touched you like he was afraid you would vanish. He kissed you like he needed to remember the shape of your mouth. He held you close enough that the sickness almost seemed to retreat. Almost.

But the gods are cruel.

They are especially cruel to Targaryens, those born of fire and blood, who walk closer to heaven and madness than any mortal should. They are not meant for peace. Not meant for joy. And so they gave him you, and then they took you away.

You were lying together in the garden that evening.

It was unusually warm for that time of year. The skies had taken on a golden hue, and the sea wind had softened to a gentle hum. The servants had laid out furs beneath the blooming lemon trees, and you had sunk into them like something boneless, your head resting against Daemon’s thigh. His fingers carded through your hair, unhurried, almost absentminded, like he still could not quite believe you allowed it. Or maybe that he allowed himself to do it.

He had been telling you about a boyhood hunt on Dragonstone, his voice rough with smoke and memory. You only listened half-heartedly, too content, too tired, tracing invisible circles on the back of his hand where it lay across your stomach.

You did not feel it at first. Just a tickle in your throat.

Then the taste.

Salt. Metal.

You sat up, one slow motion at a time, blinking. You wanted to say his name, but something rose up too fast from your lungs, hot and choking.

Daemon’s brows furrowed. “What is it?”

Your eyes widened. Your lips parted.

The blood came quickly.

A hot rush flooded your mouth, spilling between your teeth before you could cover it. You turned your head, gasping, but it was already pouring down your chin, staining your gown, the furs, your fingers. You tried to speak but only coughed violently, red splattering across your lap like spilled ink.

He stared at you for one stunned moment. Then everything changed.

“Someone fetch the maesters!” he roared, already gathering you in his arms, your body limp and shivering. “Now!”

You tried to breathe, but each inhale came shorter, sharper, as though your lungs had been turned inside out. Blood bubbled at the corners of your lips. You could feel it dribble down your neck, thick and wet and warm. He pressed his hand against your back, tried to lift you upright, to help you breathe.

You could hear him saying your name.

Again and again.

Frightened. Furious.

“Look at me,” he commanded, voice cracking. “You are fine. Do you hear me? You are fine. Look at me. Look at me, godsdammit.”

But your gaze had already gone glassy. You blinked, slow and languid. The pain in your chest twisted, then dulled, as if the world had been plunged into water. His face swam in front of you. You tried to lift your hand to his cheek, but it slipped down your side, useless.

He held you tighter. His eyes were wild. His mouth moved around prayers he did not believe in.

You coughed again, a terrible, gurgling sound, thick with blood, like a dying animal with its throat cut. The taste of it drowned your tongue. You could not speak. Could not ask him not to cry. Could not tell him that you had known, that you had made peace with it long ago.

Your fingers twitched once. Then stilled.

And just like that, you were gone.

Daemon did not realize it at first. He kept shaking you, calling your name like a man possessed, his voice rising and breaking and turning into something hoarse and broken. He clutched you close, the blood soaking into his clothes, his hands stained crimson.

By the time the maesters arrived, he was on his knees, cradling your body in his arms, rocking it gently, like a father might soothe a sleeping child.

He did not look up.

Not even when they touched his shoulder. Not even when they spoke his name.

He stayed there long after your skin cooled, until the stars came out, and the fireflies buzzed low to the ground, and the entire world felt insultingly unchanged.

His face was wet, though no one ever saw him weep.

He had told you once that he hated cages. That he hated being chained.

But in the end, it was your death that bound him tighter than any crown, any throne, any war.

He had waited too long to love you.

And now there was no time left.

They say Targaryens are closer to gods than to men.

But the gods, in their jealousy, curse them all the same.

————

They dressed you in white.

He had not asked for it, but the servants must have known. Or perhaps they feared what he would do if it wasn’t done right. There were things one didn’t risk with Daemon Targaryen — especially not when his wrath was being held together by a single, fraying thread.

The room where your body lay was filled with flowers. Lilies and hyacinth. Roses from the gardens you loved. Someone had braided your hair with little sprigs of jasmine. He had not touched you since the blood dried. Could not bring himself to clean it from his hands.

He wore it still. Under his nails. In the lines of his palms. A mark he would not wash away.

He had not spoken since that night. Not properly. His brother had written. So had Rhaenyra. He burned both letters unopened.

There was a silence in the castle now. Not the peaceful kind. The kind that crept like smoke through the stones, heavy with waiting. The servants did not look him in the eye. The guards stood stiff at their posts. Even Caraxes kept his distance, pacing restlessly in the pits.

Daemon spent his days in the solar. The room you loved. The one you filled with books and candles and things he used to mock you for, once upon a time. He sat in your chair, legs spread, arms limp at his sides, as if the effort of holding himself upright was just too much.

That was where he found the letter.

Not tucked away. Not hidden in some secret compartment. But right there. On the desk. Beneath the paperweight he had once seen you use.

It was sealed with wax. Pressed with your signet. His name written in your hand.

He stared at it for a long time.

Then he opened it.

Your writing was softer than he remembered. You must have been trembling when you wrote it. The ink in places looked smudged, as if your fingers had dragged over the lines before they dried.

Daemon,

If you are reading this, then I am gone. And you are furious.

Please do not shatter the solar. Or fly to Oldtown and burn the Citadel. Or kill anyone. I know you. I know your fury. And if I could stay, I would have. If I could give you more time, I would have stolen it from the gods themselves.

But I knew. For months, I knew. I felt it in my bones, in my blood. The maesters confirmed it, though they dressed it in kinder words. I chose not to tell you. Not because I wanted to lie. But because, for the first time since our wedding, you began to look at me like I mattered. And I could not bear to take that from myself. From you.

You hated me when we wed. You never pretended otherwise. I had made peace with that. I had made peace with dying alone, unloved. But then you changed. Or maybe I did. And we met each other somewhere in the middle, where the silence broke and your hands finally stopped trembling when they held mine.

It was enough, Daemon. It was everything.

You gave me laughter in my final days. You gave me the warmth of being seen. Touched. Held. I did not want our love to be shaped by grief. I did not want to spend what little time I had watching you fall apart.

So I let myself have you, just as you let yourself have me. And that is how I want you to remember it. Not as a tragedy. But as a mercy the gods rarely give our kind.

You were never a cage to me. You were freedom.

Please remember that.

Yours,

Always,

Your Wife

Daemon did not move for a long time after reading it.

The air in the solar turned thick. The candle flames bent in the wind.

He read the letter again. And again. And again. As if somewhere in the repetition, the truth might change.

But it didn’t.

You had known.

All that time. You had known.

You had lain in his arms, smiled at him, let him whisper promises into your hair, knowing you would never live to see them kept.

He crushed the letter in his fist. Rose from the chair. For a moment it seemed like he might upend the entire desk, splinter it into a thousand pieces, tear the books from their shelves and set them alight.

But he didn’t.

He only turned toward your empty chair.

And knelt.

He pressed his forehead to the place where you always rested your hands. The wood was worn there. He remembered once watching you tap your fingers against it while reading. He had mocked you for it. You had smiled.

Now, he would have given anything to hear that sound again.

“You should have told me,” he said softly. It came out cracked. Barely a whisper. “You should have told me.”

The grief settled into his bones, not like fire, but like frost. Cold and slow and permanent.

You had not died in his arms like a queen, soft and serene. You had choked on your own blood like something hunted. And he had not even known why.

He thought he hated you once.