Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The cursor blinked against the stark white of my laptop screen, mocking me. Three days of staring at the same aerodynamic models, the same data streams, the same suffocating certainty that I was wasting my potential at Ferrari. My coffee had gone cold hours ago, leaving a bitter film on my tongue that matched the taste of my growing frustration.

I pushed back from my desk, auburn hair escaping from what had once been a neat ponytail. The flat felt smaller somehow, cramped with the weight of a decision I'd been circling for weeks. Mercedes data filled my screen—not stolen, nothing so dramatic—but publicly available wind tunnel reports that told a clear story: their rear wing philosophy was fundamentally flawed, and I could fix it..

My phone sat beside my keyboard like a loaded gun.

James Allison's business card peeked out from beneath a stack of technical papers, its edges worn from the number of times I'd picked it up and set it down again. Our conversation at the engineering conference last month had been casual, professional. But when he'd mentioned Mercedes' struggles with their aerodynamic package, I'd seen something flicker in his eyes. Interest. Maybe even desperation.

"You have a different way of thinking about airflow," he'd said, nursing his whiskey while the conference dinner chattered around us. "If you ever want to discuss it further..."

Now, staring at my reflection in the black screen of my laptop, I knew I was about to burn every bridge I'd carefully built at Ferrari. The security, the predictability, the comfortable certainty of being undervalued but employed—all of it would disappear the moment I made this call.

My hands trembled as I picked up the phone.

"James, it's Sloane." My voice sounded steadier than I felt. "I've been thinking about our conversation."

The next day blurred past in a haze of preparation that bordered on obsession. I refined my presentation until every slide could withstand surgical scrutiny, rehearsed my pitch until the words felt like muscle memory. The aerodynamic models I'd developed weren't just theoretical anymore—they were weapons, carefully crafted to dismantle every assumption Mercedes had made about their current package.

My reflection stared back from my laptop screen during a break, and I barely recognized the woman looking back. When had I become someone willing to gamble everything on six slides and a theory? When had playing it safe stopped being enough?

The interview outfit hung on my closet door like a challenge. Professional but not submissive. Confident without crossing into arrogance. I'd checked my laptop battery twice, backed up my files to three different drives, and still felt like I was forgetting something crucial.

Sleep came in fragments, interrupted by dreams of wind tunnels and data streams, of Toto Wolff's reputation preceding him like a storm front. What if I was wrong about their problems? What if he saw right through the careful confidence I'd constructed around my desperation to prove myself?

By morning, my nerves had crystallized into something sharper, more focused. Fear and excitement tasted identical on my tongue.

The Mercedes facility at Brackley rose before me like a testament to meticulous engineering, its sleek lines and glass surfaces mirroring the gray sky above. I adjusted my ponytail one final time, checked my reflection in the glass doors, and forced my breathing to steady. My hands felt solid, reliable, but my pulse hammered against my throat like it was trying to escape.

The corridors inside hummed with barely contained energy, photos of championship victories lining the walls like battle standards. Each image seemed to whisper the same question: what made me think I belonged here?

Conference Room B appeared at the end of a hallway that felt longer than it had any right to be. The air itself seemed charged, like standing at the edge of a cliff with the wind picking up behind you. I knocked once, heard a voice call out, and stepped into my future.

Toto Wolff was taller than I'd expected, his presence filling the room before he'd even spoken. Tension lived in the set of his shoulders, the careful way he moved, like a man carrying the weight of an entire team's expectations. When he looked at me, I felt catalogued, assessed, measured against some internal standard I couldn't see.

"Mr. Wolff." I extended my hand, making sure my grip was firm enough to establish credibility without crossing into aggression. "Thank you for meeting with me."

"Call me Toto." His handshake was brief, professional, but I caught something in his eyes—curiosity wrestling with skepticism. He was desperate enough to hear anyone out, even a Ferrari aerodynamicist with more theories than experience.

We settled into chairs across from each other, the conference table between us feeling like neutral territory in a war neither of us had declared yet.

"James tells me you've identified the flaw in our aerodynamics." His voice carried the kind of authority that made people stop talking when he entered a room, measured and deliberate.

I smiled, feeling the first spark of confidence since I'd walked through the door. "Ferrari taught me to recognize vulnerable underbellies. Even ones disguised with black paint."

Something shifted in his expression—approval, maybe, or at least acknowledgment that I wasn't going to waste his time with pleasantries.

"And yet you're willing to leave them for us." He leaned back slightly, studying me with the intensity of someone who'd built a career on reading people. "I find that intriguing. Most people run toward success, not away from it."

The question hung in the air like a challenge. I could feel him probing, testing whether my motivations aligned with his needs or if I was just another opportunist looking for a better deal.

"I prefer challenges to accolades." The words came out steadier than I felt. "And right now, Mercedes is the more interesting puzzle."

It was a careful deflection, skirting the real reasons I had to leave Ferrari—the ideas dismissed, the potential wasted, the slow suffocation of being undervalued. But Toto Wolff struck me as the kind of man who saw through convenient half-truths, who appreciated honesty even when it came wrapped in diplomatic language.

"I admire your confidence." His tone carried a warning wrapped in silk. "Though I’ve learned that overconfidence is often the earliest sign of failure."

Heat flashed through me—not anger, but something sharper, more focused. "And I've found that doubt is the luxury of those who've never had to prove themselves. I don't have that luxury."

"Touché."

The single word carried more weight than a paragraph of praise. I'd scored a point, earned a measure of respect from someone who didn't distribute it freely. Finally, someone who appreciated intellectual sparring instead of viewing it as a threat.

"Show me what you've got."

I turned my laptop toward him, and the nervousness that had been building all morning crystallized into pure focus. This was my domain, where doubt disappeared and expertise took over.

"Your current rear wing is operating on an outdated principle." I clicked through to my first slide, watching his expression shift from polite interest to actual attention. "You're treating air as an obstacle rather than a partner."

He leaned closer, close enough that I caught the subtle scent of his cologne—something expensive and understated that matched the careful precision of everything else about him. His focus was absolute, the kind of concentration that made you feel like the only person in the room.

"The standard belief is that the goal is to glide through the air with minimal resistance," I continued, pulling up the comparative models. "But air wants to flow. If you work with its natural tendencies instead of against them..."

I watched skepticism transform into engagement, saw the moment when theoretical possibility became practical interest. This was where I shined, where years of study and instinct converged into something that felt like magic.

"You strike me as someone who’s constantly adapting."

The observation caught me off guard. I felt the conversation shifting into dangerous territory, away from the safe ground of technical expertise.

"When necessary."

"And what made it necessary to leave Ferrari?"

The question I'd been dreading, wrapped in casual curiosity that didn't fool either of us. I deflected with professional euphemisms, unwilling to reveal the truth about feeling invisible, about watching my ideas disappear into committee meetings and corporate politics.

"Creative differences. Philosophical disagreements about innovation versus tradition."

He nodded as if he understood the language of diplomatic resignation, the careful way people talked around uncomfortable truths in professional settings.

"Nothing usual about you, Ms. Kingsley."

Heat flushed my cheeks before I could stop it, the compliment landing somewhere deeper than professional appreciation. When had anyone called me unusual and made it sound like praise?

"I'll take that as a compliment."

"As intended."

"I can bring it back to life." I leaned forward, feeling the momentum shift in my favor. "Give me access to your wind tunnel, your fabrication team, and six weeks."

"Six weeks to rewrite our season?"

"Six weeks to give you options."

I could see him calculating, weighing risk against potential reward. This was the moment where theory met reality, where my confidence would either pay off or destroy me.

"At Ferrari, I spent more time explaining why my ideas were worth pursuing than actually pursuing them." The admission slipped out before I could stop it, revealing more frustration than I'd intended. "I need to work somewhere that values solutions over politics."

Something flickered in his expression—understanding, maybe, or recognition of a familiar struggle. He struck me as someone who'd fought similar battles, who understood the need for intellectual freedom.

"You have six weeks to prove your theory. James will get you everything you need."

The words hit me like a physical force, relief and terror arriving in equal measure. I'd gotten exactly what I'd come for, but the reality of it felt overwhelming.

"You won't regret it."

"Bold claim." His smile was slight, controlled. "I make it a policy not to have regrets, regardless of outcomes."

"That sounds like perfectionism hiding behind pragmatism."

The observation earned me another look of approval, as if I'd passed some test I hadn't known I was taking. We stood simultaneously, the meeting drawing to its natural conclusion, but something electric lingered in the air between us.

Our handshake lasted a beat longer than strictly professional, his grip firm and warm, and I felt something I hadn't expected—a connection that bypassed logic entirely.

"Toto?" I paused at the door, gratitude mixing with something more complicated. "Thank you for taking the risk."

I walked out of that conference room on unsteady legs, adrenaline flooding my system with the high-octane hum of a finished qualifying lap. The corridor felt different now, less intimidating and more like a path toward something I couldn't yet name.

In my car, I replayed the meeting... but the moment that burned brightest wasn't the offer. It was the weight of his stare, the unexpected warmth of his hand. I gripped the steering wheel, a strange, unsettling energy tingling under my skin that had nothing to do with aerodynamics and everything to do with the man who listened like I was the only person in the room.

Toto Wolff was nothing like I'd expected. Dangerous in ways I hadn't prepared for, intelligent in ways that made me want to keep talking long after the meeting should have ended. The way he'd listened, really listened, to my ideas instead of just waiting for his turn to speak. The way he'd challenged me without dismissing me, pushed back without shutting down.

Six weeks to prove myself, but something told me the aerodynamics would be the least complicated part of what I'd just signed up for. I'd gotten exactly what I came for, but somehow felt like I'd agreed to much more than I'd bargained for.

The drive back to my apartment passed in a blur of replayed conversations and racing thoughts. I'd burned my bridges at Ferrari, gambled everything on a theory and a handshake, and walked away feeling more alive than I had in months.

Whatever happened next, at least it wouldn't be boring.

Chapter Text

The world had shrunk to the nineteen-inch square of my primary monitor. Outside its glowing borders, the hum of the Mercedes factory was a distant, planetary drone. Inside, there was only the elegant, chaotic dance of airflow simulations, streams of virtual colour washing over a ghost-like chassis. The air itself, my chosen medium, tasted of carbon fibre, ozone, and the faint, metallic scent of ambition.

I was so deep in the data streams that a sudden sound—the distinct, deliberate tread of expensive shoes on the grated steel floor behind me—felt like a physical intrusion.

It wasn't the shuffling gait of a tired technician or the hurried footsteps of an engineer. This was measured, purposeful. Someone was approaching with intent. I didn't look up, my fingers still flying across the keyboard, a flare of annoyance pricking at my focus.

"How's the first day going?"

Toto Wolff's voice was pitched low, a calm current in the river of noise. It was closer than I expected, close enough that I could feel the subtle shift in air pressure as he moved. I stopped typing but kept my eyes locked on the screen, letting the silence stretch for a heartbeat longer than was strictly polite.

I finally swiveled in my chair. "Honestly? Your wind tunnel data is even worse than I thought."

The words hung in the air, a gamble laid bare on the table between us. I braced myself for the predictable reaction: a flash of defensive anger, a curt dismissal, the corporate mask sliding into place. Instead, I watched a flicker of something else cross his face—surprise, maybe, that quickly settled into sharp, undiluted interest. He didn't rise to the bait or challenge the audacity. He just nodded slowly, accepting my blunt assessment as a statement of fact.

"Elaborate," he said.

He leaned in, resting one hand on the back of my chair, and my awareness of him sharpened into a pinpoint. I caught the scent of his cologne again, subtle and clean, a stark contrast to the industrial smells of the factory floor. He was close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating from him, a quiet energy that seemed to bend the space around him. My screen illuminated the sharp planes of his face, his focus absolute as he stared at the swirling patterns of my simulation.

"You're fighting a war on too many fronts," I explained, forcing my voice to remain steady. "Your front wing is generating unstable vortices that the bargeboards are failing to clean up, which means you're feeding the floor with turbulent, inefficient air. By the time that chaotic mess reaches the rear wing, you're just trying to salvage downforce instead of creating it. You're playing defense with the laws of physics."

He was silent for a long moment, his gaze tracing the lines of code and the flow diagrams. "And what's your solution, Ms. Kingsley? A complete teardown six weeks before the summer break?"

"A complete teardown is exactly what you need," I said, a thrill running through me. This was it. The intellectual sparring I'd craved. "But you start here." I pointed to a specific data point on a secondary screen. "The attachment point on the rear wing endplate. It's creating a micro-vortex that's detaching the flow from the mainplane at high yaw angles. It's a tiny flaw, but it's poisoning everything downstream. Fix that, and half your other problems become more manageable."

He straightened up, his eyes never leaving the screen. "James said you had a different way of thinking." He finally looked at me, and his gaze was so direct it felt like a physical touch. "How can I help?"

The question caught me off guard. At Ferrari, I'd have to write a ten-page proposal and book three meetings just to get a senior engineer to glance at a new idea. "I need access to the fabrication lab," I said, regaining my footing. "And I need your best rapid-prototyping tech to ignore every other project for the next forty-eight hours."

"Done," he said, without a moment's hesitation. He pulled out his phone, typed a brisk message, and slid it back into his pocket. The entire transaction took less than ten seconds. The sheer, frictionless efficiency of it was intoxicating.

I let out a short, incredulous breath. "That's it? I have to be honest, I was expecting more of a debate, especially given your reputation for being intimidating."

A small smile played on his lips. He leaned forward slightly, his eyes holding a spark of amused challenge. "Am I intimidating you now, Sloane?"

The use of my first name was a deliberate, subtle shift in the dynamic. A test. My heart gave a little kick against my ribs. "Should you be?"

He laughed. It wasn't a corporate, polite chuckle; it was a genuine, unguarded laugh that transformed his entire face, erasing the lines of tension around his eyes. It was the most surprising sound I'd heard all day.

"I like your confidence," he said, the warmth of the laugh still in his voice. "But be prepared—confidence like yours can get you into trouble."

"And what kind of trouble would that be?" I challenged, feeling a rush of exhilaration.

He held my gaze, the smile fading into something more contemplative. "The kind you can't fix with an equation." He gave a final, decisive nod. "Keep me updated, Kingsley."

He turned and walked away, his footsteps receding back into the factory's hum. I stared at his retreating back, my pulse thrumming a wild, syncopated rhythm. The air where he had stood still felt charged. I had survived the first encounter, but something told me the real test had only just begun.

The next morning, the echo of that laugh was still a pleasant warmth in my chest as I headed to the team kitchen. The high of my successful first day was a fragile shield against the reality of being the new girl, the outsider from a rival team. The break area was a pocket of normalcy in the high-tech cathedral of the factory, smelling of burnt coffee and populated by a handful of engineers chatting near the machine.

Marcus, one of the senior aerodynamicists I'd been introduced to, was holding court, gesturing with a half-eaten biscuit. His voice carried the easy authority of someone who'd been here long enough to know where all the bodies were buried.

As I stepped through the doorway, the easy chatter faltered. It wasn't a dramatic silence, but a subtle, immediate shift. The laughter died, the posture of the group tightened, and the atmosphere became instantly more formal. I received a few polite, cool nods. Eyes flickered towards me and then quickly away.

The cold shoulder, delivered with British precision.

I pasted on a neutral smile and headed for the coffee machine, acutely aware of the stillness behind me. I decided to try for a simple, professional opening, a bridge across the sudden chasm. "Morning," I said to the room at large. "Anyone know if the new CFD software is up on the server yet?"

It was Marcus who answered, his voice devoid of the warmth he'd had with his colleagues moments before. "It is. IT sent the email this morning." He delivered the information with the sterile precision of a surgeon announcing a time of death, then turned his back to me slightly, resuming his conversation in a lower tone.

The dismissal was as clean and sharp as a guillotine.

A familiar coldness seeped into my veins. It wasn't overt hostility, nothing I could call out or confront. It was the quiet, exclusionary frost I'd felt before in a field dominated by men who had all gone to the same schools and worked their way up the same ladders. You are not one of us.

I poured my coffee, the machine's gurgle sounding unnaturally loud in the silence. My hands were steady as I added a splash of milk, my movements economical. Inside, a wall I knew well slid silently back into place. It was the wall that let me work sixteen-hour days, the wall that absorbed passive aggression, the wall that turned frustration into fuel.

Back at my desk, I took a sip. The coffee was bitter. I set it aside and pulled up my simulations, diving back into the cool, clean world of numbers. The math didn't have an old boys' club. The airflow didn't care where I came from. It only cared if I was right.

And I would prove I was.

The factory at night was a different beast. The cacophony of the day faded to a low, resonant thrum. The army of technicians and engineers vanished, leaving behind a skeleton crew and the hushed, reverent quiet of a sleeping giant. The harsh overhead lights gave way to warmer security lighting, casting long, dramatic shadows that made the race cars in the build bays look like slumbering predators.

A few nights after my encounter in the kitchen, I was still at my workstation long after 10 PM, chasing a stubborn anomaly in the data. I'd found the flaw in the endplate, but fixing it had revealed a secondary issue with vortex shedding that was proving maddeningly elusive. I was so engrossed, muttering curses at a stubborn line of code, that I barely registered the footsteps until they stopped beside my desk.

I looked up, expecting a security guard on his rounds. It was Toto, his suit jacket gone, his tie loosened, and his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows. He looked less like the team principal and more like a fellow engineer burning the midnight oil. He leaned against the neighbouring desk, a flicker of exhaustion in his eyes that I instantly recognised.

"Still here?" he asked, his voice softer in the quiet of the night.

"Physics doesn't sleep," I said, gesturing to the screen. "And this little problem is being a real bastard."

He pulled up a stool. "Show me."

For the next hour, we weren't boss and employee. We were two minds attacking a single problem. He didn't just listen; he interrogated my process, pushing me to defend assumptions I hadn't even realized I'd made. I found myself pushing back, pointing out a blind spot in his counter-argument. We moved to the large whiteboard behind my desk, our markers flying as we sketched out equations and airflow diagrams.

It was less a conversation and more a duet, his deep, measured cadence a counterpoint to my rapid-fire analysis. He'd start a sentence about boundary layer separation, and I'd finish it aloud with the specific coefficient he was reaching for.

"There," I said suddenly, tapping the board with his marker. "That's your error. You're using a constant from the old tyre model. With the new '24 spec, the deformation under load is higher. Your initial variable is wrong."

He stared at the board. A wave of relief and grudging admiration washed over him. "I'll be damned." He breathed, a smile spreading across his face.

We both leaned back, looking at the mess of equations on the board that now, finally, made sense. There was no praise, no "good job." There was only a shared look of deep, satisfying intellectual victory. In that silent, shared success, a different kind of bridge was built, one forged not from pleasantries but from the pure, unadulterated respect of one mind for another.

He stood, stretching his arms over his head. "Good night, Kingsley."

The use of my last name felt different this time. Not a formal address, but a badge of honor. A sign of belonging to a team of two. I watched him walk away into the shadows of the factory floor, and for the first time since I'd left Ferrari, I felt the sharp, intoxicating thrill of being exactly where I was supposed to be.

By the end of the week, his late-night visits had become a familiar rhythm. Some nights he'd stay for an hour, delving into the data with me. Other nights, he'd just stop by with two mugs of coffee from the machine in his office, setting one on my desk without a word before disappearing. I started to anticipate the sound of his footsteps, a low thrum of expectation that cut through the silence of the late hours.

Tonight, he arrived after eleven, but not with coffee. He was carrying two greasy-smelling paper bags, and the warm, savory scent of burgers and chips cut through the sterile air of the office, smelling like life itself.

I looked up, surprised. "What's this?"

"Sustenance," he said, moving my keyboard aside to make space for the food. "When's the last time you ate something that wasn't from a vending machine?"

I had to actually think. "Lunch, maybe? Yesterday?"

He just looked at me, one eyebrow raised. Then his expression softened. "Sloane."

The sound of my first name, spoken in his low, deliberate voice, landed differently tonight. It wasn't a test or a strategic move. It was gentle. A quiet command to take care of myself. A knot I hadn't known I was carrying loosened in my chest.

"I need your brain functioning at one hundred percent," he said, unpacking the food. He handed me a burger. "I don't accept mediocrity from my drivers. Why would I accept it from my engineers?"

It was more than just food. It was a statement. He was placing me in the same essential category as his multi-million-dollar star drivers. I was vital. My work was vital. I took the burger, my fingers brushing against his. A spark, small but undeniable, fizzed across my skin.

We ate in a comfortable silence, perched on stools in the small pool of light cast by my monitors. The quiet was filled only by the sounds of crinkling paper and the distant hum of the building's life support. Our knees brushed under the desk, and neither of us moved away. It was a simple, profoundly human moment, a stark contrast to the cold, hard data scrolling on the screens around us.

He didn't ask about work. I didn't offer. We just were.

When we finished, I felt a surge of boldness, fueled by the late hour and the unexpected intimacy. "Can I ask you something?" I said, crumpling my napkin.

He gave a small, knowing smile. "You're going to anyway."

"Why did you really hire me? My theory was good, but it was just a theory. You're taking a huge risk on me."

He was quiet for a long time, his gaze distant as he looked out into the cavernous darkness of the factory. I thought he might not answer, that I had finally pushed too far. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and reflective, stripped of all its usual authority.

"Well," he said, turning his gaze back to me. It was intense, vulnerable, and utterly captivating. "You reminded me of myself at your age. Hungry. Unafraid to be wrong as long as there was a chance you might be right."

The words landed in the center of my chest, a direct hit. He wasn't just my boss. He wasn't just an intellectual partner. He saw me. The real me, under all the layers of professional armor. He saw the desperate ambition, the gnawing hunger to prove myself that I tried so hard to hide.

He stood, gathering our trash with an easy, domestic motion. "Get some rest, Sloane. The real work starts tomorrow."

He left, and the silence he left behind was heavier, filled with the weight of his confession. I stared at the whiteboard, at the equations that had felt so important an hour ago. Now, they seemed like background noise. He hadn't just given me a job; he'd offered me a glimpse of his own past, a moment of startling, unvarnished truth.

And I knew, with the kind of terrifying certainty that precedes a fall, that my six weeks at Mercedes were no longer just about aerodynamics.

Chapter Text

The days following Toto's late-night confession settled into a new rhythm, one defined by a shared sense of purpose that felt both exhilarating and dangerously comfortable. My initial six-week timeline began to feel less like a probation period and more like a secret collaboration, a world-within-a-world carved out of the humming, cavernous spaces of the factory after everyone else had gone home.

Our work became a language of its own. We spoke in a shorthand of iso-lines and pressure gradients, our debates unfolding across the massive whiteboard in a duet of differential equations. The space became our sanctuary. By day, it was just another wall in a bustling office. By night, it transformed into a canvas where our minds met, a place where his strategic, big-picture thinking dovetailed perfectly with my detail-obsessed precision.

One night, we were mapping the chaotic airflow coming off the front wheels, tracing the path of the tire wake as it poisoned the performance of the underfloor.

"If we trip the Y250 vortex here," I said, drawing a sharp, decisive arrow with a blue marker, "we can use its rotation to energize the flow along the sidepod's undercut."

He stood back, arms crossed, his brow furrowed in concentration. "But the resulting outwash could compromise the diffuser's sealing edge at high yaw." He took a black marker and sketched a counter-vortex, his movements economical and precise. "You'd gain downforce in a straight line but lose it in the corners."

"Not if we modify the turning vanes to recapture that outwash," I countered, scribbling a new set of equations. "We can turn a negative into a positive. We just have to convince the air it was its idea all along."

He was silent for a full minute, studying the board. The only sound was the faint hum of the servers in the next room and the squeak of my marker. It was a silence I’d come to understand, not as a void, but as an active state of processing. At Ferrari, a silence like that would have been filled with doubt, with a senior engineer searching for a polite way to tell me I was wrong. With Toto, it was a sign of respect.

"Show me the math," he finally said, his voice low.

The feeling was frictionless. It was the purest form of partnership I had ever known, an effortless exchange of ideas stripped of ego and politics. My time at Ferrari had been a constant, grinding battle against institutional inertia. Every new concept required a fight, a justification, a political campaign. Here, with him, there was only the problem and our shared will to solve it. It was intoxicating. It was what I had always craved.

We finished near midnight, a new, viable concept gleaming in red and black ink on the whiteboard. A sense of shared triumph hung in the quiet air between us.

"We make a good team," I said, the words slipping out before I could stop them. I capped my marker, suddenly feeling exposed.

He turned to look at me, a small, genuine smile touching his lips. It wasn't the broad, surprising laugh from our first meeting, but something quieter, more intimate. "That we do, Kingsley."

His gaze held mine for a moment longer than necessary, and the professional satisfaction of our work was suddenly eclipsed by a current of something else, something warmer and far more complicated. The space between us, which had felt like a collaborative canvas moments before, now felt charged with a different kind of potential. He gave a final nod, a silent acknowledgment of both the work and the moment, and then he was gone, leaving me alone with the victorious equations and a sudden, unsettling awareness of how much I was beginning to look forward to the nights.

A week later, it was nearly eleven at night when I finally hit a wall. A solid, immovable, infuriating wall of numbers that refused to make sense. The prototype of my revised endplate was in fabrication, but a new simulation was flagging an intermittent oscillation at a specific speed, a harmonic resonance that could, in a worst-case scenario, shatter the carbon fibre wing. I'd been staring at the data for three hours, and the solution remained stubbornly out of reach. My eyes burned, my shoulders ached, and the coffee I'd made an hour ago had turned to a cold, bitter sludge in its mug.

Defeated, I pushed back from my desk, rubbing my temples. The factory was utterly silent now, the low thrum of the daytime operations having faded into a deep, tomb-like stillness. It was the kind of quiet that amplified everything—the frantic, looping thoughts in my own head, the low hum of my computer's fan, the sound of my own frustrated sigh cutting through the air.

I didn't hear him approach. A flicker of movement in my peripheral vision made me jolt, my heart hammering against my ribs. He was just there, standing silently by the edge of my desk as if he had materialized from the shadows.

"God, you startled me," I breathed, trying to will my pulse back to a normal rhythm. "Why are you still here and awake?"

A faint smile flickered across his lips, failing to reach the weariness in his eyes. "I could ask you the same question." He paused, his gaze sweeping over my cluttered desk. "I do my best work at night. I'm not exactly a morning person."

He'd shed his jacket and tie, and the top two buttons of his crisp white shirt were undone. He looked exhausted, the lines around his eyes deeper than usual, but his focus sharpened as he looked from my face to the chaotic data on my screen. The brief moment of shared weariness dissolved, replaced by command.

"Talk to me," he said. His voice was a low rumble, devoid of its usual demanding tone. It was softer, gentler. Concerned.

"It's a ghost," I said, gesturing tiredly at the monitor. "A resonance flutter. It only appears in a very narrow window between 280 and 290 kph, and only when the DRS is open. But I can't find the source. It's like the physics is lying to me."

He didn't offer a platitude or tell me to get some rest. He simply moved, coming to stand directly behind my chair. The space, already small, instantly shrank. His presence was a solid, living thing at my back, radiating a warmth that soaked into my skin. The air shifted, growing heavy, thick with the subtle scent of his cologne and something else—the clean, masculine scent of him.

"Walk me through it. From the beginning," he commanded quietly.

I tried to focus, to articulate the variables and the constants, the equations that governed the simulation. But my brain felt foggy, my thoughts snagged by his proximity. I was acutely aware of his chest rising and falling just behind my head, the steady rhythm of his breathing a stark contrast to the frantic beat of my own heart.

I pointed to a line of code, my hand trembling slightly. "The pressure differential across the mainplane should be stable here, but I'm seeing micro-fluctuations..."

He leaned in closer to see the screen, his head next to mine. His hand came up to point, and the side of his index finger brushed against my temple.

It was an accident but a jolt, sharp and electric, shot through me. Every nerve ending in my body went on high alert. The data on the screen dissolved into a meaningless blur of colour and light. My breath hitched in my throat. The entire universe seemed to contracted to that single, fleeting point of contact.

He didn't pull away. If anything, he leaned closer still. His body was a warm, solid wall bracketing mine, his arm resting on the back of my chair. My own exhaustion evaporated, replaced by a humming, high-frequency energy that made the fine hairs on my arms stand on end.

"The upstream turbulence from the engine cover," he murmured, his voice a low vibration that seemed to resonate deep in my chest. "Have you factored in its effect on the airflow's attachment point?"

He was talking about aerodynamics. I knew that. But the words were just sounds, background noise to the overwhelming sensory input of his presence. His breath ghosted across my cheek. I could count the threads in the cuff of his shirt. I could feel the heat of his body, could smell the faint trace of coffee on his breath mixed with that ever-present, expensive cologne.

Time stretched, slowing to a thick, syrupy crawl. I felt suspended in the moment, caught in a gravitational pull I had no hope of resisting.

Slowly, as if emerging from underwater, I turned my head. He straightened up at the same time, but he didn't step back. He held his ground, and I was forced to look up at him, my neck craned, my body trapped between him and the desk.

We were inches apart. The playful energy of our first meeting was gone. The comfortable respect of our late-night work sessions was gone. What remained was something raw, elemental, and terrifyingly real. The air between us crackled, thick and heavy with unspoken questions. His gaze dropped from my eyes to my lips and then back again. The look in his eyes was unguarded, stripped of all its usual control. It was dark, intense, a mirror of the churning chaos I felt inside.

He lifted his hand, his fingers slightly curled, his intention clear. He was going to touch me. His eyes held mine, asking a question without words, and I knew, with a dizzying certainty, that I was going to let him. I couldn't have moved if the building was on fire. My answer was in the way I leaned into his space, the way my lips parted on a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding.

RRRRING!

The shrill, ugly blast of his phone on the desk beside us shattered the moment into a thousand pieces.

We both flinched as if struck. Toto jerked back, snatching the phone, his movements sharp and clumsy. The spell was broken, the fragile, incandescent bubble of the moment popped, leaving behind a cold, awkward reality.

He glanced at the screen, his jaw tight. "I have to take this," he said, his voice rough, unsteady. He didn't look at me. He couldn't. He turned his back and walked a few paces away, already lifting the phone to his ear.

I sat there, frozen, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. My skin tingled where he had almost touched me. The air felt thin and cold. I could hear him speaking in low, clipped German, his voice regaining its usual authoritative steel with every word.

He ended the call and slid the phone back into his pocket. For a long, agonizing moment, he stood with his back to me, one hand rubbing the back of his neck. When he finally turned, the mask was back in place. The vulnerability was gone, buried under layers of control.

"Apologies for that," he said, his tone clipped and professional. He gestured vaguely toward my screen. "Try running the simulation with a higher mesh density around the engine cover. It could be a resolution issue. We'll talk in the morning."

He turned and walked away without another word, his footsteps echoing in the vast, empty space. He didn't look back.

I remained in my chair for a long time after he was gone, staring at the screen where the numbers still scrolled, meaningless. My body was still humming with the aftershock of what had almost happened. I lifted a trembling hand and pressed my fingers to my temple, to the spot where his skin had met mine. A ghost of a touch, a phantom limb of a kiss that never was.

My mind, my logical, analytical, engineer's mind, tried to process the data. It tried to categorize the event, to file it away. But there was no equation for the look in his eyes, no flowchart for the way my body had responded to his proximity. It was like watching a stable system suddenly hit a resonance frequency—the vibration building and building until the entire structure threatened to fly apart.

I shut down the computer. No more work was getting done tonight. I walked out of the silent factory, the chill of the night air a welcome shock against my heated skin. The problem of the oscillating wing felt irrelevant now, a trivial puzzle from another lifetime. The real problem, the dangerous and unstable one, was the man who had looked at me as if he was just as hungry, just as lost, as I was.

Chapter Text

His touch haunted me for days, an invisible weight at my temple that made it impossible to focus. The air in the factory, once charged with collaborative energy, was now thick with a heavy, unspoken awkwardness. We avoided being alone. Our late-night work sessions ceased. If he saw me in the build bay, he’d offer a curt nod and change direction. He started communicating via email, his messages brief and stripped of any personality, focusing solely on data points and meeting schedules.

It was a cold, gaping chasm where our synergy used to be. Every polite, formal interaction was a reminder of the line we’d almost obliterated. Part of me was relieved. The intensity of that moment had terrified me, threatening to destabilize the one thing I had control over: my work. But a larger, more honest part of me ached with the loss. I missed the easy partnership, the intellectual sparring, the way he looked at me when we solved a problem, as if I were the only other person in the world who truly understood.

My prototype was finished, a sleek, aggressive curve of black carbon fibre that looked like it was slicing through the air even while standing still. It was the physical manifestation of weeks of sleepless nights, of shared equations on a whiteboard, of a collaboration that now felt like a dream. James had been ecstatic with the preliminary models, fast-tracking the fabrication with a level of enthusiasm that only seemed to deepen the frost I received from the rest of the aero team.

I knew a confrontation was coming. I could feel it building, a low-pressure system in the atmosphere of the department. Marcus, in particular, had been watching me with a look that was equal parts resentment and suspicion. He represented the old guard, the established way of doing things, and I was the interloper, the Ferrari girl with the radical new theory and a direct line to the boss who no longer seemed to use it.

The storm finally broke on a Friday afternoon.

I was in the main build bay with two senior technicians, doing a final fit-check on the new wing. We had it mounted on the chassis of last year's car, checking the tolerances of the attachment points.

"The clearance on the actuator housing is less than a millimeter," one of the techs, a man named Dave with grease permanently etched into his knuckles, said, squinting at the joint. "It's perfect. But it's tight."

"It has to be," I explained, running my hand along the smooth, cool surface of the endplate. "Any more play and we risk flow separation under heavy lateral load."

"And if the carbon flexes more than your simulation predicts?" a voice cut in, sharp and condescending.

I turned. Marcus was standing there, arms crossed, a sneer twisting his lips. He wasn't addressing the technicians; his focus was entirely on me.

"The simulation accounts for a 15% greater load case than the car will ever experience," I said, keeping my voice level. "The layup schedule is designed for zero flex."

"All theory," he scoffed, stepping closer. He jabbed a finger towards the wing, stopping just short of touching it. "This is a vanity project. You've somehow convinced Toto to waste millions on a radical design that's never been track-tested, all because of a few pretty pictures on your computer screen. While the rest of us have been working on incremental, race-proven upgrades, you’ve been building a fantasy."

The technicians exchanged an uneasy glance and suddenly found urgent work to do on the far side of the car. The air thickened.

"My 'fantasy' will gain us three-tenths of a second in the high-speed corners," I said, my voice dangerously quiet.

"And what happens when your 'perfect' actuator with its 'perfect' clearance jams open in the middle of the Rettifilo at Monza?" he shot back, his voice rising. "Have you simulated that, Ms. Kingsley? Or have you just simulated how to get the boss's undivided attention?"

The insinuation was vile and personal. A cold fury, clean and sharp, sliced through me.

"My math is sound, Marcus," I said, stepping forward until we were only a few feet apart.

"Your math hasn't won eight world championships," he retorted, his face reddening. "My methods have. This team was built on a foundation of painstaking, incremental progress, not reckless gambles from Ferrari rejects looking to make a name for themselves."

"Enough."

Toto's voice cut through the tension like a blade.

He had appeared from the direction of the race bays, and neither of us had noticed. He walked towards us, his expression unreadable but his presence radiating an authority that was absolute. The entire build bay seemed to fall silent, a dozen conversations tapering off at once.

He stopped beside me, positioning himself so he was addressing Marcus but standing as a clear, physical barrier at my side.

"Marcus," he began, his voice dangerously calm. "Sloane's project was approved by me, based on data I have personally reviewed. Her work is not a 'vanity project'; it is a calculated risk aimed at finding a competitive advantage we currently lack. Is that clear?"

"Toto, with respect," Marcus stammered, flustered by the public rebuke. "I just think—"

"What I think," Toto interrupted, his voice dropping even lower, colder, "is that every single person in this factory is working towards the same goal. Publicly questioning the integrity of a colleague's work is not conducive to that goal. It's counterproductive. It's an internal attack, and I will not tolerate it. If you have concerns with a project, you bring them to me, or you bring them to James. You do not litigate them in the middle of the build bay. Am I understood?"

"Yes, Toto," Marcus mumbled, his face pale. He shot me a look of pure venom before turning and stalking away.

The silence he left behind was deafening. Toto stood there for a moment, his gaze sweeping over the assembled technicians who were now all pretending to be engrossed in their work. His stare lingered for a second on Dave, who gave a nearly imperceptible nod. Then, Toto turned to me. The hard mask of the Team Principal softened slightly, but a storm still brewed in his eyes.

"My office," he said, not as a request. "Now."

I followed his broad back through the labyrinthine corridors, my stomach twisting into a tight, anxious knot. The public defense had been swift and absolute, but I knew this wasn't over. The look in his eyes promised a different kind of confrontation.

His office was a minimalist space of glass, steel, and muted grey, dominated by a large, clean desk and a panoramic window overlooking the design floor. It was a room built for command and control. He didn't sit down. He walked to the window, his back to me, and stared out at the hive of activity below.

I remained standing in the center of the room, feeling like a schoolgirl called to the headmaster's office. The silence stretched, thick with unspoken words from our near-miss days ago and the fresh tension from the confrontation downstairs.

"You handled him," I said finally, breaking the quiet. "Thank you."

He turned from the window. "I handled a symptom, Sloane. I need you to help me handle the cause."

"The cause is his ego," I said, a defensive edge creeping into my tone. "He feels threatened."

"The cause," he corrected, his voice patient but firm, "is that you are a brilliant engineer with the interpersonal skills of a cornered honey badger. You are right. Your theory is right. Your math is right. But in this sport, being right is not enough if you can't bring people with you."

The criticism stung, sharp and unexpected. "I'm not here to make friends, Toto. I'm here to make the car faster."

"And how do you do that?" he countered, taking a step towards me. "Do you build the car yourself? Do you machine every part? Do you lay up every ply of carbon fibre? No. You rely on a team. A team of hundreds of people, like Marcus, and Dave, who need to trust your vision. Trust is not generated by a simulation. It's built between people."

"So I should be more... diplomatic?" I asked, the word tasting like poison. "I should water down my findings to make them more palatable for sensitive egos?"

"No," he said, his frustration finally showing. He ran a hand through his hair. "You should recognize that the human element is just as critical as the aerodynamic one. You can't just throw a revolutionary concept at a team of experts and expect them to accept it simply because you say it's better. You have to show them. You have to include them. You have to make them feel like part of the discovery, not obstacles you have to overcome."

His words hit a raw nerve, one that had been exposed long before I ever set foot in Brackley. They echoed years of being told to be quieter, softer, less direct. Years of watching my male colleagues have their brash confidence lauded as leadership while mine was labelled as arrogance.

The bitterness rose in my throat, hot and swift. "My ideas were 'diplomatically' talked to death in committee meetings at Ferrari for four years. I watched my concepts get diluted and compromised until they were useless, all in the name of 'bringing people along'. I'm done with that."

"This is not Ferrari," he said, his voice dropping, becoming more intense. He closed the distance between us, his proximity once again scrambling my thoughts. "I did not hire you to be the Sloane you were there. I hired you to be the engineer you can be here. That means trusting me when I tell you there is a better way."

"Trust you?" The question was incredulous, the carefully constructed wall around my emotions beginning to crack. "That's difficult when it feels like you've spent the last week treating me like a problem you're trying to solve."

The accusation hung in the air, a direct reference to the chasm that had opened between us. His face hardened, but I saw a flicker of something else in his eyes—not guilt, but a deep, weary frustration.

"These things... our work... it requires focus," he said, his voice low and strained, searching for the right words. "Absolute clarity. What happened the other night... It compromises that clarity. For both of us. It’s a variable we can’t account for. One that throws everything off balance. It can’t happen again."

His rationale was infuriatingly logical. It wasn't a rejection; it was a strategic assessment. And somehow, that hurt more.

"So that's what I am to you? A variable?" I challenged, taking a reckless step closer. All the confusion and hurt of the past week came pouring out. "Because from where I was standing, it felt like the first honest moment we've had. The first moment that wasn't about the car, or the math, or the job."

"Honest moments have consequences," he ground out, his gaze boring into mine. "And everything—this team, your project, our ability to work together—is too important to risk on a consequence either of us is unprepared for."

I stared at him, at the iron control he was exerting over himself, at the conflict warring in his eyes. He was right. Logically, professionally, he was absolutely right. But my heart, my foolish, traitorous heart, felt the sting of his pragmatism like a physical blow. The professional criticism I could handle. This felt different. This felt like he was locking a door between us.

A wave of despair washed over me. He would never see me as an equal, only as a subordinate to manage, a problem to be solved.

"Fine," I whispered, the fight draining out of me. I took a step back, rebuilding the wall around myself brick by painful brick. "I understand. Clarity. No variables."

I turned to leave, my hand on the doorknob.

"Sloane," his voice stopped me.

I looked back. He looked exhausted, defeated. "The test run for your wing is scheduled for tomorrow morning. Private session. Don't prove Marcus right."

The words were a command, but underneath, I heard something else. A plea. A reminder of the work, of the one pure thing that still connected us.

That night, I didn't go back to my apartment. I went back to the sim, running the numbers one last time, my focus absolute. The emotional turmoil receded, replaced by the cool, clean certainty of physics. He was right about one thing. The car was all that mattered.

Chapter Text

By morning, theory had to meet reality.

The air at Silverstone was thin and cold, the kind that seeped through layers of clothing and settled into your bones. It carried the sharp, acrid tang of damp tarmac and the ghost of burnt rubber from a thousand laps turned before dawn. The scent clung to my skin, a stark contrast to the controlled, humming climate of the factory—where the air smelled of carbon fibre dust and the faint metallic bite of the wind tunnel’s ozone. Here, under the vast, indifferent grey of an English sky, theory faced its brutal reckoning.

My wing—our wing—was bolted to the W15 like a predatory bird of prey, all sleek black carbon and aggressive curves. It was beautiful. It was terrifying. It was the physical manifestation of weeks of sleepless nights, of equations scribbled on whiteboards in the dead of night, of a collaboration that now felt like a half-remembered dream.

The last week had been a masterclass in professional frost. Toto had held true to his word, erecting a wall between us so impenetrable that the memory of his warmth, of his near-touch in the dead of night, felt like a hallucination. Communications were relegated to clipped emails and formal group briefings. His gaze, when it met mine across the garage, was businesslike, assessing—devoid of the heat I now knew it was capable of. The man who had seen the hunger in me was gone, replaced by the Team Principal. I was no longer a collaborator; I was a variable he was striving to control.

The pain of that demotion was a sharp, constant ache, one I channeled into the only thing I could control: the work. I had poured every waking second into finalizing the simulations, triple-checking the load-bearing calculations, and preparing a test plan so meticulous it bordered on obsessive. I would not prove Marcus right. I would not fail. I owed it to the girl who had gambled everything to be here, and I owed it to the man who was now watching me from across the temporary garage as if I were a line item on a budget.

Lewis Hamilton, a living legend encased in a silver race suit, gave me a small, professional nod as he passed on his way to the cockpit. His eyes, sharp behind his visor, missed nothing. He didn’t need to know the roiling drama behind the part he was about to test; he just needed it to be fast. George Russell stood with a group of engineers, his expression one of focused curiosity, his fingers tapping restlessly against his thigh—a habit I’d noticed when he was processing something new. The entire senior aero department was here, including Marcus, who was radiating a smug, I-told-you-so energy that was practically a physical force. I saw him near James Allison, muttering, no doubt poisoning the well with predictions of catastrophic failure.

I kept my eyes on Toto.

He stood apart from them all, a solitary figure of command, his arms crossed, his jaw set. The tension in his shoulders was visible even from a distance, and for a second, I caught the way his fingers tapped restlessly against his forearm—once, twice—a tell I’d noticed when he was suppressing something. The weight of dozens of pairs of eyes on him, yes, but also the weight of his own rules, pressing down like a physical force.

He was in his element, the commander on the battlefield, and today, I was his wild card.

The first installation laps were… fine.

The data streamed onto my monitors, and a wave of bitter anticlimax washed over me. The wing was stable. It produced downforce. It did not, as Marcus had so gleefully predicted, shear off the car at 300 kph. But it wasn’t the revolution I had promised. The telemetry showed a marginal gain—a tenth of a second, maybe a tenth and a half. It was a solid, respectable improvement.

It was not a world-beater.

"The numbers are stable," James said, his voice carefully neutral as he looked over my shoulder. "It’s a good step."

From across the garage, I saw a flicker of a smirk on Marcus’s face. A good step. The damning praise of mediocrity. My stomach plummeted. I had built a good step, not a leap. And a good step wasn’t enough to justify the risk Toto had taken, or the political capital he had spent defending me.

Lewis completed another run and cruised back into the garage. The drone of the engine died, and the mechanics swarmed the car as he unbuckled. Pulling off his helmet, he met Toto’s eyes, his expression thoughtful.

"It’s faster," Lewis said, his voice echoing slightly in the helmet’s mic. "I feel it in the high-speed stuff. But it’s… twitchy. Unpredictable on turn-in for the slow corners. The rear feels like it’s about to step out, but then it just… doesn’t."

The engineers began to dissect the feedback, their voices a low murmur of familiar solutions.

"We can add a bit of front wing to balance it out," one suggested.

"Or soften the rear anti-roll bar," another countered.

Marcus stepped forward, unable to help himself. "The new endplate is likely shedding a vortex that’s interfering with the diffuser’s edge. It’s an inherent flaw in the aggressive design. It’s too radical."

I tuned them out. They were all suggesting conventional fixes to what they saw as a conventional problem. But Lewis’s feedback was key. He described a ghost, an instability the data wasn’t fully reflecting. I looked over at Toto. He was listening to his engineers, his expression a mask of concentration. I felt a surge of desperation. He had trusted me once. I needed him to trust me again.

He glanced over at me then. For a fleeting second, his expression changed. It wasn’t the distant look of a boss, but something sharper, more intense—a challenge. An unspoken command. Fix it.

I turned back to my desk, putting on my headphones to block out the world. The chatter of the engineers faded into white noise. I wasn’t listening to them anymore. I was listening to the car.

They were all wrong. It wasn’t the diffuser, it wasn’t the car’s balance, and it damn sure wasn’t an inherent flaw in my design.

I muted the arguments and focused on the raw data. The car was a living, breathing thing, and it was trying to tell me something.

I didn’t just look at the aero pressure sensors. I pulled up everything. The audio from Lewis’s cockpit, the high-frequency vibration sensors on the chassis, the gyroscope data, the GPS trace overlaid with the wind speed and direction from Silverstone’s weather station. I was searching for a correlation, a whisper of a pattern in the hurricane of information. My entire world shrank to the glowing pixels on my screens.

And then I saw it.

It was impossibly small. A micro-oscillation in the telemetry feed from the rear wing’s primary support pylon. A tiny vibration that lasted for less than half a second. It appeared in the same place on every lap: the entry to Turn 7, a slow, off-camber right-hander. By itself, it was nothing. A piece of background noise.

But then I synced it with the audio from the cockpit. As Lewis turned into the corner, the engine note, dropping in pitch as he downshifted, hit a specific frequency. At the exact moment the engine hit that note, the vibration appeared in the wing. It was the ghost from my simulation. A harmonic resonance. The engine’s vibration at that specific RPM was making my wing sing, and that tiny, invisible flutter was momentarily detaching the airflow, causing the instability Lewis was feeling.

It wasn’t just the engine, though.

My fingers flew across the keyboard as I overlaid the weather data. The instability was worse, the vibration more pronounced, when the car was hit by a crosswind from the west at an angle between ten and fifteen degrees. It was a perfect, terrible storm of three independent variables: engine frequency, yaw angle, and my wing’s natural resonance.

My heart hammered against my ribs so hard it hurt. I had it. They were trying to put a bandage on the car’s handling. I had found the disease. And I knew how to cure it.

It wasn’t an aero solution.

I stood up, pulling off my headphones, and walked directly into the center of the huddle around Toto. All conversation stopped. Twenty pairs of eyes settled on me. Marcus looked at me with undisguised contempt. Toto’s expression was unreadable, but his eyes were locked on mine, waiting.

"It’s harmonic resonance," I said, my voice clear and steady, betraying none of the adrenaline surging through me. "The frequency of the engine on downshift into Turn 7 is hitting the natural resonance of the wing’s support pylon, but only when we have a crosswind from the west. It’s causing a micro-flutter that’s detaching the airflow for a split second. That’s the instability Lewis is feeling."

Silence.

I could see the disbelief on Marcus’s face, the cautious intrigue on James’s. They were aerodynamicists. I was speaking the language of a structural engineer, a powertrain specialist.

"That’s… a highly unlikely convergence of factors," Marcus said dismissively, his arms crossed over his chest.

"Unlikely doesn’t mean impossible," I shot back, turning my gaze from him to Toto. I refused to be drawn into an argument with Marcus. Toto was the only one who mattered. "The data proves it. The solution isn’t on the wing. It’s in the engine. We need to tweak the engine mapping, just for the downshift into Turn 7. Change the overrun settings to alter the frequency just enough to avoid the resonance window. It’ll be imperceptible to the driver, but it’ll solve the problem."

The audacity of my suggestion hung in the air. I, the new aero girl, was telling the powertrain engineers how to map their multi-million-dollar power unit. It was heresy.

All eyes turned to Toto.

This was the moment of truth. He could side with the established wisdom of his team, the safe, incremental adjustments. Or he could take the real leap of faith. He could trust me.

The seconds ticked by, stretching into an agonizing eternity. He stood perfectly still, his face an unreadable mask, but his eyes never left mine. I held his gaze, willing him to see the certainty I felt, to remember the partnership we’d had.

Then—the slightest nod. A decision made.

"Do it," he said, his voice cutting through the silence, leaving no room for argument. He looked at the head of powertrain. "Remap the engine. Exactly as she said."

A wave of relief so powerful it nearly buckled my knees washed over me. He’d trusted me.

Then, he turned and looked at Lewis, who had been watching the entire exchange with a quiet, knowing intensity. The world champion gave a small nod of his own. He was on board.

The ten minutes it took to remap the engine and send the car out were the most agonizing of my life.

The entire test, my project, his reputation, and a significant chunk of the team’s budget now rested on my theory about invisible vibrations and engine frequencies.

Lewis pulled out onto the track.

The garage fell silent.

Everyone was clustered around the main timing screen. I stood near my own station, my arms wrapped around myself, watching the little car icon trace its path around the track map. The green sectors lit up as he completed his out-lap. He began his first flying lap.

Sector one was purple. The fastest time of the day.

A murmur went through the garage.

Sector two, where the high-speed corners were, was purple. He was already two-tenths up.

He approached Turn 7.

I held my breath.

The onboard camera showed the car turning in. It was smooth. Planted. There was no twitch, no hesitation. Lewis got on the power earlier, rocketing out of the corner with a stability that hadn’t been there before.

The car flashed across the finish line.

The number that appeared on the screen made a collective gasp ripple through the garage.

It wasn’t a tenth.

It wasn’t two-tenths.

It was four and a half tenths of a second.

A lifetime. A game-changer. An impossible leap.

For a heartbeat, there was stunned silence.

Then, the garage erupted.

Cheers, applause, engineers slapping each other on the back. Someone whooped. A mechanic pumped his fist in the air. I saw Marcus standing frozen, his face a mask of pale shock. James was grinning, shaking his head in disbelief as he came over to clap me on the shoulder.

Through the tumult, my gaze locked onto Toto’s.

He was striding towards me, a huge, unguarded grin breaking across his face. He didn’t think. He reacted. He raised his hand for a high-five.

My hand met his, a sharp, satisfying slap that echoed our shared victory.

But he didn’t pull away.

His fingers instinctively curled around mine, his palm pressing against my palm. He held on for a second longer than was professional, a second longer than was acceptable. It was a subconscious, involuntary act. An anchor in the storm of celebration. My breath hitched. His skin was warm, his grip surprisingly strong. A jolt, sharp and electric, shot up my arm—a feedback loop of victory and adrenaline and something far more potent.

I saw the surprise flash in his eyes, followed by a dawning awareness that I was sure mirrored my own. The noise of the garage faded into a distant buzz. My universe shrank to the space between us, to the point of contact between our hands, to the intense, consuming look in his eyes.

He reluctantly let go, the spell breaking.

My hand tingled, still burning with the ghost of his touch. I stood there, reeling, my mind a chaotic replay of the last few minutes: the purple sectors on the screen, the roar of the garage, and the shocking, possessive way his fingers had curled around mine.

It wasn’t a handshake.

It wasn’t just a high-five.

It was a claim. A statement. In front of everyone, he had broken his own rule.

He was already back to being the Team Principal, directing the pack-up with calm authority, but the damage was done. The wall he had so carefully constructed had been obliterated, not by a quiet, stolen moment in the dark, but by a resounding, public victory.

Later, as I packed up my own workstation, I felt his eyes on me from across the garage. I looked up and met his gaze. There was no awkwardness in it now, no formal distance. There was just a deep, consuming fire of respect, admiration, and something else—something that looked terrifyingly like destiny.

He had wanted clarity.

He’d gotten it.

And I knew, with a certainty that thrilled and terrified me, that neither of us had any idea what to do with it.

Chapter Text

The two weeks of the summer shutdown had felt like a lifetime spent holding my breath. The factory had fallen silent, the mandatory break sending everyone scattering across the globe for a much-needed rest. Everyone but me. I didn't have a holiday planned. My apartment in Brackley became my world, a quiet bubble where I pored over the Silverstone data, and tried, with very little success, to stop replaying the moment Toto's fingers had curled around mine in the victorious chaos of the garage.

The memory was a ghost that lingered on my skin. That single, spontaneous act of connection had obliterated the cold, professional wall he'd so deliberately built. But in the vacuum of the summer break, with no contact beyond a single team-wide email wishing everyone a restful holiday, I didn't know what it meant. Was it a momentary lapse? Or a new beginning? The uncertainty was a low, constant hum beneath the surface of my days.

Now, the hum had been replaced by the high-pitched scream of a Formula 1 engine at full cry. Montreal. The Circuit Gilles Villeneuve was a brutal test of a car's mettle, and the first true battlefield for my new design philosophy. The air in the Mercedes garage was thick with a nervous, electric tension I could taste.

The final laps of the Canadian Grand Prix were unfolding on the wall of monitors in front of me, a high-speed drama of numbers and images. My heart hammered against my ribs in a frantic rhythm that matched the flashing sector times. Lewis was holding P3, fending off a charging Ferrari. George was in a solid P6, a vast improvement over the dismal midfield finishes that had plagued the first half of our season.

Every time Lewis sliced through the final chicane—the infamous "Wall of Champions"—I held my breath. The car looked planted, stable. The twitchiness from the early Silverstone runs was gone, replaced by a confidence I could see even on the telemetry. My fix, the mad theory about harmonic resonance, had held.

"Three laps to go," James said beside me, his voice a low, steady murmur. "Just bring it home, Lewis. Just bring it home."

The whole team stood transfixed, a silent congregation praying to the gods of motorsport. My eyes kept flickering to the main pit wall monitor where a camera was fixed on Toto. He stood like a statue, headset on, his expression an unreadable mask of intense concentration. His stillness was a stark contrast to the frantic energy churning in my own stomach. All summer, I had wondered what it would be like to be in his presence again. Now, we were separated by thirty feet of concrete and a chasm of unspoken words, and the tension was pulling me apart.

The checkered flag waved. Lewis crossed the line in third place, George in sixth. A roar went up in the garage. Engineers hugged, mechanics slapped each other on the back, and a wave of pure, unadulterated relief washed over me so powerfully my knees felt weak. I gripped the edge of my console, my knuckles white.

It wasn't a fluke. I had done it.

Amid the celebration, my gaze found the monitor again. Toto permitted himself a single, sharp nod. Then he took his headset off and turned, his eyes sweeping the garage. For a split second, his gaze locked with mine. There was no smile, only an intensity that cut through the noise and the distance, a silent acknowledgment that said more than words ever could. We did it. Then he was mobbed by ecstatic board members and investors who had flown in for the race, and he was once again the unapproachable Team Principal.

Later that evening, the team took over a chic, bustling restaurant in Old Montreal. The air buzzed with celebration, the clinking of glasses, and the easy laughter of people savoring a hard-won victory. Our result wasn't a win, but it felt like one. It was a turning point, a validation of the new path we were on. My path.

I found myself at a loud, cheerful table of engineers, nursing a gin and tonic and trying to feel like I belonged. The professional frost I'd endured upon my arrival had thawed completely, replaced by a warm, inclusive camaraderie. But I still felt like an observer, my attention repeatedly drawn across the room to the power table where Toto sat, flanked by sponsors in expensive suits. He was in his element, holding court with an easy, magnetic charisma. He looked powerful, confident, and a million miles away.

"Sloane."

I turned. Marcus was standing by my chair, a glass of red wine in his hand. The engineers at our table quieted, their gazes flicking between us. I braced myself.

"I just wanted to say it again, without the pressure of the garage," he began, his voice surprisingly earnest. He looked me directly in the eye. "What you did… finding that resonance issue… it was good work. I was wrong about you. And I was wrong about the wing. I'm sorry for how I handled things."

I was stunned. The sincerity in his voice was undeniable. This wasn't just a professional courtesy; it was a genuine admission. "Thank you, Marcus," I said, a real smile touching my lips. "I appreciate that."

"We all do," he said, gesturing to the celebrating room. "You gave us back our hope." He raised his glass to me in a small toast, then moved back to his own table.

The gesture settled something deep inside me. I was no longer the Ferrari reject. I wasn't an interloper. Marcus's apology was a public acceptance, a final seal of approval from the old guard. Feeling a surge of confidence, I decided I needed another drink.

"I'm heading to the bar," I told the table. "Anyone need anything?"

The bar was a long stretch of polished marble at the far end of the restaurant, a chaotic hub of activity. I squeezed my way through the crowd, flagging down a bartender. As I waited, I let the noise of the restaurant wash over me, a welcome distraction from the man I was trying so hard not to stare at.

"I was beginning to think you were avoiding me."

The voice was low, a deep and familiar rumble right behind my ear. The universe seemed to sway. Every nerve in my body went on high alert. I didn't have to turn to know it was him. His proximity was a physical force, a gravitational pull that warped the space around me. The background chatter of the restaurant faded to an indistinct buzz.

I turned slowly, my half-empty glass clutched in my hand. He was leaning against the bar, closer than was strictly necessary, a glass of water in his hand. He had shed his team polo for a crisp, dark shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He looked devastatingly handsome and utterly relaxed, but the intensity in his dark eyes was anything but.

"I wouldn't dream of it," I said, my voice steadier than I felt. "You looked busy with the people who sign the cheques."

A small smile played on his lips. "A necessary part of the job. They're pleased. Talking about revised projections." His gaze held mine. "It's one thing to see promising numbers on a data sheet all summer. It's another thing entirely to see them come to life on the track."

The subtext was a live current between us. He wasn't just talking about the car. "Data is just data until it defends against a Ferrari for fifteen laps," I countered, playing along. "Then it becomes reality."

"Indeed." The bartender placed my fresh gin and tonic on the counter between us. As I reached for it, his hand, still holding his water, shifted, and his knuckles brushed against mine. The contact was brief, accidental, but it sent a jolt clean up my arm. I pulled my hand back as if I'd been burned.

He didn't acknowledge it, but I saw a flicker in his eyes. He leaned a little closer, his voice dropping so that only I could hear him over the din. "And how was your summer, Sloane? Did you get any rest?"

The question was simple, personal, and it felt more intimate than any conversation we'd ever had. The professional armor was gone. This was Toto, not the Team Principal. "It was quiet," I said, swirling the ice in my glass, avoiding his direct gaze. "Lots of time to think."

A loaded silence hung between us. He knew exactly what I meant. He knew what I had been thinking about.

"Thinking is your specialty," he murmured, a hint of that rare, warm humor in his voice. "I trust it was productive."

"I ran a few new simulations. Found some potential areas for improvement for the high-downforce tracks," I said, deliberately retreating to the safety of work.

"I have no doubt," he said. "But that's not what I asked."

I finally looked up and met his gaze. The challenge was there, soft but insistent. He was pushing past the professional boundaries, asking for something more. My heart hammered against my ribs. This was dangerous territory, the kind he had explicitly forbidden.

"I thought about Silverstone," I admitted, my voice barely a whisper.

His expression softened. The last of his public facade fell away, leaving behind the man I'd seen in the dead of night at the factory—introspective, unguarded, and captivating. "I did as well," he confessed, his voice a low vibration that seemed to travel straight through the floor and up into my bones. "You did extraordinary work, Sloane. Today was proof."

"We did," I corrected him softly. "It was a team effort."

"Some members of the team are more vital than others," he countered, and the look he gave me stole the air from my lungs. It was a look of profound respect, of raw admiration, and it was aimed directly at me.

We stood there for a long moment, caught in our own bubble while the celebration swirled around us. The unspoken questions, the unresolved tension from that night in the factory and the Silverstone garage, hung in the air, thick and palpable. He was breaking his own rules, and I knew with a terrifying certainty that I was going to let him.

"Toto!" A voice called from his table, breaking the spell.

He blinked, and the Team Principal began to reassemble himself, brick by careful brick. He straightened up from the bar, putting a fraction more distance between us. "It seems I'm being summoned," he said, his voice once again crisp and professional, though the fire in his eyes remained. "Enjoy the evening. You've earned it."

He gave me one last, lingering look before turning and weaving his way back through the crowd. I watched him go, my hand trembling slightly as I lifted my glass. I took a long sip, the cold gin doing nothing to cool the heat that had flared up inside me.

I stayed at the bar for a few more minutes, trying to steady my racing pulse. When I returned to my table, the conversation was just as loud, the laughter just as easy, but everything felt different. I couldn't focus. My awareness was a taut line stretched across the room to where he sat.

A few minutes later, I felt his gaze on me. I looked up, and our eyes met across the crowded restaurant. The noise, the people, the celebration—it all faded away. There was only him, his dark eyes holding mine, a silent conversation passing between us that was more honest and more dangerous than anything we had ever said aloud.

The summer was over. The silence was broken. And I knew, with the kind of bone-deep certainty that precedes a fall, that the rules had just been rewritten.

Chapter Text

The euphoria from Montreal lasted exactly five days, a fragile bubble of optimism that burst the moment our cars hit the tarmac at the Red Bull Ring. The Austrian circuit was a different beast entirely. Where Montreal demanded brute force and stability under braking, Spielberg was a delicate, knife-edge balance across a short, brutally fast lap at high altitude. It was a topographical challenge that could make heroes of some cars and fools of others. From the first practice run, a cold knot of dread began to form in my stomach.

The idyllic green Styrian hillsides ringing the circuit were a mocking contrast to the ugly red numbers lighting up my telemetry screens. The car looked nervous, skittish, like a thoroughbred forced to run on uneven ground. Lewis and George, two of the most gifted drivers, were wrestling with it, their feedback over the radio a frustrating chorus of oversteer in the slow corners and a lazy, unresponsive front end in the fast ones. The beautiful, confidence-inspiring balance we'd found in Canada was gone, replaced by a jarring inconsistency that made the W15 look almost undrivable.

I tried to project an aura of calm, methodically treating it as a standard setup issue. We tweaked the ride height, adjusted the anti-roll bars, shifted the brake balance—we threw every conventional tool we had at the problem. But nothing worked. With every change, we'd fix one issue only to create a more severe one elsewhere. It felt like trying to patch a fundamentally leaking dam with chewing gum. The icy dread in my veins began to crystallize into professional terror. The wing, my beautiful, revolutionary wing, felt heavy and clumsy here, like a seabird trying to fly on a mountainside. The thinner air of the high altitude was wreaking havoc with its efficiency, creating parasitic drag without the compensatory downforce we desperately needed.

Qualifying was a public execution.

The garage, which had been so full of boisterous confidence in Montreal, was now a hollow cathedral of tense whispers and grim faces. The mechanics moved with a forced, joyless precision. I stood at my console, my stomach a tight, acid-filled knot, as I watched Lewis and George fight a losing battle on the track. Every time one of them scraped over the unforgiving sausage kerbs at the exit of a corner, a shower of sparks lighting up the chassis, I physically flinched as if I'd been struck. They were driving their hearts out, pushing the car beyond its limits, but it was fighting them every inch of the way.

I felt a hundred pairs of eyes on me, even if no one was looking directly. It was in the way the other engineers avoided my station, in the somber quiet that had replaced the usual pre-session banter. My eyes kept darting to the pit wall, where Toto stood like a thundercloud in human form. His jaw was clenched so tight I could see the muscle flexing from fifty feet away. He wasn't looking at me, but I felt the heat of his disappointment like a physical radiation, a crushing pressure wave that made it hard to breathe.

We barely scraped through Q1, our drivers advancing by the slimmest of margins. The momentary relief was immediately suffocated by the impending doom of Q2. Other teams were finding time, dialing in their cars. We were going backwards. My world narrowed to the timing screen, a relentless cascade of green and purple sectors for everyone but us.

We didn't make it out of Q2. Lewis was P11, George P13. It was a catastrophe. A humiliation. The buoyant hope from Canada felt like a distant, naive dream. As the cameras zoomed in on Toto's stony face, his expression an impenetrable mask of fury, I saw our investors in the back of the garage. The men who had been shaking his hand so vigorously in Montreal now wore expressions of confusion and concern. The laughter from that celebratory dinner echoed in my mind like a cruel joke.

The garage was silent as the cars were wheeled back in. Not a celebratory silence, but a heavy, funereal one. The only sound was the clicking of keyboards and the low murmur of the commentators from the overhead television, dissecting our comprehensive failure for the world to see. I felt a profound, isolating shame settle over me. I was the architect of this disaster. My wing. My philosophy. My failure.

The post-qualifying debrief was held in a stark, windowless room behind the garage. The air was thick with unspoken recriminations. I stood near the back, the data on the screen confirming everything I already knew in excruciating detail. The drag levels were sky-high. The aero balance was a mess.

I couldn't let them speculate. I couldn't let them blame the drivers or the mechanics or anyone else. This was mine to own.

"This is my fault," I said, my voice cutting through the tense quiet. Everyone turned to look at me. I pushed off the wall and stepped forward, forcing myself to meet Toto's gaze. He was standing at the front of the room, his arms crossed, his face carved from ice. "I fucked up. The aero philosophy is too sensitive to the altitude. I didn't account for how much the reduced air density would affect the outwash, and it's created a massive imbalance. The drag penalty… it's all on me."

Toto's eyes were black holes. His anger wasn't hot and explosive; it was a cold, terrifying pressure that seemed to suck the warmth from the room. He didn't look at me directly, but at the offending numbers on the screen, as if they had personally betrayed him.

"Unacceptable," he ground out, the word a piece of granite. "After Canada, this… this is a regression. We look like amateurs. Friday performance is for learning. Saturday is for performing." He finally turned his head, his gaze sweeping over me without truly seeing me, before landing on the engineering group as a whole. "I don't want excuses. I want solutions. Fix it before the race tomorrow."

The words, so impersonal and directed at the problem, lanced through me like a blade. Because I was the problem. His disappointment was a heavy cloak, suffocating me, and I felt myself shrink under its weight.

Then, something unexpected happened.

"It's not her fault, Toto," Marcus said, stepping forward slightly. My head snapped up to look at him. He stood tall, his expression firm, meeting the Team Principal's icy glare without flinching. "The design philosophy is sound. We underestimated the setup window for these conditions. The simulations didn't flag this aggressively enough. This is on all of us in the aero department, not just on Sloane. We will fix it."

A stunned silence followed his declaration. My former antagonist, my harshest critic, was now my staunchest defender. He was taking a bullet for me, distributing the blame I had tried to shoulder alone. It was a profound act of loyalty, and it sent a shockwave of gratitude through me so intense it almost brought tears to my eyes.

Toto looked at Marcus, his expression unreadable. He gave a curt, sharp nod. "Then fix it," he repeated, his voice dangerously low. He turned and walked out of the room without another word, leaving a vacuum in his wake.

The all-nighter that followed was fueled by desperation and caffeine. The garage, usually packed up and quiet after qualifying, was a hive of focused, frantic activity. A small group of us—me, Marcus, James, and a few other key performance engineers—colonized the engineering island, turning it into our war room. The big whiteboard was rolled out, and soon it was covered in a chaotic scrawl of setup diagrams, suspension geometries, and aerodynamic flow charts.

It felt strangely familiar, a distorted echo of my late nights with Toto at the factory. But this time, Marcus was my partner, his deep well of experience a perfect counterpoint to my theoretical modeling. We argued, we brainstormed, we threw radical ideas at the wall. For an hour, we chased a dead end, convinced a change to the rear suspension could solve the issue, only for the simulation to prove it would make the car even worse. The frustration mounted. The clock was ticking.

Hours bled into one another. The world outside the garage disappeared. There was only the problem, the hum of the computers, and the low, intense murmur of our voices.

Around 2 AM, deep in a complex simulation that was threatening to lead us down another blind alley, I felt a presence beside me. I looked up, expecting Marcus with another question.

It was Toto.

He stood there silently, holding two mugs. He placed one on the corner of my desk without a word. The rich, dark scent of strong coffee filled the air. It wasn't the sludge from the communal machine; this was the good stuff from his private cappuccino maker in his office. It was light, with just a splash of milk. Exactly how I took it. A detail he had no reason to remember, but did.

My throat felt tight. "Thank you," I whispered.

He didn't reply. He just met my eyes for a long, heavy moment. His face was etched with exhaustion, but the cold anger from the debrief was gone. In its place was something else, something I couldn't name. It wasn't an apology—his role as team leader would never allow for that kind of admission. But it was an acknowledgment. A truce. The silent gesture spoke volumes more than words ever could. I know you're working. I'm not angry at you. I trust you. Then, as silently as he had appeared, he was gone, retreating to the shadows of his office at the back of the garage.

I wrapped my cold hands around the warm mug, the heat seeping into my skin. The coffee was a peace offering. It was a lifeline.

We found a potential solution around 3:30 AM. A progressive setup change, shifting the aero balance dramatically forward and running a steeper, more aggressive angle on the mainplane of the wing. It was a massive gamble. The models suggested it would work, giving the drivers the front-end bite they needed without sacrificing too much straight-line speed. But it could just as easily make the car even more unstable. There was no way to know for sure without track data. We could only trust the numbers. I started running the final, crucial simulations, my eyes burning from staring at the screen.

I was so focused I didn't notice him approach the second time. A small, crinkling sound on my desk made me jump. He was there again, a silent phantom in the fluorescent twilight of the garage. This time, he placed a protein bar and a sealed bottle of water next to my keyboard.

He lingered for a half-second longer this time. His gaze didn't meet mine; instead, it fell on my face, a fleeting look of something that resembled profound concern, before he turned and disappeared back into the darkness.

I stared at the protein bar. A simple, practical object. It was more than just food. The coffee had been a gesture of professional respect. This was different. This was personal. This was a quiet, direct command: Take care of yourself. I need you to be okay.

The emotional whiplash of the last twelve hours was staggering. The public humiliation of qualifying, the sting of his cold fury, the unexpected warmth of Marcus's loyalty, and now this—these quiet, intensely intimate acts of care from the man who had verbally flayed me hours before.

I finally understood. When the pressure was on, when the world was watching, he was the Team Principal. He was ruthless, demanding, and his disappointment was a weapon. But in the quiet hours of the night, when the only audience was the sleeping race cars around us, he was just Toto. A man who communicated not with apologies, but with coffee. A man who showed he cared not with words, but with a silent offering of sustenance, a silent plea for me to keep going.

I picked up the protein bar, my fingers tracing the foil wrapper. The problem on my screen was no longer the only complex equation I was trying to solve. When I finally left the garage as the sun was beginning to stain the sky, I felt a strange sense of clarity. He hadn't just given me something to eat. He'd given me a piece of himself to hold onto. And today, I would carry it into battle.

The race dawned upon us. The garage was quiet, but it was a different kind of quiet from the day before. The funereal gloom had been replaced by a tense, focused energy. Every mechanic, every engineer, knew the car on the grid was a science experiment, a desperate Hail Mary born from a sleepless night.

I stood at my station, a fresh coffee in hand—this one sourced by me—and watched the cars line up. My heart was a slow, heavy drum in my chest. All the simulations in the world couldn't predict the chaos of the first lap, the tyre degradation over a full race stint, or the dozen other variables that could render our work useless.

The lights went out, and the race began. My focus narrowed to the screen, my entire being pouring into the data streams. The first few laps were agonizing. The car wasn't a rocket ship. We weren't slicing through the field. But we weren't going backwards, either. It was stable. The drivers weren't fighting it. Lewis held his position, and George even gained a place.

Our gamble had held. It wasn't a silver bullet, but it was a shield.

As the race wore on, a different narrative emerged. Our tyre wear was better than the teams around us. The setup, while not blisteringly fast over one lap, was consistent. Drivers on more aggressive strategies started to fall back as their tyres gave up. Lewis and George, methodical and relentless, started to climb.

It wasn't glamorous. It was a gritty, hard-fought battle of inches. Lewis made a brilliant opportunistic move on a Haas into Turn 3. George defended like a lion against an Alpine for three straight laps. Each small victory on track sent a tiny spark of relief through the garage.

I found myself breathing in sync with the team, a collective will pushing our cars forward. I saw Toto on the pit wall, leaning forward, utterly absorbed. His earlier anger had been sublimated into this pure, unwavering focus. He was living every corner with his drivers.

When the checkered flag fell, Lewis was P8, and George was P11. Three positions gained for Lewis, two for George. It wasn't a podium. It wasn't a headline-grabbing triumph. But from where we had been twenty-four hours ago, it was a miracle. We had salvaged four points from the wreckage of a disaster.

The mood in the garage was relief. There were no wild cheers, just deep sighs, exhausted smiles, and appreciative pats on the back. We had survived. The team started the process of packing up, the organized chaos of the post-race teardown beginning around me.

I stayed at my station for a few minutes, staring at the final race trace, the clean lines a testament to our frantic work. The whiteboard, our battlefield from the night before, had been wiped clean, leaving no trace of the desperate equations that had saved our race.

"A recovery."

Toto's voice, low and close behind me, made me straighten up. I turned. He was standing there, his headset off, his team polo looking rumpled. The hard lines of the Team Principal had softened, replaced by a weary satisfaction.

"Points. From P8," he stated, less a celebration and more a statement of fact. He leaned one hand on the desk beside mine, boxing me in, creating a small, quiet island in the bustling garage. "Your gamble paid off..."

His eyes held mine.

"Although the best gambles usually do," he finished, his voice dropping a notch.

The "your" was deliberate, but I wouldn't take all the credit. Not after last night. "Our gamble," I corrected softly. "I had help."

A small, tired smile touched his lips. "Last night… during the worst of it… you looked like you were ready to go to war with physics itself."

The memory of his silent support, of the coffee and the protein bar, warmed my cheeks. "Physics is an unforgiving opponent," I replied, my voice a little breathless. "You have to be willing to lose some sleep if you want to beat it."

His gaze intensified, becoming something more personal, more searching. "I've found," he said slowly, "it's often the battles fought in the quietest hours that count the most."

The words landed directly in the center of my chest. Was this his way of acknowledging everything that had passed between us—the late nights, the non-verbal gestures, the unspoken understanding? Was he finally saying it, without saying it? That was real. That mattered. The air between us grew thick and heavy, charged with the question and the same electric potential I'd felt in Montreal.

He noticed a stray strand of auburn hair that had escaped my ponytail and was stuck to my cheek. He lifted his hand, his intention clear. For a heart-stopping second, I thought he was going to tuck it behind my ear. But he stopped, his fingers hovering an inch from my skin. The restraint was more potent than any touch.

He let his hand drop. "Get some rest, Sloane," he commanded, but the hardness was gone from his tone. It was a velvet order, laced with genuine concern. "That's an order."

A small smile tugged at my own lips. The playful use of his authority in such a caring way was a dizzying mix. "Yes, sir," I whispered.

He held my gaze for one final, long moment, a thousand conversations packed into the silent space between us. Then he nodded once and turned, disappearing into the orderly chaos of the pack-up, leaving me with a racing heart and the lingering heat of his proximity.

I watched him go, a strange sense of balance settling over me. The disaster of yesterday and the gritty success of today. The harsh Team Principal and the intensely caring man. I was beginning to understand that they weren't two different people. They were two faces of the same, complex, brilliant whole. And I was drawn to every single part of it.

Chapter Text

My laptop screen glowed like a beacon in the dim light of my flat, the aerodynamic models for Suzuka spinning endlessly in their digital wind tunnel. The Japanese Grand Prix was still four days away, but I'd been obsessing over the data since we'd returned from Austria. The high-speed corners of the figure-eight circuit demanded a completely different philosophy from the Red Bull Ring, and I was determined not to repeat the disaster of qualifying P11.

The notification chimed at exactly 8:47 PM, cutting through my concentration like a blade.

FLIGHT CANCELED - SEVERE WEATHER CONDITIONS

The words stared back at me from my phone screen, innocent black text that might as well have been a death sentence. A surge of pure adrenaline flooded my system, followed immediately by the kind of bone-deep frustration that made my hands shake.

I was already moving before my rational mind caught up, fingers flying across my laptop keyboard with the desperateness of someone whose entire career depended on being exactly where they needed to be, exactly when they needed to be there. Every airline website. Every route. Every connection through Dubai, Frankfurt, Amsterdam. The reality dawned on me like ice water: a massive tech conference in Tokyo had consumed every available seat. The earliest flight I could secure wouldn't land me in Japan until Wednesday night, stealing two critical days of on-site preparation.

Panic began to bubble beneath my carefully maintained exterior, a acidic burn in my chest that threatened to overwhelm my engineering brain's attempts at logical problem-solving.

I grabbed my phone and dialed Marcus, my frustration evident in the sharp way I pressed each number.

"Marcus, I have a situation," I said the moment he picked up, not bothering with pleasantries.

"That doesn't sound good," he replied, and I could hear the concern creeping into his voice. "What's happened?"

"My flight's been canceled. Weather. Everything to Tokyo is booked solid—there's some massive tech conference eating up every seat. I've tried everything short of chartering a fishing boat across the Pacific." The words tumbled out in a rush, half-venting and half seeking the impossible solution I knew he couldn't provide.

"Christ, that's a nightmare," Marcus said, and I could practically hear him running calculations in his head. "Okay, so you've tried every airline? Even the obscure ones with terrible layovers through three different continents?"

"Marcus, I've tried everything. I'm going to miss nearly two full days of setup work. The aero package for Suzuka is completely different from Austria—"

"Right, right," he interrupted, and there was a knowing pause that made my stomach clench. "Have you spoken to Toto yet?"

The question hit me like a physical blow. "Why would I call Toto? It's not his problem. This is my mess to sort out."

"Sloane." Marcus's voice carried the patient tone of someone explaining something obvious to a brilliant but occasionally oblivious colleague. "You're his lead aerodynamicist, and you're stranded on the wrong continent four days before a critical race weekend. It is absolutely his problem. Call him."

The line went dead, leaving me staring at my phone in the sudden quiet of my flat. I checked the time: 9:00 PM. It felt too late, too much of an imposition. My internal monologue wrestled with the idea, each argument more pathetic than the last. He's the Team Principal, not my personal travel agent.

But Marcus's words echoed in my mind with the relentless logic of a mathematical proof. I was essential to the team's performance. My absence would directly impact our chances. It wasn't personal; it was professional necessity.

With a deep breath that did nothing to calm my hammering heart, I found Toto's number in my contacts and pressed call before I could lose my nerve.

He answered on the fifth ring, his voice different from the commanding tone I knew from the trackside—deeper, more relaxed, maybe a little rough with exhaustion.

"Sloane?" There was surprise in his voice, but not annoyance. If anything, he sounded almost pleased to hear from me.

I cringed internally at the late hour, at my own desperation. "Toto, hi. I am so sorry to bother you this late, but I have a situation."

"What's happened?" The shift in his tone was immediate, from personal warmth to focused concern. The Team Principal was already analyzing the problem.

I explained the canceled flight and my inability to rebook, trying to sound as composed as possible while my world crumbled around the edges. Each word felt like an admission of failure, proof that I couldn't handle the basic logistics of my job.

There was no hesitation from him. No sense of it being an inconvenience or an imposition. He immediately shifted into problem-solving mode, but with a personal touch that caught me off guard.

"Stop," he said, cutting through my explanation with gentle authority. "Don't book anything. It's handled."

"What?" The word came out sharper than I intended. "What do you mean?"

"There's a flight leaving from Farnborough tomorrow morning. Lewis, George, and myself are on it. There is plenty of room. Send your passport details to my assistant. A car will pick you up at seven."

The casual simplicity of his solution left me stunned into silence. In thirty seconds, he had obliterated a problem that had consumed my entire evening. The relief was so overwhelming it made my knees weak, but underneath it was something else—a dangerous warmth at being folded so effortlessly into his inner circle.

"Sloane? Are you still there? Or have you already started packing?" The hint of teasing in his voice made my stomach flip.

I found my voice, though it came out smaller than I intended. "I... thank you. Seriously, Toto. You didn't have to do that."

"Nonsense," he replied, and I could hear the smile in his voice. "Can't have my lead aero stranded continents away. Now, get some sleep," his voice dropping to something that felt almost intimate. "Be at the airfield by eight."

"Goodnight, Toto," I whispered, not trusting my voice to carry anything stronger.

"Goodnight, Sloane."

The line went dead, leaving me standing in my kitchen with a racing heart and the sudden, overwhelming realization that eleven hours, I would be trapped in a metal tube with him for fourteen hours. The thought should have terrified me. Instead, it sent a thrill through my chest that I had no business feeling.

The alarm went off at 5:30 AM, but I’d been awake long before then, my nerves crackling beneath my skin—not from the lack of sleep, but from something far more unsettling. On the way to Farnborough, I had my driver stop at a high-end coffee shop in the village. I ordered my usual cappuccino, then hesitated at the counter, staring at the menu board.

After a moment's internal debate, I ordered a second cappuccino. It was a small act of reciprocation, a way to rebalance the dynamic between us. He had solved my crisis with a phone call; the least I could do was bring him decent coffee.

The private airfield was a world apart from the madness of commercial aviation—quiet, sleek, and intimidatingly exclusive. A stark black jet with the Mercedes star emblazoned on its tail sat on the tarmac like a sleeping predator, all clean lines and barely contained power.

Toto was standing just outside the aircraft steps, his phone pressed to his ear, deep in what sounded like an intense German conversation. Even from a distance, I could see the tension in his shoulders, the sharp gestures that accompanied his rapid-fire words.

He saw me approaching across the tarmac, and his eyes locked onto mine with an intensity that made my steps falter. He didn't look away, didn't break eye contact even as he continued his conversation. His gaze tracked my every step, unblinking and unwavering, as if I were the only thing in his field of vision that mattered.

As I got within a few feet of him, he held up a hand to his caller, said a curt "I have to go," in English, and hung up without ceremony. The way he’d hung up without hesitation spoke volumes—whatever had been so urgent seconds before, I was the priority now.

The realization sent a dangerous flutter through my chest.

"Good morning," The words came out steady, my tone smooth as polished steel. I held up the extra cup with what I hoped was a confident smile.

His gaze dropped to the cappuccino in my hand, and he raised a single, skeptical eyebrow. The expression was so perfectly him—authoritative and amused in equal measure.

"For me?" he asked, as if the concept of someone bringing him coffee was entirely foreign.

"As a thank you," I replied. "For saving the day."

He took the cup, his fingers brushing mine in the exchange. The brush of his skin against mine was like a live current—sharp, unexpected, and everywhere at once. My breath hitched, my body reacting before my brain could catch up. He didn't say thank you, but the small, appreciative nod he gave was worth more than a dozen polite acknowledgments.

He gestured toward the plane with his free hand. "After you."

I stepped into the cabin, and my breath caught. Every surface whispered money without screaming it—buttery leather seats the color of fresh cream, wood panels that caught the morning light like honey. The silence pressed in, thick and expensive, making me feel like an intruder in some exclusive sanctuary. Lewis and George were already settled near the back, deep in conversation about something that had them both laughing. They looked up as I boarded, offering friendly waves before returning to their discussion.

I chose a seat near the front, far enough away to give them privacy but close enough to the galley to feel useful. I pulled out my laptop and settled in, determined to make productive use of the flight time. The Suzuka data wasn't going to analyze itself.

A few hours into the flight, after the meal service and the initial bustle had died down, I saw the seat across from me depress. I looked up to find Toto settling in, a glass of water in his hand and an expression of casual interest on his face.

"So," he said, his voice carrying the easy confidence of someone making conversation, "have you been to Suzuka before?"

"Once, for a conference, but I didn't get to see much beyond the hotel ballroom and the airport," I replied, grateful for the safe, professional territory. "I'm hoping to actually see some of Japan this time, if there's a moment to breathe between sessions."

He leaned back in his seat, a reflective look crossing his features. "You travel all over the world, but you never really see it, do you? Just airports, hotels, and race circuits." His dark eyes met mine. "Is there a place you've always wanted to go? No work involved. Just for yourself."

The question caught me completely off guard. My professional mask slipped before I could stop it, revealing something softer and more vulnerable underneath. The personal nature of his curiosity felt like stepping into uncharted territory.

A small, sad smile touched my lips before I could suppress it. "Florence," I admitted, my voice quieter than I intended. "My mother was an art history major. She always talked about taking me to see Botticelli's Primavera at the Uffizi Gallery. She had prints of it all over our house growing up."

My voice caught slightly on the past tense, the old wound still tender after all these years. "We just... never got around to it before she passed."

He didn't offer pity or empty condolences. Instead, he moved from the seat across from me to the one beside me, closing the distance between us with deliberate intent. The air shifted, becoming charged with his proximity.

"I understand that feeling," he said, his voice gentle and stripped of its usual authority. "Of things left undone." He paused, looking down at his hands before meeting my eyes again. "My father died when I was very young. For years, I was driven by this... this anger that he wasn't there. That I had to become the man of the house too soon. Every success was about proving something to a ghost."

His confession was a revelation, a glimpse behind the carefully constructed facade of the successful Team Principal. I saw the boy who had lost his father, not just the man who had built an empire.

"It took me a very long time to realize," he continued, "that I was chasing a memory, and that living for the dead isn't the same as truly living."

The vulnerability in his admission made my chest tight with emotion. I found myself responding with my own deeper truth, words I'd never spoken aloud to anyone.

"I think that's my biggest fear," I whispered. "Not failing at work, but waking up one day and realizing all I've done is work. That I've optimized every part of my life for a career and missed... everything else. That I never made it to Florence."

We were sitting close now, our shoulders occasionally brushing with the gentle movement of the aircraft. He held my gaze, his expression filled with a profound understanding that made me feel seen in a way I'd never experienced.

"You are not the kind of person who misses things, Sloane," he said, his voice a low murmur that seemed to resonate in my bones. "You see the details no one else does." A small, almost imperceptible smile played on his lips. "And for what it's worth... I think a mind that can appreciate the complex beauty of airflow over a rear wing would be quite taken with a Botticelli."

The compliment was personal and landed with the force of a physical touch. Heat flooded my cheeks, and I felt exposed in the most wonderful way.

To break the lingering intensity, I reached for my laptop and pulled up a movie, keeping the volume low. The comfortable aftermath of our conversation settled around us like a warm blanket. The exhaustion of last night, combined with the low hum of the engines and the immense sense of safety I felt beside him, began to take its toll.

My eyelids grew heavy despite my best efforts to stay alert. The numbers on my screen blurred together, and I found myself drifting, my body relaxing for the first time in days.

I woke with a start, not from a noise but from a gradual return to consciousness. The first thing I registered was warmth—a solid, comfortable support under my cheek. Then came the scent, clean and expensive and utterly masculine. My eyes fluttered open, and the reality of my situation hit me like a lightning bolt.

My head was resting on Toto's shoulder.

Mortification flooded through me, hot and immediate. I jerked upright, my cheeks flaming with embarrassment.

"Oh my god," I stammered, my voice thick with sleep and horror. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to—"

He stirred beside me, not looking angry or annoyed, but rather... peaceful. A slight, sleepy smile touched his lips, transforming his usually serious features into something softer, more approachable.

"It's okay, Sloane," he said, his voice a low, gravelly murmur that sent shivers down my spine. "You needed the rest."

The simple acceptance in his tone, the complete lack of judgment, made my heart skip. He wasn't embarrassed or uncomfortable. If anything, he seemed... content.

He glanced at his watch, the simple, efficient motion breaking the spell that had settled over us. "We'll be landing in an hour." He stood, straightening his shirt with practiced movements, and the Team Principal began to reassemble himself before my eyes. "I should go wake the drivers."

His lips quirked—just barely, the phantom of a smile that never fully formed—before he turned away, his polished shoes silent against the cabin floor. The space he left behind felt charged, like the air after a storm, and I pressed my fingers to my cheek where the heat of his shoulder still lingered. Stupid, stupid heart. It wasn’t just racing. It was doing backflips.

The plane taxied to a stop, and the cabin door opened with a hydraulic hiss. The humid Tokyo air rushed in, thick and heavy after the climate-controlled sterility of the plane. I took a deep breath, the scent of jet fuel and distant rain grounding me. This was real. We were here. No more canceled flights, no more frantic rebookings. Just the race ahead and the work to be done.

A sleek black Mercedes-Benz V-Class waited for us on the tarmac, its engine idling. The driver, dressed in a crisp black suit, stood holding the door open. Toto stepped out first, his movements effortless despite the long flight. He turned back to us, his expression unreadable behind his aviator sunglasses, and gestured for us to follow.

The drive to the hotel was a rush of neon and concrete, Tokyo’s skyline rising around us like some cyberpunk dream. The city pulsed with energy, a stark contrast to the quiet exhaustion inside the van. Lewis and George chatted quietly about the track, their voices a low murmur. I stared out the window, watching the rain-slicked streets reflect the glow of a thousand signs, my mind already racing through the setup changes we’d need to make for Suzuka’s unique challenges.

We pulled up to the Mandarin Oriental, its towering facade a beacon of understated luxury. The doormen rushed to open our doors, their bows deep and practiced. The lobby was all polished marble and soft lighting. I followed the others to the check-in desk, my roller bag bumping against my legs, my laptop bag slung over my shoulder like a security blanket.

The check-in process was smooth. The clerk handed me a key card with a kind smile, her English flawless. “You’re on the twenty-second floor, Ms. Kingsley. Enjoy your stay.”

I glanced at Toto as he collected his own key, but his face was unreadable. The elevator ride was a study in contrasts. Lewis and George were still talking, their voices animated as they dissected the weekend’s plan. Toto stood beside me, silent and still, his presence a solid, warm weight at my side. I could sense his gaze on me, even though I refused to look at him, my eyes fixed on the glowing floor numbers above the doors.

Lewis and George exited first, their laughter echoing down the hallway as they disappeared around a corner. The doors slid shut behind them, leaving Toto and me alone in the mirrored confines of the elevator. The sudden silence was deafening. I could hear my own breath, could feel the heat radiating off him. My pulse kicked up, my skin prickling with awareness.

The elevator ascended smoothly. Twenty. Twenty-one. Twenty-two.

The doors opened with a quiet ding.

I stepped out first, my roller bag thumping against the carpeted floor. The hallway stretched before us, plush and quiet, the kind of hushed luxury that made you want to whisper. I glanced at the room numbers—2204, 2206, 2208—and froze.

Toto stopped beside me, his key card hovering near the lock of 2207.

Directly across from mine.

A beat of silence. My stomach flipped. Coincidence. It has to be.

I swallowed hard, forcing my voice to sound casual. “Looks like we’re neighbors.”

His dark eyes flicked to me, unreadable. “So it seems.”

No smirk. No innuendo. Just that maddening neutrality, as if the universe hadn’t just conspired to put us a few meters apart for the next three nights.

I fumbled with my key card, the plastic slipping in my fingers. The lock beeped green, and I pushed the door open, turning back just in time to catch Toto watching me—really watching me—before his gaze snapped to his own door.

“Goodnight, Sloane,” he said, his voice low, rough with exhaustion.

I should have just nodded. Should have retreated into my room and let the moment dissolve.

But the words spilled out before I could stop them. “Are you hungry?”

His eyebrows lifted slightly, surprise flickering across his face. “Very.”

I gestured vaguely down the hallway. “There’s a restaurant downstairs. Something quiet. I was thinking of grabbing a bite.” I hesitated, suddenly unsure. “If you wanted to join me.”

A pause. His gaze searched mine, dark and unreadable. Then, slowly, he nodded. “I’d like that.”

Relief flooded through me, warm and giddy. “Great. I just need to—” I gestured to my room, suddenly hyper-aware of how rumpled I must look. “Shower. Thirty minutes?”

“Thirty minutes,” he agreed.

Chapter Text

The shower water pounded against my skin, hot enough to turn my thoughts to steam. I stood there longer than necessary, letting the heat loosen the knots in my shoulders, the tension that had settled there since the moment I’d invited him to dinner. What the hell was I thinking?

I knew exactly what I was thinking. I was thinking about the way his shoulder had felt beneath my cheek. The way his voice had dropped when he’d said you needed the rest, like it mattered to him whether I was exhausted or not. The way he’d looked at me in the elevator—like I was something rare, something worth studying.

I turned off the water with a sharp twist of my wrist and wrapped myself in a towel, the terrycloth rough against my flushed skin. The mirror was fogged, but I could still make out the shape of myself—wide eyes, damp hair curling at the edges, lips parted like I’d been caught doing something forbidden.

Because you have.

I dressed quickly, pulling on a simple black wrap dress that clung just enough to feel intentional without screaming trying too hard. The fabric was soft against my skin, the neckline dipping low enough to be interesting but high enough to still feel professional. I slipped into low heels—just enough to give me confidence, not enough to make it look like I was performing.

A swipe of mascara. A dab of lip stain. A deep breath.

When I stepped out of my room, Toto was already there, leaning against the wall across from his door. He looked up as the latch clicked, his gaze sharp and assessing, taking in the dress, the heels, the way my hair fell damp against my shoulders. His expression didn’t change, but something in his stance shifted—like he’d been holding his breath and only just remembered to exhale.

“You look—” He stopped himself, cleared his throat. “Nice.”

The word was so inadequate it was almost funny. I could see the struggle in his face, the way his jaw tightened like he was biting back something else. Something more.

“Thanks,” I said, locking my door with a beep. The sound was too loud in the quiet hallway. “You clean up pretty well yourself.”

It was an understatement. The khakis were tailored, the black long-sleeve button-up fitted in a way that made it clear he didn’t just throw on whatever was closest. The fabric stretched slightly over his shoulders, the sleeves rolled up to his forearms—strong, veined, the kind of hands that could steer a billion-dollar empire or, if he wanted, unravel me completely.

We walked to the elevator in silence, the space between us charged but careful. He stood just far enough away that our arms didn’t brush, close enough that I could feel the heat of him. The elevator doors slid open, and he gestured for me to enter first, his hand hovering near the small of my back—almost touching, almost guiding, but not quite.

The restaurant was dimly lit, all warm wood and soft jazz, the kind of place where deals were made and confessions slipped out over expensive wine. The hostess led us to a corner table, secluded enough to feel private, elegant enough to feel like a date.

However, this wasn't a date.

Two colleagues sharing dinner.

Nothing more.

Toto pulled out my chair before I could do it myself, the gesture so smooth it was clearly habit. I sat, hyperaware of the way his fingers grazed the back of my chair as he pushed it in. The scrape of wood against marble was the only sound for a heartbeat.

Then he took his seat across from me, unfolding his napkin with deliberate precision. His movements were controlled, but there was an edge to them tonight, like he was fighting the urge to rush.

The waiter appeared, handing us menus. Toto didn’t even open his. He just looked at me, one eyebrow slightly raised. “Red or white?”

I hesitated. “Red, if it’s bold.”

A corner of his mouth lifted. “When are you not?”

The question hung there, heavy with implication. I ignored the way my pulse jumped. “Depends on the company.”

His gaze darkened, just for a second, before he turned to the waiter. “A bottle of the Cabernet Sauvignon, please.”

The waiter nodded and disappeared.

Toto turned his attention back to me, one eyebrow slightly raised. “I hope you don’t mind that I ordered for us."⁷

I shook my head, trying to ignore the way my pulse jumped at the assumption—that he chose a bottle he thought I’d like, that he’d take charge without asking. A dangerous part of me liked that. “Not at all.”

The wine arrived, and Toto went through the ritual of tasting it, his movements precise, his focus entirely on the glass. Then he poured for me first, the deep ruby liquid swirling into my glass. He waited, watching as I took my first sip.

It was perfect—rich, layered, the kind of wine that made you want to slow down and savor. I couldn’t stop the grin that spread across my face. “God, that’s good.”

His lips curved, just slightly, at the corners. “I’m glad.” His voice was low, rough at the edges. “I like it when you smile.”

The words hit me like a physical touch. Heat flooded my cheeks, and I ducked my head, suddenly fascinated by the wineglass in my hands.

I exhaled, forcing my shoulders to relax. “You come here often?”

“Often enough to know their wine list.” He leaned back slightly, studying me. “You’ve been to Tokyo before.”

It wasn't a question. I tilted my head. "Ferrari brought me for the race two years ago. But I barely left the paddock." I smirked. "Shocking, I know."

“Not at all.” His voice was dry. “You strike me as the type who’d rather be in a wind tunnel than a temple.”

I laughed, surprising myself. “Is that a bad thing?”

“Depends.” He mirrored my posture, chin resting on his steepled fingers. “Do you ever do anything just because you want to?”

The question caught me off guard. I traced the rim of my wine glass, the condensation cool against my fingertip. “I went skydiving once.”

His eyebrows shot up. “You?”

“Don’t sound so shocked.” I grinned. “I like the math of it. Terminal velocity, drag coefficients—”

“—you’re insufferable,” he finished, but he was smiling now, really smiling, and it did something dangerous to my stomach.

“Says the man who probably calculates risk-reward ratios before he orders dessert.”

“Of course I do.” He leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Life’s too short for bad decisions.”

“Spoken like a true team principal.” I matched his posture, our faces suddenly closer. The air between us thickened. “What about you? Ever do anything reckless?”

His smile faded, just slightly. For a second, I thought he wouldn’t answer. Then—

“I bought a team.”

I blinked. “That’s not reckless. That’s strategic.”

“Not the way I did it.” His voice dropped, rough at the edges. “I walked into a boardroom with half a plan and a full bank account and told them they were selling to me. No due diligence. No second opinions.” His fingers curled around the stem of his wine glass. “Just gut instinct.”

I stared at him. “That’s…”

“Stupid?” He shrugged. “Maybe. But it worked.”

Toto took a slow sip of wine, watching me over the rim. “Your turn.”

“For what?”

“The full story to how you ended up here.” He set the glass down. “Ferrari to Mercedes isn’t a lateral move. So why?”

I exhaled, tracing the base of my glass. “I started in aerospace, actually. Thought I’d design planes.”

“But?”

“But I interned at Haas during uni.” I smiled at the memory. “First time I stood in a garage during a race weekend, I was hooked. The noise, the speed—the way every tiny adjustment could mean the difference between winning and not.” I shook my head. “Ferrari was the dream, obviously. The history, the passion…”

“But?”

I met his gaze. “But passion doesn’t pay the bills when the people in charge won’t listen to you.”

His expression darkened. “They didn’t respect your work.”

“They respected it enough to keep me.” I swirled my wine, watching the deep red catch the light. “But I was always the girl in the room. The one who had to fight for every word. After a while, you get tired of trying to prove yourself.”

"And James offered to bring you to Mercedes."

I nodded.

Toto was quiet for a long moment. Then—

“Good.” His voice was low, rough. “Our team shirts look better on you anyway.”

Heat flooded my cheeks. I ducked my head, hiding behind my glass. “Smooth.”

“Ferrari's mistake is our gain."

Before I could respond, the waiter reappeared, asking if we were ready to order.

We both chose quickly—Toto, some kind of seared duck with cherry reduction; me, a miso-glazed black cod. The waiter disappeared, leaving us alone again, the air between us thicker than before.

Toto reached for his wine, swirling it slowly. "Tell me something that's not in your personnel file."

I raised an eyebrow. "Getting personal now?"

"We're having dinner." His lips curved slightly. "Seems appropriate."

I considered this, rolling the stem of my glass between my fingers. "I'm terrified of butterflies."

He blinked. "What?"

"Butterflies. Can't stand them." I shrugged, enjoying the genuine surprise on his face. "Something about the way they move—all erratic and unpredictable. Give me a hornet any day."

"That's..." He shook his head, laughing—a real laugh, not the controlled version I'd heard in meetings. "That's the strangest phobia I've ever heard."

I took a sip of wine, using the moment to steady myself. "Your turn."

"For what?"

"Something not in your file."

"I hate flying."

My eyebrows shot up. "Seriously? You're on a plane every other week."

"Doesn't make it easier." He traced the rim of his glass. "Twenty-four races a year, plus testing, plus meetings... I spend more time in the air than on the ground some months."

"That sounds like torture."

"It's necessary." He shrugged. "You can't run a Formula One team from behind a desk."

I watched his jaw work, muscle ticking beneath skin when responsibility came up. "So you white-knuckle it through every flight for the sake of the team?"

"Among other things." His mouth quirked. "Usually I review race strategies or go through personnel reports. Hard to panic about turbulence when you're focused on tyre degradation models."

"Do you review my reports on flights?"

"Sometimes." His gaze found mine. "Your work is... engaging."

The way he said it made my pulse quicken. "Engaging how?"

"Thorough. Innovative." He paused. "You see connections others miss."

"That's very kind."

"It's honest." His voice dropped slightly.

"What do you do when the reports run out and you're still thirty thousand feet up?"

"Try not to think about all the things that could go wrong." He took a sip of wine. "What about you? Any irrational fears besides butterflies?"

I opened my mouth, then closed it. The wine had loosened my tongue more than I'd intended, and the answer that wanted to spill out was dangerous territory.

You. This. The way you're looking at me right now.

"Karaoke," I said instead, which was only half a lie.

His eyebrows shot up. "Karaoke?"

"Terrible at it. Absolutely refuse." I took another sip of wine, using the moment to steady myself. "Something about performing in front of people when I have no business doing so."

He was quiet for a moment, studying me with those dark eyes. "That's interesting, considering you present to rooms full of engineers every week."

"That's different. That's work. I know what I'm talking about there." I smiled, but it felt forced. "Trust me, you don't want to hear me sing."

"What were you really going to say, Sloane?"

The directness of the question caught me off guard. He leaned forward slightly, and I could see he wasn't buying my deflection.

"Nothing important," I murmured, the words barely a whisper between us.

"I doubt that."

Our food arrived then, the waiter setting down plates with practiced efficiency. The interruption should have broken the tension, but it only seemed to heighten it. We ate in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the clink of silverware against china the only sound.

"This is excellent," I said finally, gesturing to my cod.

He cut into his duck, the movements precise. "I wasn't sure you'd go for the miso glaze."

"I like trying new things."

He set down his fork, reaching for his wine. "You mentioned Ferrari didn't listen to you."

I appreciated the subject change, even as part of me wanted to stay in that dangerous moment. "Not exactly. They listened, they just... filtered everything through their preconceptions."

"About you being a woman."

"About me being young, foreign, not Italian enough." I shrugged. "Take your pick. It's hard to innovate when every idea has to be justified three times over."

"And at Mercedes?"

"Different. Better." I met his gaze. "You hired me for my brain, not despite it."

"Good." His voice was rough. "Talent should be recognized, not questioned."

"Is that your management philosophy?"

"Part of it." He leaned back slightly. "I believe in hiring the best people and trusting them to do their jobs."

"Except when you're hovering over my shoulder in the wind tunnel."

His lips twitched. "That's not hovering. That's... strategic interest."

"Right." I grinned. "Next you'll tell me you don't have opinions about front wing angles."

"I have opinions about everything that affects our performance."

"You color-coded the strategy notes last week."

"Organization is important."

I laughed, and something in his expression softened. "You're impossible."

"So are you," he said, but his voice was warm. "Since we're talking about work, how is it that you're always the last one to leave the factory?"

“Since we are talking about work,” Toto said, leaning back slightly, “How is that you're always the last one to leave the factory?”

I blinked, caught off guard by the shift. “What?”

“You’re there late. Every night.” His tone was light, almost teasing, but there was an edge to it—something probing. “Do you ever sleep?”

I matched his lean, resting my chin on my steepled fingers. “Do you?”

He chuckled, a low sound that vibrated through me. Then his expression sobered, just slightly. “But seriously. There must be someone waiting for you at home.”

The question landed between us landmine. My eyebrows shot up. Oh, he wants to play this game? I let my fingers drop, leaning forward just enough that the neckline of my dress dipped slightly. His gaze flicked down—just for a second—before snapping back to my face.

“Does it matter if there is?” I bat my lashes, mocking the question with a sweetness that didn’t belong to me.

His smile flashed, quick and sharp, before he mirrored my posture, chin resting on his folded hands, eyes locked onto mine. Then, just as suddenly, his face went stern. “It does.”

I leaned back, crossing my legs. The look in his eyes was dark, hungry, and it sent a thrill straight through me. I hated how much I liked that. How much I liked him.

“How so?” I asked, keeping my voice light, even as my heart hammered.

He sat back, crossing his legs in the same way, mirroring me with deliberate precision. The power in the movement, the sheer confidence of it, made my stomach clench. This is your boss. This is your boss. This is—

“Distractions,” he said, his voice low, measured. “I like to know if there’s anything I need to worry about with my lead aero.”

I smiled, slow and knowing. “The only thing keeping me from a good night’s sleep before a race weekend,” I said, letting my gaze hold his, “is you.”

His lip twitched, like he was fighting a smirk. The waiter chose that moment to drop the bill on the table, sliding it toward Toto. He didn’t even glance at it before placing his card on top. “Since I’m such a distraction,” he said, his voice a rough murmur, “I should let you get some rest.”

I reached across the table, my fingers brushing his as I pulled the bill out from under his card. “I asked you to dinner,” I reminded him, sliding my own card into the leather folder. “I’ve got it.”

Surprise flickered across his face, but he didn’t argue. Just watched, dark-eyed and unreadable, as I signed the receipt.

The walk back to the elevator was different this time. The space between us had shrunk, the air charged with something unsaid. I could feel him beside me—taller, broader, a quiet storm of restraint. When we stepped into the elevator, he stood closer than before. Close enough that I could smell the wine on his breath, the faint citrus of his cologne. Close enough that if I leaned just a little, our arms would touch.

“You’re stubborn. I should have paid,” he said suddenly.

I glanced at him. “Is that a complaint?”

“An observation.” His hands were in his pockets, shoulders relaxed, but there was a tension in his jaw. “You don’t let people do things for you.”

“I don’t need them to.”

“Everyone needs something, Sloane.”

The way he said my name—low, rough—sent a shiver down my spine.

“What do you need, Toto?” I asked, tilting my chin up.

His breath hitched. For a heartbeat, I thought he wouldn’t answer. His dark eyes flicked to mine, then away, landing on the glowing floor numbers instead. His throat worked, like he was swallowing back words.

Then, quietly, he said, “That’s not a fair question.”

I raised an eyebrow. “No?”

He exhaled, sharp and controlled. “You know what I should say.”

“Should?” I echoed, my smile slow, deliberate. The word hung between us, heavy with implication.

His jaw clenched almost imperceptibly. "To win the Constructors' Championship."

I tilted my head, letting the silence stretch. Then, softer, "And what do you want to say?"

His gaze cut to mine in the mirror, dark and conflicted. For a second, I thought he might actually answer—might admit to the thing humming between us, the thing neither of us had named.

But then the elevator dinged.

The doors slid open, and the moment fractured.

He stepped out first, his movements stiff, like he was physically putting distance between us. I followed, my pulse thrumming.

The hallway stretched before us, dimly lit, intimate. Our doors were side by side—his on the right, mine on the left.

I turned to face him. He was already reaching for his key card, but his hand hesitated mid-air, like he’d forgotten what he was doing. His jaw was tight, his expression unreadable.

“Goodnight, Toto,” I said, my voice softer than I intended.

He paused. Just for a second. Then he looked and something raw flickered in his gaze before he shuttered it.

“Goodnight, Sloane.”

He unlocked his door and pushed it open, but he didn’t step inside. Not yet. His hand lingered on the handle, his knuckles tight.

I reached for my own key card, but my fingers fumbled. The plastic slipped, clattering to the floor between us.

We both bent to pick it up at the same time.

Our hands brushed.

Electric. Immediate.

I went still.

He lingered.

His fingers closed around the card first, his skin warm against mine. For a heartbeat, he didn’t let go. Didn’t pull away. Just stayed there, crouched in front of me, his breath coming a little faster, his gaze locked on where we touched.

Then, with a sharp inhale, he stood and pressed the card into my palm.

His voice, when he spoke, was rough. “Sleep well.”

I swallowed. “You too.”

He didn’t wait for me to unlock my door. Didn’t linger. Just stepped into his room and shut it behind him with a quiet, final click.

The room was exactly as I’d left it—laptop open on the desk, suitcase half-unpacked on the bed. I kicked off my heels, letting them thud against the carpet. The dress followed, pooling at my feet. I stood there in my slip as the cool air raising goosebumps on my arms.

I crawled into bed, pulling the covers up to my chin. The sheets were crisp and cold, a stark contrast to the heat still coiled inside me.

The second the lights went out, my mind betrayed me.

I rolled onto my back, staring at the ceiling. The city lights bled through the curtains, casting long shadows across the plaster. My fingers twitched against the sheets, still warm from where his had brushed mine.

He’s your boss.

The words echoed in my head, sharp and unrelenting. This wasn’t some flirty banter in the factory, some charged moment in the heat of a race weekend. This was dinner. A quiet restaurant, dim lighting, the way his voice had dropped when he’d said I like it when you smile.

I groaned, pressing the heels of my hands into my eyes.

This was reckless. Stupid. A career-ending kind of mistake wrapped in good wine and dangerous glances.

But then I remembered the way he’d looked at me in the elevator—like he was one wrong word away from crossing every line we’d drawn. The way his fingers had lingered on mine, just a second too long.

Stop it.

I flung the covers off, padding to the minibar. The cold bite of whiskey burned down my throat, grounding me.

One dinner. That’s all it was.

Liar.

Chapter Text

The race was a rush of numbers and noise, but when Lewis crossed the line in P3, my breath caught. Podium. Actual, real, points. George in P6—more than we’d dared hope for after the disaster in Austria. The garage erupted, a storm of shouting and back-slapping, but I barely registered it. My eyes were locked on the monitors, on Lewis’s car flashing across the line, on the timing screens confirming what we’d just done.

We were back.

Not where we wanted to be—Max had taken P1, Charles P2—but we were there. On the fucking podium. After weeks of clawing, of sleepless nights and whiteboard wars and Toto’s quiet, relentless belief, the fight had paid off, just like at Silverstone.

I didn’t realize I was smiling until my cheeks ached.

The podium ceremony was already underway by the time I made it out of the garage. The sun was dipping low, casting long shadows across the track as the anthems played. Max stood on the top step, champagne in hand, grinning like the wolf he was. Charles beside him, all Ferrari red and easy charm. And Lewis—our Lewis—third, but standing like a king, like he’d just reminded the world who the hell he still was.

I stopped at the edge of the crowd, arms crossed, watching as the three of them sprayed champagne into the air, laughter cutting through the hum of the crowd. The golden liquid arced over the track, glinting in the late afternoon light. For a second, I let myself just feel it—the relief, the pride, the sheer, stupid grin on my face.

Then someone jostled me from behind.

“Ah, shit—sorry, love.”

I stumbled forward, catching myself before I face-planted into the barrier. When I turned, I already knew who it was.

Christian Horner.

He steadied me with a hand on my elbow, his grip firm but not lingering. Up close, he was all sharp edges—tailored suit, dark greying hair, that smirk that said he knew exactly how much charm he was wielding.

“Didn’t mean to knock you over,” he said, his voice smooth, amused. “Though I suppose I should’ve seen you coming. You’re the one causing all the trouble lately.”

His fingers hovered between us, palm up. “Christian.”

I straightened, brushing off my arm like I needed to rid myself of the contact. “I know who you are, Mr. Horner.”

His smirk deepened. “And I know exactly who you are, Ms. Kingsley.” His gaze flicked over me, assessing. “The woman who put Mercedes back on the podium.”

I lifted my chin.

His laugh was low, knowing. “I've heard plenty about you. Brilliant mind, sharp tongue, and—” his eyes cut toward the podium, where Max was now drenching Charles in champagne, “—a knack for pissing off the right people.”

I followed his gaze. “Seems like your driver’s doing just fine.”

“For now.” Christian’s voice dropped, just enough that I had to lean in to hear him over the crowd. “But we both know this season’s far from over. You’ve given Mercedes a lifeline.” His eyes flicked back to me, sharp and calculating. “Impressive.”

I crossed my arms. “Flattery, Mr. Horner? I didn’t take you for the type.”

“Only when it’s earned.” He tilted his head, studying me like I was a problem he was considering solving. “Most people in this paddock would kill for your position.”

I held his gaze. “And most people in this paddock don’t have to work twice as hard to be taken half as seriously.”

Something flickered in his expression—amusement, maybe, or respect. “No,” he said slowly, “I don’t suppose they do.”

A beat of silence. The crowd roared as the podium trio took their bows, champagne still flying.

Christian glanced up, then back at me. “Though I’d argue you’re being taken very seriously now.” His tone was light, but there was an edge beneath it. “Funny how a few podiums can change perceptions.”

I followed his line of sight to where Toto stood, watching us. His expression was unreadable, but his posture was rigid, his arms crossed.

I smirked. “Is that a threat or a compliment, Christian?”

“Neither.” He grinned, all teeth. “Just an observation. You’ve made Mercedes relevant again. That’s either very good for you… or very dangerous.”

I laughed, sharp and unexpected. “I’ve never been one to play it safe.”

His eyebrows rose, like he was genuinely surprised. Then he chuckled, low and warm. “No, I don’t imagine you have.”

Before I could respond, a hand closed around my upper arm—Toto’s. His grip was firm, possessive almost, as he pulled me slightly away from Christian.

“There you are,” he said, his voice clipped. “The team’s heading out tonight. You’ll join us.”

It wasn’t a question.

Christian’s grin turned knowing. “Ah, Toto. Always so hospitable.”

Toto didn’t even glance at him. “Horner.”

The dismissal was clear. Christian’s smirk deepened, but he didn’t push it. Just gave me a small, amused nod. “Enjoy your celebration, Sloane. I’m sure we’ll see each other again soon.”

I let Toto steer me away, but not before I shot Christian one last look over my shoulder.

His eyes were still on me, dark with something I couldn’t quite name.

And then we were gone, swallowed by the crowd.

The paddock hummed with victory, our footsteps echoing against concrete as the team moved like a wave of white and black. Laughter bounced off the walls, champagne-sweet and giddy. My skin buzzed with it—that rare, perfect high that came when you'd pulled something beautiful from the wreckage of doubt.

George was the first to spot us, still in his race suit, his grin so wide it looked like his face might split. I didn’t hesitate—I stepped forward and held up my hand. He slapped it, hard, his palm still damp from the cooler.

“Great race,” I said, and I meant it. "You were incredible on that track today."

His laugh was breathless, giddy. “Couldn’t have done it without that wing, Sloane. Seriously.” He shook his head, still grinning.

I waved him off, but the praise settled warm in my chest.

Then Lewis was there, soaked to the bone in champagne, his race suit clinging to him like a second skin. He looked like he’d just won the whole damn championship, not just a podium. Toto didn’t even let him get a word out before he pulled him into a hug, slapping him hard on the back.

"Well done, Lewis!" Toto said, his accent thick with satisfaction. "That was fantastic."

Lewis laughed, breathless, as Toto released him. “Cheers, boss. Feels good to be back up here.”

Toto’s smile was sharp, satisfied. “And we’re going to celebrate properly. Get changed—” he glanced at the three of us, “—all of you. We’re going out.”

An hour later, we were on a rooftop bar overlooking Nagoya, the city lights sprawling beneath us like a circuit board. The team had taken over a corner, bottles of champagne sweating on the tables, laughter cutting through the hum of music. I’d changed into a sleeveless black top and jeans, my hair tumbling free in the humidity.

Lewis found me first, pressing a flute of champagne into my hand. “You look like you could use this.”

I took it, grinning. “You look like you’ve already had three.”

He laughed, clinking his glass against mine. “Had to. Needed to wash the taste of Max’s champagne out of my mouth.”

I rolled my eyes, but I was smiling. “Sore winner?”

“You have no idea.” He took a sip, then sobered slightly, turning to face me. “Seriously, though. I’m glad you’re here, Sloane.”

The words caught me off guard. Lewis wasn’t one for empty compliments.

“I mean it,” he continued, his voice low enough that only I could hear. “This team needed someone like you. Someone who isn’t afraid to speak up or push.”

I swallowed, the champagne fizzing on my tongue. “Thanks, Lewis.”

He clinked his glass against mine again, then gestured for George to join us. The three of us fell into easy conversation—race lines, strategies, the way the car had finally felt like an extension of them again. For the first time in weeks, I let myself relax. Let myself belong.

Then Toto was there, appearing at my side like he’d materialized out of thin air. He handed me a fresh flute of champagne, his fingers brushing against mine.

“You looked like you were running low,” he said, his voice smooth, but there was something beneath it—something tight.

I took the glass, our eyes locking for a second too long. “Thanks.”

Lewis and George exchanged a glance—I caught it out of the corner of my eye—but neither said anything. Smart men.

Toto stayed, though. Listening, interjecting when the conversation turned to setup tweaks for the next race, his presence a warm weight at my side. Eventually, Lewis clapped George on the shoulder. “Come on, mate. Let’s go harass Marcus about his karaoke skills.”

George’s head snapped toward the stage, his grin collapsing. “Christ, someone stop him before he ruins Sinatra.”

They wandered off, leaving Toto and me standing there, the noise of the bar wrapping around us like a cocoon.

I took a sip of champagne, the bubbles sharp on my tongue. “You really think Marcus is going to subject us to karaoke?”

Toto’s mouth quirked. “If he’s drunk enough, yes.”

I laughed, but the sound died quickly, the silence between us suddenly heavy.

Toto turned to face me fully, his expression unreadable. “You handled yourself well today.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You sound surprised.”

“Not surprised.” He studied me for a long moment. “Impressed.”

The word settled between us, warm and dangerous.

I shifted, the champagne flute tight in my grip. “Christian Horner seemed to think so, too.”

Toto’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “Christian Horner is a man who enjoys playing games.”

“So do you.”

His eyes flicked to mine, sharp. “Not with my team.”

I held his gaze. “I can handle myself, Toto.”

“I know you can.” His voice was low, rough. “But Horner isn’t just some rival. He’s…” He exhaled, frustration bleeding into the sound. “He’s good at finding weaknesses. Exploiting them.”

I tilted my head. “And you think I’m a weakness?”

“No.” His answer was immediate, firm. “But I think he sees something in you that he can use. And I won’t let that happen.”

I studied him—the set of his shoulders, the way his fingers flexed around his glass. He wasn’t just warning me. He was trying to protect me.

The realization sent a slow, dangerous heat through my chest.

“I appreciate the concern,” I said carefully. “But I’ve dealt with men like Christian my whole career. I don’t need you to fight my battles.”

Toto’s gaze darkened. “I’m not fighting your battles, Sloane. I’m fighting mine.”

The words hung between us, raw and honest.

I swallowed, my pulse thrumming in my throat.

Before I could respond, Toto’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out, his expression shuttering as he read the screen.

“Excuse me,” he bit out, turning away.

I watched Toto’s back as he spoke into the phone, his free hand rubbing the nape of his neck. The tension in his shoulders didn’t ease, even as he laughed at something the caller said. For a second, I let myself imagine what it would be like to step up behind him, to press my palm between his shoulder blades and feel the heat of him through his shirt. But I can't.

Marcus’s voice cracked on the high note, yanking me out of my own head.

“I've loved—” he bellowed into the mic, off-key and unrepentant, “—I've laughed and cried—”

The entire bar groaned in unison, but he just grinned, swinging the microphone like a baton. Someone—probably George—had handed him a fresh drink, and he took a swig mid-note, champagne sloshing down his chin. The crowd lost it. Lewis was doubled over laughing.

I should’ve been paying attention. I was paying attention—right up until Marcus’s bloodshot eyes locked onto me across the room.

“Sloane!” He jabbed the mic in my direction, nearly knocking over his stool. “Get your arse up here!”

I shook my head, mouthing no so hard my lips numbed. His fingers wrapped around the mic like a drowning man's last hope, and he beckoned to me with desperate, drunken intensity—clearly determined not to go down alone in this karaoke catastrophe.

Lewis’s arm snaked around my waist before I could bolt. “Oh, come on,” he wheedled, already steering me toward the stage. “You can’t leave him up there alone. It’s cruel.”

“He’s the one who started this!” I laughed, digging in my heels. But Lewis was stronger than he looked, and the team was already chanting my name, a rhythmic Sloane-Sloane-Sloane that synced up with the drumbeat of my pulse.

Marcus hit another note so flat it could’ve been a tire blowout. “Sloane, come on!”

Fine.

I snatched the second mic from the stand and stormed up beside him, the stage lights hot on my skin. The crowd erupted. Marcus’s grin was triumphant, his arm slung around my shoulders like we were old pals.

“—and so I face the final curtain—” he warbled, then thrust the mic at me.

I glared at him. He winked.

The music swelled. The crowd held its breath.

I opened my mouth.

And—miraculously—something resembling a tune came out.

It wasn’t perfect. My voice cracked on the first high note, but I recovered, leaning into the rasp. The words were familiar, muscle memory from a thousand late nights in pubs with uni mates, when the only thing that mattered was the next round of drinks and the catharsis of screaming lyrics into the void.

“I did it my way,” I sang, and Marcus’s eyebrows shot up.

The crowd clapped along, stomping their feet. Lewis whooped from the front, George recording the whole disaster on his phone. I caught sight of myself in the mirror behind the bar—flushed, grinning, alive—and for the first time all night, the weight in my chest lifted.

Then I saw Toto.

He’d appeared at the edge of the crowd, phone tucked away, his gaze locked onto me like I was the only thing in the room. The singing, the laughter, the clinking glasses—none of it touched him. He just stood there, arms crossed, his expression unreadable to anyone who didn’t know him.

But I did.

The corner of his mouth twitched, just once. His eyes were dark, amused, hungry—like he was memorizing the way my throat worked as I sang, the way my fingers tightened around the mic. Like the tide had turned without warning, dragging us both under—and for once, he wasn’t fighting it.

Marcus finally snapped out of his stupor and joined in, his voice a gravelly counterpoint to mine. We harmonized the last chorus, terrible and triumphant, and the bar exploded. Someone tossed a napkin onto the stage. Marcus bowed dramatically, then yanked me into a side hug that nearly knocked the wind out of me.

“What the hell, Kingsley?!" He panted into my ear, “Where’ve you been hiding that?”

I laughed, breathless, as the applause washed over us. “Buried under spreadsheets, mostly.”

The music cut out. Marcus released me, stumbling back toward the bar for another drink. I handed off the mic, my fingers tingling, my skin too warm.

Toto didn’t say a word at first. Just stood at the edge of the stage, looking up at me like I’d just solved the most complex equation of his life.

“You,” he said, finally, “are full of surprises.”

I slipped away from his gaze and made my way to the DJ booth, the stench of spilled drinks and bodies hitting me as I leaned over the scratched counter. His name tag read Kaz, and he barely glanced up from his laptop as I bent close to his ear.

His eyes flicked to mine, amused. Then he nodded, fingers already flying over the keys.

I hopped off the stage, the heat still thrumming under my skin, and landed in front of Toto. His presence pulled at me like gravity.

Toto's palms hit my hips—hard—fingers digging in, like he was the only thing keeping me from collapsing. The heat of him seared through the fabric, his grip unyielding, possessive, and for a heartbeat, I couldn’t tell if he was steadying me or pulling me closer. His touch burned through the thin fabric of my top, fingers splayed against my ribs, and for a second, I swore I felt the imprint of each one, branded into my skin.

“I had it,” I breathed, but my voice came out too soft, too unsteady.

He didn’t let go. Not immediately. His thumbs pressed in just slightly, like he was testing the give of my breath, and my traitorous body arched toward him before I could stop it.

Then I wrenched free—or tried to—shoving the microphone into his chest instead. “Your turn.”

His eyebrows shot up. “Mine?”

The opening riff of Hungry Like the Wolf sliced through the bar, synth heavy and unmistakable. The crowd roared, a few whoops cutting through the music as heads turned toward us.

Toto’s gaze locked onto mine, dark and disbelieving. Then his lips twitched. “Of course you’d pick this.”

I grinned, wide and unrepentant. “Perfect song, right?”

His eyes dropped to my mouth. Lingered. “Perfect.”

Before I could react, he plucked the mic from my fingers and strode onto the stage like he owned it.

The crowd lost their minds, "Toto! Toto! Toto!"

But he didn’t even glance at them. Just adjusted the mic stand, rolled his shoulders once, and when the first lyric hit, his voice cut through the noise like a blade.

That accent. God, that accent.

The words were all wrong—darkness, stalking, midnight—but the way he sang them, low and rough, made my stomach drop like we’d hit a curb at 200 kph. His eyes flicked to the screen, then back to me, again and again, like he was checking I was still there.

My fingers curled into my palms.

Under the stage lights, his shirt clinged to his shoulders as he moved, his voice wrapping around the lyrics like a promise.

The song was a weapon, and he knew it. His voice didn’t just carry the lyrics—it shaped them, twisting the words into something darker, something that slithered under my skin. Each note landed like a challenge, his gaze locking onto mine between verses, daring me to look away. To breathe.

It wasn’t the performance. It was the intent. The way his mouth curled around the syllables, lazy and precise, like he was tasting them first. Like he was tasting me.

My ribs constricted, my fingers digging into my thighs. The music pounded, but all I heard was the rough edge of his voice, the way it scraped against the back of my neck, my spine, places he’d never touched.

And God help me—I leaned in.

Chapter Text

The next two weeks folded into each other, all noise and numbers, tire compounds and track temps, late nights hunched over telemetry with Toto’s voice a low hum in my ear as we chased every tenth of a second. Belgium was a fight—Lewis clawed his way to P4, the car twitchy in the wet, the Red Bull untouchable in the dry. We took the points and called it progress.

Then Hungary.

Hungary was war.

The heat was brutal, the track a furnace, and Max was in his element—aggressive, relentless, his car hooked up like it was on rails. Lewis matched him lap after lap, the two of them trading blows through the twisty middle sector, the gap never more than a car’s length. The radio crackled with Bono’s voice, calm but urgent, feeding Lewis lines, adjustments, anything to keep him in the hunt.

I stood on the pit wall beside Toto, my nails digging into my palms.

“He’s got him,” I muttered, watching as Max closed in on the final chicane. “Lewis is holding—”

The words died in my throat.

Max went for the inside line, late and hard, his front wing clipping Lewis’s rear tire. The impact sent Lewis into a spin, the Mercedes pirouetting across the track before slamming into the barrier. Max’s Red Bull skittered sideways, his rear end fishtailing as he fought for control—then bam, he was in the wall too, a shower of sparks lighting up the twilight.

Silence.

Then the radio exploded.

"He just rammed me!” Lewis’s voice furious.

Toto’s hands clenched into fists. I didn’t need to look at him to know his face was a mask of cold, lethal fury. The cameras would catch it—the set of his jaw, the way his eyes turned to flint—but I saw the way his fingers trembled before he locked them behind his back.

The stewards called it a racing incident.

Bullshit.

We got nothing. No points. No justice. Just George’s P9.

Toto didn’t do the post-race interviews.

He walked out of the debrief, his suit jacket slung over his shoulder, his face a carefully blank slate. The media swarmed, microphones thrust forward, but he didn’t so much as glance at them. Just strode past, his shadow long in the dying light, and disappeared into the Mercedes motorhome without a word.

I watched him go.

Then I turned back to my screens and pretended I didn’t see the way his knuckles were clenched around the doorframe.

Miami was supposed to be different.

The practices were good. Really good. Lewis was on it, the car balanced, the tires in the window. Qualifying was electric—Lewis on the front row, P2, just two-tenths off Max. The team was buzzing, the kind of energy that made the air hum, made my skin prickle with anticipation.

Race day dawned hot and sticky, the kind of heat that clung to you like a second skin. I stood in the garage as the national anthem played, the cars gleaming under the Florida sun, the crowd a sea of color and noise. Lewis gave me a nod as he climbed into the cockpit.

Toto didn’t look at me.

He didn’t look at anyone.

His jaw was set, his posture rigid, like he was bracing for impact. I knew that look. Knew the way his fingers flexed against his thigh, the way his breath came just a little too controlled, like he was measuring every inhale, every exhale.

The lights went out.

And the race began.

Lewis was flying. He hounded Max from the start, the gap fluctuating between half a second and nothing, the two of them trading fastest laps, pushing each other to the absolute limit. The radio was a symphony of strategy—Bono’s voice steady, Lewis’s responses sharp, I’ve got him, I’ve got him—

Then the weather turned.

One lap, the track was dry.

The next, the sky opened.

Rain hammered down, the tarmac turning slick and treacherous in seconds. The team held its breath as Lewis reported the conditions—it’s getting bad, mate, really bad—and Bono made the call.

“Box, box, box!”

Lewis pitted for intermediates. Max followed a lap later.

The race restarted, the field a spray of rooster tails, the cars sliding and snapping like they were on ice. Lewis was hunting, the gap to Max shrinking with every corner, every straight. My heart was in my throat as he closed in, the Mercedes a shadow in the Red Bull’s mirrors—

Then lap 54.

Max pushed too hard into Turn 11, his car understeering wide, the front tires losing grip in the standing water. Lewis was right there, alongside him, the two of them side by side for a heartbeat—

Then contact.

Max’s front wing clipped Lewis’s rear wheel.

The impact sent Lewis into a spin, the Mercedes slewing across the track before spearing into the barrier. Max’s Red Bull followed, the two cars locked together for a sickening second before the Red Bull slammed into the wall, a shower of carbon fiber and sparks lighting up the gloom.

Toto didn't move.

Didn’t breathe.

I risked a glance at him.

His face was a mask of cold and lethal fury. The cameras would catch the set of his jaw, the way his eyes turned to flint—but I saw the way his fingers trembled before he locked them behind his back.

The stewards called it a racing incident.

Again.

Toto didn’t do the post-race interviews.

Again.

George secured fifth place—enough to scrape a few points onto the board.

The hotel was quiet when I got back.

Too quiet.

I stripped off my team polo, the fabric damp with sweat and the lingering scent of fuel, and stepped into the shower. The water was scalding, the kind of heat that turned my skin pink, that made my muscles unclench one painful degree at a time. I braced my hands against the tile and let the water pound the back of my neck, the tension coiled there since Hungary—since Belgium—slowly unraveling.

It didn’t help.

I turned off the water, wrapped myself in a towel, and stood in the middle of the room, dripping onto the carpet.

My phone was on the nightstand.

I stared at it.

Then I picked it up and called him.

He answered on the second ring.

“Sloane.”

His voice was rough, like he’d been rubbing his throat raw. I could hear the wind in the background, the distant crash of waves.

“Where are you?” I asked.

A pause.

Then, quiet: “Walking.”

“The beach?”

Another pause. “Yes. To clear my head.”

I exhaled, my fingers tightening around the phone. “I know a better way.”

A beat of silence. Then, careful: “Oh?”

The way he said it—the low, rough edge of his voice, the way the word hung between us like a question, like a promise—sent a slow, dangerous heat pooling low in my stomach.

I swallowed.

“A place,” I clarified, my voice steadier than I felt. “Not s—” I gestured vaguely, then remembered he couldn’t see me. “Not that.”

A humorless laugh, rough and tired.

My breath hitched.

Then I forced myself to keep going. “There’s a place I think you’ll like, if you’re up to it.”

A long silence. I could hear him breathing, the sound uneven, like he was fighting something.

Then, finally: “Send me the address.”

The parking lot was almost empty when I pulled in, the tarmac still shimmering with the day’s heat. His black Mercedes was the only other car there, sleek and out of place against the faded backdrop of the karting center. He was leaning against the driver’s side door, arms crossed, staring at the building’s neon sign with an expression caught between curiosity and exhaustion.

I cut the engine and got out, the door thudding shut.

He turned his head, and a slow, weary half-smile touched his lips. It didn’t reach his eyes, but it was something. “You gave me the address to a karting track,” he stated, his voice low.

I walked around my car, the gravel crunching under my shoes. “I did.”

“I thought you were trying to distract me from racing.”

“Oh, I am,” I said, stopping in front of him.

His smile widened a fraction.

The building was a cavern of echoing noise and the sweet, acrid smell of petrol and tire rubber. The track sprawled out behind a wall of plexiglass, a twisting, turning ribbon of asphalt under the harsh fluorescent lights. It was empty save for a couple of employees milling about, the low hum of the karts in the garage area a constant, buzzing undercurrent.

We walked to the front desk, a high counter littered with waivers and keychains. A young guy with a lanyard and a bored expression looked up.

“Two for the adult session,” I said, pulling out my wallet.

Toto’s hand came down, gently covering mine on the counter. His skin was warm. “I’ve got it.”

I slid my hand out from under his, the sensation lingering on my skin. “My idea. My treat.” I handed my card over before he could argue further.

He didn’t. He just watched me, that intense, unreadable focus back in his gaze, as the kid processed the payment.

We were directed to get our helmets. They were lined up on a rack, scuffed and smelling of disinfectant and old sweat. I reached for one, my fingers brushing against the hard shell.

“Here.” Toto’s voice was close behind me.

He took the helmet from my hands before I could put it on. His movements were deliberate, almost slow, as he lifted it and settled it over my head. The world muffled instantly. His fingers were careful as they found the strap under my chin, his knuckles brushing against my skin. The touch was fleeting, a whisper of contact, but it sent a current straight down my spine. He fastened the buckle, his eyes locked on mine through the visor. The air between us thickened, charged with everything we hadn’t spoke about since Tokyo.

A track worker chose that moment to walk over and launch into a rapid-fire list of rules—no bumping, flags mean slow down, wait for the green light. Toto and I listened, our attention only half on the kid. We shared a single, fleeting glance, a silent acknowledgment of the absurdity of being told how to drive by a teenager. We’d just spent the afternoon managing a multi-million dollar Formula 1 car; a fleet of electric go-karts was hardly a challenge.

The worker finished and wandered off. The moment stretched.

I broke it. “A wager,” I said, my voice echoing slightly inside the helmet.

Toto’s eyebrows lifted. “What are the terms?”

“If I win, you buy my coffee for a week. The good stuff. No instant rubbish.”

A genuine, full smile broke across his face then, transforming the tired lines around his eyes. It was a rare, unguarded thing, and it made my stomach flip. “And when you lose? Which you will.”

“If I lose,” I conceded with a mock sigh, “I will personally deliver a cappuccino to your office every morning.”

He laughed, a rich, full sound that bounced off the concrete walls. “Deal. Good thing you’ll be losing.”

We climbed into our karts, the plastic shells feeling tiny and ridiculous after the carbon fiber cocoons we were used to. I gripped the steering wheel, my gloves feeling oversized.

The light above the track turned from red to yellow.

My heart started to pound, a familiar, thrilling drumbeat.

Green.

We shot forward.

The electric motors whined, a high-pitched buzz instead of a roar, but the competition was the same. He pulled ahead immediately, his kart carving a clean line through the first corner. I tucked in behind him, my focus narrowing to the space between his rear bumper and my front. The track was tight, the karts twitchy, but the fundamentals were there. Brake late, turn in sharp, power out early.

He was good. Naturally. The man had once been a driver—those instincts didn’t just vanish. He drove with a smooth, calculated precision, hitting every apex, leaving me barely any room to challenge. For lap after lap, I was stuck behind him, watching the chequered flag on the back of his helmet taunt me. The bet felt foolish now.

But on the final lap, heading into the last hairpin before the long straight to the finish, he braked a fraction too early. Maybe he was already counting his cappuccinos.

It was all the opening I needed.

I sent my kart diving for the inside, my wheels brushing the curb, the chassis shuddering. I pulled alongside him, our karts door-to-door for a heart-stopping second.

Then I was past him, squeezing every ounce of power from the pathetic little motor, shooting across the finish line a half-kart length ahead.

I let out a whoop, the sound swallowed by my helmet, and coasted into the pit lane, my hands shaking with adrenaline and triumph. I killed the engine and yanked my helmet off, my hair sticking to my sweaty forehead.

He eased in beside me, taking his time. He pulled off his helmet, his hair tousled but somehow still effortlessly stylish.. But he was smiling, a real, open smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes.

“You brake too early when you’re winning,” I announced, breathless. “It’s a tell.”

He shook his head, a low chuckle escaping him as he climbed out. “I was being cautious. This is a rental.”

“You were being beat,” I corrected, grinning. “And you owe me a week of coffee. No excuses.”

He walked over to me, stopping just a little too close. The scent of his cologne cut through the smell of petrol.

I tossed my helmet onto the seat of the kart. “I’m claiming victory. And my prize.”

He studied me for a long moment, the amusement in his eyes softening into something warmer, more appreciative. “So you are.” He gestured toward the exit with his helmet. “Let’s get something to eat, champion. You must be hungry after that display.”

The formality had melted away, replaced by an easy camaraderie that felt as natural as it was hard-won. The tension from the race, from the last few weeks, had finally bled out of us here, on this silly little track.

“There’s a pub down the street. We can walk.”

The night air was thick with humidity. We walked side by side, our shoulders almost brushing, the silence between us easy in a way it hadn’t been before. No need to fill it with words. The streetlights cast long shadows, and the distant hum of traffic faded into the rhythm of our steps.

The pub was a low-slung building with a red glowing sign—The Pit Stop. Toto reached the door first and held it open, the hinge creaking as I stepped inside. The place smelled of fried food and stale beer, the kind of dive that didn’t care about aesthetics but knew exactly how to pour a pint. He followed me in, the door swinging shut behind us with a thud.

We found a table in the back, tucked into a corner where the light was dim and the noise of the TV mounted above the bar was just loud enough to blur into background static. Toto pulled out my chair before I could protest.

“I’ll get the drinks,” he said, already moving away.

I watched him weave through the tables toward the bar, his posture relaxed in a way I rarely saw it—no suit jacket, no team radio, no weight of the world on his shoulders. Just a man ordering two beers on a Sunday night.

He came back with two frosted glasses, condensation already beading down the sides. He set one in front of me before taking his seat, the wood groaning under his weight.

I wrapped my fingers around the glass, the cold biting into my skin. “Better?” I asked.

He took a slow sip, his throat working as he swallowed. Then he set the glass down with a quiet clink and met my eyes. “Yes.”

No elaboration. No deflection. Just the truth, simple and unguarded.

I took a drink of my own, the beer sharp and bitter on my tongue.

The condensation on my glass had started to pool, little rings of moisture darkening the wood between us. I traced a finger through one, watching the way the liquid beaded and broke. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable—just full. Like the air before a storm, all potential and no release.

Toto’s fingers drummed once against his beer, a sharp, restless tap. Then he exhaled, low and rough, like he’d been holding his breath for hours.

“I’m not happy with how today went.”

I didn’t look up. Just nodded, my thumb brushing the rim of my glass. “No. Neither am I.”

His jaw tightened. “First it was the wings. Now it’s the engine.” The word came out like a curse, clipped and bitter. “We fix one thing, and another fucking cracks.” His knuckles whitened around the glass. “Red Bull is out there laughing while we’re scrambling like amateurs.”

I let him vent. Let the words spill out, raw and unfiltered, the way they never could in the garage or the debrief. Here, in this dim corner with the hum of the TV and the clink of pool balls from the next room, he wasn’t the team principal. He was just a man who’d spent a decade building something and was watching it slip through his fingers.

His voice dropped. “I should’ve seen it coming. Should’ve known.”

That was the one that got me.

I reached across the table and set my hand over his.

His fingers stilled under mine. The heat of his skin bled into my palm, his pulse a steady thrum against my touch. He didn’t pull away. Didn’t even look at me. Just stared at the amber liquid in his glass like it held the answers.

“You did know,” I said, my voice quiet but firm. “That’s why you hired me. That’s why you’re still fighting.” My thumb pressed lightly against his knuckles. “We will figure it out.”

His laugh was humorless, a short, sharp sound. “Will we?”

“Yes.” No hesitation. No room for doubt. “Because the alternative isn’t an option.”

That got his attention. His gaze flicked to mine, dark and searching. For a second, I saw the weight of it all—the frustration, the exhaustion, the fear—before he shuttered it away.

He sighed, long and slow, his shoulders dropping an inch. “I hope you’re right.”

I squeezed his hand once, then pulled back, my fingers lingering for a heartbeat before retreating. The loss of contact left my palm cool.

He took another drink, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “You are good at that.”

“At what?”

“Making me believe it’s not hopeless.”

I picked up my beer, the glass heavy in my grip. “That’s because it’s not.”

He studied me for a long moment, the kind of look that made my skin prickle. Then he shook his head, just once, and reached for the bar menu. He flipped the menu open, voice low. "What would you like to eat?" A clear shift, steering us away from the weight of the conversation.

"I’ll go for the burger," I replied.

Toto got back up and walked to the bar to order the food for us.

He leaned against the bar, one hand resting on the polished wood as he spoke to the bartender, his profile sharp under the muted glow of the overhead lights. I caught the way his fingers tapped once, twice, against the counter, a restless habit I’d come to recognise. The bartender nodded, scribbling something on a notepad before disappearing through a swinging door toward the kitchen.

I took a slow sip of my beer, the cold bite of it grounding me, and let my gaze drift to the TV mounted above the bar. A replay of the race flashed across the screen—Max’s Red Bull cutting across the kerb, Lewis’s Mercedes spinning into the gravel—before the channel flickered to a commercial. My stomach twisted, but I forced myself to breathe through it. Tonight wasn’t for dwelling.

The burger arrived—thick, perfectly seared, and topped with caramelized onions that glistened under the pub’s warm lights. I took a deliberate bite just as Toto slid back into his seat, the first taste rich and satisfying. I set it down briefly to wipe my fingers on the napkin, more out of habit than necessity.

Toto watched me, that slow, assessing gaze of his lingering—not on the food, but on the way I handled it. A smirk tugged at his lips as he unwrapped his own burger, the paper crinkling between his fingers. "You don’t waste time, do you?" His voice was dry, but there was something almost approving in it.

I met his eyes, unfazed. "When something’s worth doing, I prefer to do it properly." The words came out smooth, confident, and the way his smirk deepened told me he’d caught a double meaning.

Amusement danced in his eyes—or was it hunger? Whatever it was, my pulse answered before I could name it. He took a measured bite of his own, chewing thoughtfully before setting the burger down. “Your father,” he said, abrupt but not unkind. “You mentioned him once. In Hungary. I heard parts of your conversation with Marcus—about him.”

I froze mid-chew, then forced myself to swallow. “Yeah,” I said, setting my burger down and reaching for my beer. “Dad’s… well, he’s Dad.”

Toto leaned back slightly, giving me space to talk—or not. His expression was open, curious, but not pushing. It made me want to fill the silence. “He’s a mechanic,” I found myself saying. “Old-school. Grease under his nails, stubborn as hell. Refuses to retire, even though his knees give him grief.” I took another sip, the beer cold against my throat. “We talk when we can. He’s not big on phones, so it’s usually when I’m back in England.”

“And when was the last time you were back?”

The question wasn’t accusatory. Just… observant. I exhaled, tracing a finger through the condensation on my glass. “About two months ago. Before we left Silverstone.”

Toto’s eyebrows lifted just a fraction. “That long?”

I shrugged, suddenly defensive. “It’s been busy.”

“Sloane.” My name in his mouth was a quiet reproach, the kind that made my chest tighten. “If I’d had the chance to call my father—just to hear his voice—” He broke off, his jaw tightening. When he spoke again, his voice was rougher. “Don’t take it for granted.”

The air left my lungs in a slow, shaky breath. I stared at my hands, my fingers twisted together on the table. “I know,” I admitted, quiet. “I just… get caught up.”

“So do I.” His voice softened. “But some things are worth the interruption.”

I looked up, meeting his gaze. There was something pure in his eyes, something that made my throat ache. “You’re right,” I said, because he was. Because I knew he was. “I’ll call him tomorrow.”

Toto nodded once, satisfied, and picked up his burger again. “What’s he like? Your father.”

The question caught me off guard. Not because it was intrusive, but because no one ever asked. Not like this. I took a slow breath, then found myself smiling. “Loud. Opinionated. Thinks modern F1 is too ‘sanitized.’” I mimicked Dad’s gruff voice, “‘Back in my day, drivers had balls, not engineers with spreadsheets.’”

Toto barked out a laugh, sharp and unexpected. “He sounds like my uncle.”

“Does he now?”

“God, yes. Austrian, stubborn, convinced the world was better in the ‘70s.” He shook his head, a fond smile playing at his lips. “He’d take me to the Nürburgring when I was a kid. We’d sit on the old Nordschleife banking for hours, just listening to the engines. No radios, no telemetry—just the sound of the cars.” His fingers tapped restlessly against the table, like he was hearing it now. “He’d say, ‘That’s racing. Not this…’” He waved a hand vaguely, as if encompassing all of modern F1.

I grinned. “Your uncle and my dad would get along too well.”

Toto chuckled, then sobered slightly. “Is he the reason you got into engineering?”

I considered it, swirling the last of my beer in the glass. “Partly. He taught me how engines work before I could ride a bike. But I think…” I hesitated, then pushed forward. “I think I just liked fixing things. Making them better.”

“Does he know what you're doing now? With the wing?”

I shook my head. “Not the details. He understands the basics, but aerodynamics aren’t really his thing.” I smirked. “He’d rather talk about horsepower.”

“Typical.” Toto’s smile was bright, almost indulgent.

The corner of Toto’s mouth quirked up, just slightly, like he was turning something over in his mind. Then he leaned back in his chair, his fingers tapping a slow rhythm against the tabletop. “What’s next for you, Sloane?”

I blinked. “Next?”

“After the season.” His gaze was steady, unreadable. “You’ve got plans?”

The question caught me off guard. I’d been so focused on the now—on the next race, the next update, the next tenth of a second—that I hadn’t let myself think beyond Abu Dhabi. The weight of it settled in my chest, sharp and unexpected. “I… don’t know,” I admitted. “I hadn’t really thought that far ahead.”

Toto’s eyes flicked over my face, searching. Then, casual as anything, he asked, “Is that why Christian was talking to you a few weeks ago?”

My fingers stilled around my glass.

I exhaled, slow and measured. “He just wanted to congratulate me on the wing progress.”

A beat. Then, quieter: “Or was he trying to poach you?”

The directness of it made my pulse jump. I met his gaze head-on, refusing to flinch. “Would that upset you? If he had?”

Toto’s fingers tightened around his beer, the glass creaking under the pressure. His jaw worked for a second before he answered, “Only a fool would say no.”

The words hung between us, heavy and loaded. I studied him—the set of his shoulders, the way his thumb traced the condensation on his glass, the careful neutrality of his expression. But his eyes… his eyes were anything but neutral. They were dark, intense, like he was waiting for something.

I smiled. Just a little. “I like my job.”

His gaze snapped to mine, sharp and searching.

“And,” I added, because the beer had loosened my tongue and the night had softened my edges, “I happen to like my boss.”

Toto had just lifted his beer to his lips. At my words, he froze. The glass hovered there, halfway to his mouth, his throat working as he swallowed whatever he’d been about to say. Then, slow and deliberate, he set the beer down. The clink of glass on wood was too loud in the sudden silence.

His face was unreadable.

Shit.

I’d meant it as a joke. A light thing. A way to ease the tension, to remind him that whatever this strange, charged thing was between us, it didn’t have to be a problem. But the way he was looking at me now—like I’d just handed him a grenade—made my stomach knot.

Maybe he’d read too much into it.

Or maybe he hadn’t read enough.

Because it wasn’t a lie.

I did like him. More than I should. More than was smart. More than I’d ever admit out loud, not when the stakes were this high, not when the team—his team—was already hanging by a thread.

Toto exhaled, a slow, controlled breath. Then, his voice rough around the edges, he said, “You have terrible timing, Sloane.”

My heart stuttered.

I opened my mouth to ask what he meant—if that was a good thing or a bad thing, if he was warning me off or pulling me in—but before I could, the waiter appeared at our table, slipping the bill between us with a practiced smile. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Toto reached for it without hesitation, his movements smooth, effortless. He pulled out his wallet, extracted a few bills, and handed them over without even glancing at the total. The waiter nodded, pocketed the cash, and disappeared.

I watched Toto’s hands—the way his fingers moved, precise and sure, the way his cuffs were rolled up just enough to show the faint dusting of dark hair on his forearms. Strong hands. Capable. The kind of hands that could steer a team, a company, a life.

The kind of hands I’d caught myself staring at one too many times.

He stood, sudden and fluid, and I followed, my chair scraping against the floor. The night air hit me as we stepped outside, thick and humid, the kind of heat that clung to your skin. We walked side by side toward the parking lot.

My car was parked under a flickering streetlamp, the paintwork gleaming dully in the orange glow. I stopped beside it, digging my keys out of my pocket. “Thanks for dinner,” I said, my voice steady despite the way my pulse was hammering in my throat. "I had fun tonight."

Toto didn’t answer. He just stood there, his hands in his pockets, his gaze fixed on me with an intensity that made my breath catch.

I unlocked the car and reached for the door handle.

His hand shot out.

Fingers—long, warm—curled around the top of the door frame, stopping me. My breath hitched as his body shifted, stepping closer, close enough that I could smell the faint scent of his cologne, the ghost of beer on his breath. The heat of him radiated into my space, into me, and I froze, my heart pounding so hard I was sure he could hear it.

Fingers—long, steady—curled around the top of the door frame, stopping me. The faintest tremor in the air between us. For a second, neither of us moved. Just waited.

Then he dipped his head.

My heart hammered against my ribs, my fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, not pulling, not pushing—just holding on.

Then, slowly, his lips brushed against mine. A question. A test. My lungs tightened, every muscle locking—not to pull back, but to brace for what came next, like a spring coiled to breaking. His hand lifted, hesitant, before his fingers finally grazed the nape of my neck, warm and uncertain. I exhaled shakily, my lips parting just enough to answer him without words.

That was all it took.

The kiss deepened, no longer a question but a confession. His hand tangled in my hair, his grip firming, pulling me closer as if he’d been starving for this. My hands slid up his chest, over the rigid lines of his shoulders, before locking around his neck, dragging him against me. His body was solid, unyielding—except for the way his breath hitched when my fingers dug into his skin, the way his mouth slanted over mine, hungry now, demanding.

I arched into him, my mind dissolving into the taste of him, the feel of him—every inch of space between us finally collapsing.

Then, just as suddenly, he tore away.

His chest rose and fell in sharp, uneven breaths, his fingers still tangled in my hair as if he couldn’t bear to let go completely. But his eyes—dark, conflicted—held a weight that made my ribs tighten. Regret? Fear? Or just the same overwhelming need that still thrummed through me, refusing to fade.

“I shouldn’t have—”

I stood on my tiptoes and pressed a soft kiss against his lips, stopping him.

His chest stilled mid-breath.

I smiled. Just a little. Just enough to let him see that I wasn’t running, wasn’t regretting. “It’s okay,” I murmured. “I…” Liked it. Wanted more. Had been thinking about this for weeks.

His gaze searched mine, bare and unguarded, like he was waiting for me to take it back, to call this a mistake. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. Not when my lips still tingled from his, not when my body was still humming with the aftershock of his touch.

I let my hand drop, my fingers lingering against his chest for a few seconds too long before retreating. “Goodnight, Toto.”

I slid into the car before he could respond, before I could change my mind. The engine roared to life, the headlights cutting through the dark. I rolled down the window, leaning out just enough to meet his eyes one last time.

“I’ll see you in Monaco.”

Chapter Text

The shop bell jingled as I pushed through the door, the scent of motor oil and old coffee hitting me. Dad was hunched over the engine bay of a vintage Jaguar, his grease-stained hands moving with the confidence of long years at it. He didn’t turn around, but his shoulders tensed for just a second before he grabbed a rag and wiped his palms.

"Thought you were in Miami," he said, his voice rough around the edges like always.

"Was," I said, stepping further inside. "I just got back this morning. Stopped home to grab some different clothes, but I’m already on the clock—flying to Monaco in a few hours."

His face split into a grin, softening the sharpness of his features. "Didn’t think I’d see you until Christmas." He tossed the rag onto the workbench and pulled me into a hug that smelled like petrol. His arms were still strong, still safe.

"Missed you too, old man," I muttered into his shoulder.

He chuckled, giving me an extra squeeze before letting go. "How’s the fancy job treating you? Saw the last two races. That wing of yours giving you trouble?"

I rolled my eyes, grabbing a stool and perching on it. "Wing’s fine for now. It’s the bloody engine. And Max Verstappen’s inability to drive without using his car as a battering ram."

Dad barked out a laugh, shaking his head. "Sounds about right. That boy’s got talent but no patience." He leaned against the workbench, crossing his arms. "Also, tell your boss to give me a call. I’ll sort that engine out for him."

I grinned. "I’ll pass along the message. ‘Rick Kingsley, mechanic, available for consult—cheap rates, questionable language.’"

"Damn right," he said, reaching for his lunch bag in the mini-fridge. He pulled out his sandwich—turkey and cheddar on white bread, the crusts cut off like always—and tore it in half without asking. "Here. You look like you haven’t eaten since Silverstone."

I took it, the bread soft under my fingers. "I ate last night, actually."

"Oh?" He raised an eyebrow, taking a bite. "With who?"

"Just a colleague," I said, too quickly. My fingers tightened around the sandwich. If he only knew. "We were both hungry after a long day, so we grabbed food at this pub."

Dad nodded, but his eyes stayed sharp. "Which one?"

"Coworker or pub?" I played dumb, tearing off a bite to buy time. Christ, Sloane, get it together.

"Pub." He smirked. "Though now I’m curious about the coworker too."

I swallowed. "It was this spot in Miami. Different from the British pubs, but the hamburgers weren't half bad."

He took a slow sip of his tea, watching me. "This coworker—they good to you?"

"Yes," I said, firmer than I meant to.

He chuckled, but there was an edge to it. "You’re acting weird."

"I’m not—" I cut myself off, forcing a laugh. "You’re imagining things."

"Mhm." He wiped his hands on his overalls, studying me. "You’ve got that look."

"What look?"

"The one where you’re hiding something."

My pulse jumped. Because I am. I shoved another bite into my mouth to avoid answering.

Dad sighed, shaking his head. "Fine. But if this—"

"Colleague."

"—gives you grief, you tell me. I’ll fly out there and sort them out."

I snorted. "Right. You and what army?"

"Me," he said, dead serious. "I’ve still got my wrench."

I rolled my eyes, but the warmth in my chest was undeniable. "I’ll keep that in mind."

He nodded, satisfied, and went back to his sandwich. But his next words were quiet, almost to himself: "Just don’t go making things complicated for yourself, kid."

I stiffened. Too late.

"I can take care of myself," I said softly, bumping his arm. "Stop worrying."

He exhaled, but the worry didn’t leave his eyes. "How’s the team, then? Are they treating you better now?"

I nodded, swallowing a bite. "They were slow to accept me at first, but things are good with the team now."

We fell into an easy rhythm after that, the kind of conversation that didn’t need much effort. I told him about the travel—the way Tokyo had been neon and endless, how the jet lag had me seeing double for days, and the absurdity of trying to sleep in a different hotel every other week. He talked about work, about the old Aston Martin he was restoring in his spare time, and how the new apprentice kept leaving tools in the wrong places.

"You remember that time you tried to ‘help’ me in the garage when you were ten?" he asked, grinning. "Nearly took my finger off with a wrench."

I groaned, covering my face. "I was trying to help!"

"And I nearly lost a digit," he said, laughing. "You’ve always been better with your head than your hands."

"Thanks, Dad," I said dryly, throwing a balled-up napkin at him.

He caught it easily, his smile softening. "I’m proud of you, you know."

The words hit me square in the chest. I swallowed hard, suddenly unable to meet his eyes. "Yeah. I know."

His phone buzzed on the workbench, the screen lighting up with a name: Cathy.

I raised an eyebrow. "Who’s Cathy?"

Dad’s fingers stilled over the phone. "No one."

I smirked. "You’re a terrible liar."

He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "She’s... a friend."

"A friend," I repeated, leaning forward. "What kind of friend?"

"The kind that’s none of your business," he said, but there was a hint of pink creeping up his neck.

I grinned. "Is she pretty?"

"Sloane—"

"Does she make you happy?"

He exhaled sharply, but there was no real annoyance in it. Just resignation. "She’s... nice. We’ve been out a few times."

"Out where?" I pressed, amused.

"Dinner. The cinema." He waved a hand dismissively. "It’s nothing serious." His chest rose, slow and heavy, like the air itself was thick with memory. I didn’t need to ask to know where his mind had gone—it always did, when the silence stretched too long. Twenty-nine years with the same woman, the kind of love that left grooves in the floorboards from pacing the same path. After my mum died, the house had been too quiet, the garage his only refuge. It took him three years just to answer a text from a woman who wasn’t me or his sister. Another two before he let one buy him a coffee. The way he’d looked at me just now—that flicker of guilt, like moving on was betrayal—I recognized it.

I reached across the table, covering his hand with mine. His skin was rough, calloused from decades of hard labor.

"Mum would want you to be happy, you know."

His throat worked. "I know."

"I miss her too," I said quietly.

He nodded, his fingers curling around mine. "Every damn day."

We sat like that for a moment, the weight of her absence heavy between us. Then he cleared his throat, giving my hand a squeeze before letting go. "Cathy’s a nurse. Works at the clinic down the road. She’s got a sharp tongue and a terrible sense of humor."

I laughed. "Sounds perfect for you, then."

He rolled his eyes, but there was a smile tugging at his lips. "She’s got two kids. Grown, but still. And a dog that sheds like it’s his job."

"When do I get to meet her?"

"When there’s something to meet," he said, but there was a warmth in his voice that hadn’t been there before.

I glanced at the wall clock and exhaled, the reality of the time sinking in. "Shit. I have to go. I didn’t realise it was this late."

Dad stood, pulling me into another hug. "Love you, Sloane. Stay out of trouble."

I hugged him back, breathing in the familiar scent of him. "Love you too. And Dad?"

"Yeah?"

I pulled back, meeting his eyes. "If it works out with Cathy, I want to meet her. Okay?"

He nodded, his expression soft. "Okay."

Stepping outside, the sun hit me full in the face. The bell above the door chimed as it swung closed, and I drew in a long breath, the comfort of being back here pressing warm against my ribs.

The drive to the airport stretched longer than usual, traffic crawling through the city center in that sluggish Monday afternoon way. I drummed my fingers against the steering wheel, my mind drifting back to Dad's weathered hands, the way he'd torn his sandwich in half without thinking, the careful way he'd talked about Cathy.

When there's something to meet.

But there already was something. I'd seen it in the way his voice softened when he said her name, the flush creeping up his neck when I'd pressed him about her. Twenty-nine years with Mum, and now this—tentative, careful, but real.

Toto had been right.

The thought hit me with uncomfortable clarity, settling heavy in my chest. I should spend more time with Dad. Should call more often, visit when I could manage it instead of when it was convenient. He wouldn't be here forever—none of us would—and I'd spent too many years taking that for granted, assuming there'd always be another weekend, another chance to sit in his garage and listen to him complain about modern engines.

I swallowed hard, the weight of it pressing down. Time. That was the thing, wasn’t it? The way it slipped through your fingers like sand, the way you never realised how much you’d wasted until it was too late. And now here I was, doing it again—letting fear carve out grooves in my life, letting silence stretch between me and the things I actually wanted.

My phone sat silent in the passenger seat, screen dark and accusatory. No messages. No missed calls. Nothing from Toto since last night, since that kiss that had turned my world sideways and left me questioning everything I thought I knew about professional boundaries.

Had he woken up this morning regretting it?

The possibility twisted in my stomach like a knot. Maybe he'd replayed it in his head and decided it was a mistake. Maybe he was already planning how to maintain distance, how to keep things strictly professional from here on out. Maybe the way he'd pulled back, the conflict in his eyes, had been less about the impossibility of the situation and more about the impossibility of me.

I shifted lanes, accelerating past a lorry that was moving at the speed of a sloth. The airport signs appeared overhead, directing me toward departures, and I forced myself to focus on the immediate—check-in, security, the flight to Monaco. Not on the silence from my phone. Not on the memory of his hands in my hair, his mouth on mine, or the way he'd said my name.

The airport was packed. I moved through it mechanically, muscle memory guiding me through check-in and security. The flight attendant's smile was dim, her safety demonstration background noise as I stared out the window at the tarmac.

Two hours stretched ahead of me. Two hours to sit with my thoughts, with the silence from my phone, with the memory of last night playing on repeat. I pulled out my laptop instead, diving into telemetry data from Miami. Numbers didn't lie. Numbers didn't kiss you in a pub and then disappear.

The plane lifted off with London shrinking below. I kept my eyes on the screen, on downforce coefficients and drag calculations, anything to keep my mind occupied. The passenger beside me—a man in an expensive suit who kept checking his Rolex—glanced over once at my data, then promptly looked away like aerodynamics might be contagious.

Nice Côte d’Azur Airport in France appeared beneath us in a scatter of golden lights along the Mediterranean coast. The descent was smooth, the landing unremarkable. I gathered my things, filed off the plane with everyone else, and found myself in another terminal that looked remarkably similar to the one I'd left.

The rental car was waiting—a sensible hatchback that would navigate Monaco's narrow streets without scraping every wall. I programmed the GPS and pulled out of the airport, following signs toward the track. The drive hugged the coastline, the sea vibrant and endless to my right, the mountains rising to my left.

Monaco announced itself gradually—the roads getting narrower, the buildings getting taller, the cars getting more expensive. I'd been here before, but it still felt surreal. Yacht masts bobbed in the harbor like a forest of white trees.

The paddock was quiet when I arrived, most teams having the sense to take Monday as a proper rest day. But I'd always been better at working than waiting, and the silence from my phone had me restless. Better to bury myself in data than sit in a hotel room overthinking every moment of last night.

I badged in through security with my laptop bag on my shoulder. The Mercedes garage stood empty, our cars sitting like sleeping giants under their covers. Tomorrow the place would be swarming with engineers and mechanics, but tonight it was just me and the work.

Exactly how I preferred it.

Chapter Text

"Marcus, we need to drop the ride height by two millimetres," I called over the noise. "The underfloor’s scraping in Sector One—Lewis hit the rev limiter twice on his last lap."

Marcus wiped sweat from his brow, squinting at the data pad in his hands. "You sure? That’s tight even for here."

"I’m sure." I tapped the wing. "Trust me, or we’ll be losing time in the swimming pool complex again."

He exhaled sharply but nodded. "Fine. But if we chew through the skid block, it’s on you."

I smirked. "When has it ever not been?"

Behind me, one of the mechanics laughed, the sound swallowed by the scream of a Ferrari tearing past. I straightened, rolling my shoulders back as the heat pressed in. Monaco didn’t just test the cars—it tested you. The walls, the glare, the relentless demand for precision. One mistake, and you were in the barrier.

"Sloane!" A voice cut through the chaos—Javier, one of the suspension engineers, jogging toward me with a harried look. "We’ve got a problem with the front-left pushrod. Lewis is complaining about turn-in oversteer."

I grabbed the data pad from his hands, scanning the traces. "How bad?"

"Bad enough that he’s almost hit the barrier."

I bit back a curse. "Right. Let’s soften the front ARB by a click and check the camber. If that doesn’t help, we’ll adjust the toe."

Javier nodded, already turning to bark orders at the mechanics. I exhaled, rubbing the back of my neck. The car was a living thing here—twitchy, temperamental, demanding constant adjustments. And we hadn’t even hit qualifying yet.

A shadow fell over me. "You look like you’re about to set something on fire."

I glanced up. Marcus again, arms crossed, but there was a glint in his eye that wasn’t just exhaustion.

"I am," I said, grabbing my water bottle. "The car. The track. My own sanity."

He chuckled, low and rough. "Welcome to Monaco."

"How’s George holding up?"

Mike, his race engineer, barely glanced up from his own monitor. "Steady. No complaints. Car’s behaving."

I exhaled, shoulders falling just a fraction. One problem at a time, then. Lewis’s rear end was all over the place—but at least George wasn’t wrestling the same gremlin. But relief was a luxury we couldn’t afford. Not here. Not when the difference between pole and fifth was a tenth.

"Right." I straightened, rolling my neck. "Let’s get this pushrod issue sorted before FP2. I want Lewis back out there with a car that doesn’t try to kill him every corner."

Marcus snorted. "You say that like it’s not half the fun of Monaco."

I shot him a look. "Fun is for people who don’t have to explain to Toto why we’re losing time to Verstappen."

He held up his hands, grinning. "Fair point."

"Speaking of Toto—have you seen him today?"

Marcus’s fingers stilled on the data pad. "Board meeting. Investors." His tone was casual, but his eyes flicked up, sharp. "Why?"

I shrugged, forcing my voice light. "No reason."

My fingers betrayed me first—twitching toward the pen on the desk, clicking it once, twice, before I forced my hand to still.

Three days. Three days of radio silence, of stolen glances at my phone, of my stomach lurching every time an email notification flashed across the screen—only to crash when I saw it was another update from the wind tunnel logs. Not him. Never him.

He’s avoiding me.

A stupid, reckless mistake under the flickering glow of a streetlamp, his hands gripping my waist like he’d been starving for it, his mouth hot against mine—only for the morning light to sober us both into reality. Toto Wolff doesn’t make mistakes. And if he did, he sure as hell didn’t let them linger.

My jaw ached. I unclenched my teeth, exhaled through my nose. He regrets it. He had to. Because the alternative—that he didn’t, that he was just waiting—was somehow worse. Waiting for what? For the right moment to pull me into his office and say, "Sloane, about Miami—" before delivering the words that would end me: "This can’t happen again."

Or maybe he didn’t even need to say it. Maybe he was in that boardroom right now, smooth and composed as ever, explaining to the investors why the aerodynamics lead—the one who’d let her guard down, who’d crossed a line—was a liability they couldn’t afford. "We’ll need to make some changes." A polite phrase. A death sentence.

I crossed my arms, nails biting into my biceps through the fabric of my shirt. Stop it. This was ridiculous. Paranoid. I was good at my job. The numbers didn’t lie. The car didn’t lie. But the way my pulse jumped every time the door to the garage swung open, the way my breath stalling when I caught a glimpse of dark hair, a tailored suit—that was the lie. That was the part of me that still, stupidly, hoped.

Pathetic.

I glanced at the television to see Lewis pushing the car to its limits. I knew that feeling. Knew what it was to be stretched thin, to vibrate with the effort of holding it all together. One wrong move, one miscalculation, and everything shattered.

Just like this.

Because I had miscalculated. I’d let myself believe, for one reckless night, that the tension between us was more than just the friction of two people who wanted the same thing—to win, to be the best. I’d let myself think it was personal. And now I was paying for it.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. I flinched, hand darting toward it before I could stop myself—only to freeze when I saw the notification. Wind tunnel: Session 4 results ready.

Not him.

Never him.

I exhaled, slow and shaky, and forced my fingers to relax. Fix the car. That’s all you can do. The car was safe. The car was known. The car didn’t look at me with hunger one night and avoidance the next. The car didn’t leave me wondering if I’d just ruined everything I’d worked for.

But as I turned back to the damper plot, the numbers swimming before my eyes, one truth burned brighter than the rest:

I’d rather ruin it all than pretend I don’t still want him to look at me the way he did in Miami.

The garage doors groaned shut behind me, the sudden quiet a relief after the relentless scream of the engines. I wiped the sweat from my palm onto my trousers, my fingers still twitching with the ghost of adjustments—two millimetres here, a click there—each change a gamble in a game where the house always won in the end.

Lewis unbuckled himself from the cockpit with a grunt, swinging his legs out before dropping to the ground. He peeled off his gloves, his face flushed from the heat, the effort, the fight of it. His eyes found mine almost immediately.

"Better," he said, voice rough. "Not there yet, but better."

I exhaled, the knot in my chest loosening just a fraction. "Turn-in oversteer?"

"Still twitchy in the low-speed stuff—Swimming Pool, Mirabeau—but it’s not trying to kill me anymore." A ghost of a smirk tugged at his lips. "So. Progress."

I nodded, already mentally running through the data. "We softened the front ARB, adjusted the camber. If we—"

"Yeah, yeah." He waved a hand, cutting me off, but there was no bite to it. Just the weariness of a man who’d spent the last hour wrestling a beast around a track that punished every mistake. "Save the tech talk for the debrief. Right now, I just need to know you’ve got a plan for tomorrow."

I crossed my arms, leaning back against the workbench. "I do. But it’s not just about the setup—it’s about trust. You’ve got to trust the car through the corners. It’s not going to bite you like it was."

Lewis studied me for a long moment, his dark eyes indecipherable. Then, he nodded. "I’ll trust it if you trust it."

I pushed off the bench, gesturing toward the monitors where the telemetry glowed. "We’ll go through the traces tonight, see where we can squeeze out more. But the rear’s stable now—that’s the big win. If we can just—"

A hand clamped down on my shoulder. I turned to see Bono, Lewis’s race engineer, his expression grim. "We’ve got a problem with the tyre temps. They’re spiking in the high-speed sections."

Lewis groaned, tilting his head back.

I frowned, pulling up the data on the nearest screen. The traces were jagged, unpredictable—like the car itself. "That’s not just tyres. That’s aero balance. We’re still loading the front too much in the fast stuff."

Pete rubbed his temples. "So we’re either understeering or oversteering, depending on the corner?"

"Basically." I exhaled, frustration biting. "But it’s fixable. We just need to—"

"What's the problem now?"

The voice cut through the noise like a blade. I turned.

Toto stood in the doorway of the garage, his suit immaculate, his expression rigid. My pulse jumped, traitorous and immediate, heat flooding my cheeks. Damn it.

Lewis followed my gaze, then he clapped me on the back. "Right. I’ll leave you to it. But fix it, yeah?"

I barely registered his departure. My attention was locked on Toto, on the way his jaw tightened just slightly as he stepped closer, on the way his eyes—dark, impassive—flickered over me before landing on the screens.

"Can you get the tyre temps under control?" His voice was steady. Professional. Like Miami had never happened.

I swallowed, forcing my own voice to match his. "Working on it. It’s an aero balance issue—we’re loading the front too much in the high-speed sections."

He nodded, stepping up beside me to study the data. Close enough that I could catch the faint scent of his cologne, the warmth of him radiating like a current. My fingers twitched at my sides.

"This track doesn’t forgive mistakes," he said quietly.

"No," I agreed. "It doesn’t."

A beat of silence. Then—

"Walk me through it."

I exhaled, slow and controlled, and turned to the screens. If he could pretend nothing had changed, so could I.

"Right. So—" I tapped the trace for Sector One. "Here, in the high-speed stuff, the front’s getting too much load. That’s why the tyres are spiking. But if we take load off the front, we risk understeer in the low-speed corners, which we just fixed."

Toto crossed his arms, his gaze sharp. "So what’s the solution?"

I hesitated. The answer was there, in the numbers, in the way the car had felt when Lewis described it—but it was risky. Monaco rewarded bravery, but it punished recklessness in the same breath.

"We adjust the rear wing angle," I said finally. "Just a degree. It’ll shift the balance rearward in the high-speed sections, take some load off the front tyres. But it’ll make the car more skittish in the low-speeds."

Toto’s eyes darted to mine, searching. "And you think Lewis can handle that?"

I held his gaze. "I think he has to."

For a long moment, he just looked at me. "Alright."

The relief was short-lived. Because as he turned to leave, his voice dropped, low and rough—just for me.

"And Sloane?"

I froze. "Yeah?"

"We need to talk. After the debrief."

Then he was gone, leaving me standing there, my heart hammering against my ribs.

I'm getting fired.

I exhaled, sharp and controlled, and turned back to the screens.

My fingers flew over the keyboard, pulling up the rear wing simulations. A degree. Just one. Enough to shift the balance, to give Lewis the edge he needed in the high-speed sections without turning the car into a death trap in the slow ones. The numbers scrolled, the graphs recalibrating in real time.

"Alright," I muttered to myself. "Let’s see what you’ve got."

The simulation ran. The car’s behaviour shifted—more stable through the Tunnel, more responsive in the Swimming Pool complex, but with a hair’s breadth of oversteer in Mirabeau. Risky. But Monaco was always a risk. The question wasn’t whether it was dangerous. The question was whether Lewis could handle it.

I pulled up his telemetry from FP1, overlaying it with the new setup. His inputs were good, his corrections instinctive. He’d feel the change. He’d adapt.

"One degree," I said aloud, nodding to myself. "That’s the move."

Behind me, the garage buzzed with activity—mechanics prepping the car for tomorrow, engineers debating tyre strategies, the ever-present hum of tension that came with Monaco.

I sent the updated specs to the mechanics, then turned to the whiteboard, scribbling down the changes for the debrief. My handwriting was sharp, precise—no room for doubt, no room for error.

Because if this was my last race with Mercedes, if Toto was about to pull the rug out from under me, I’d be damned if I didn’t leave Lewis with a car that could win.

The thought should’ve terrified me. The thought of walking away, of losing everything I’d fought for. But as I stood there, marker in hand, the numbers glowing on the screen, all I felt was the quiet, stubborn fire in my chest.

The debrief dragged on longer than usual, every second stretching like taffy under the weight of Toto’s words—"We need to talk."—burning in my skull. I answered questions on autopilot, my fingers tapping restlessly against the table, my knee bouncing under the cover of the conference room’s dim lights. Marcus shot me a look at one point, his brow furrowed, but I ignored it. I couldn’t afford to care what he thought. Not when my career was balanced on a knife’s edge.

By the time the last engineer packed up his notes and the room emptied, my nails had carved half-moons into my palms. I didn’t bother with small talk, with lingering. I just grabbed my tablet and headed straight for Toto’s office, my heart hammering against my chest with every step.

His door was ajar, the glow of his laptop casting sharp angles across his face. He didn’t look up as I knocked, his focus locked on whatever spreadsheets or emails demanded his attention. The man was a fortress of concentration—jaw set, shoulders squared, the picture of control.

I cleared my throat. "You wanted to see me after the debrief."

That got his attention. His head snapped up, dark eyes fixated on mine that it made my breath catch. For a heartbeat, neither of us moved. Then he stood, the chair rolling back with a quiet thunk, and crossed the room in three long strides. The door clicked shut behind me, the sound final. Too final.

I swallowed, my back stiffening as he turned to face me, his broad frame blocking the exit. The air between us was thick, taut and restless, like tension coiled tight in a bowstring ready to snap. My fingers twitched at my sides, my mind speeding ahead, already scripting the speech I’d rehearsed a dozen times in the last three days.

"Look," I blurted, the words tumbling out before I could stop them, "if this is about what happened in Miami—just know I can forget about it. It was a mistake. A stupid one, and I get that, but I like working here. I’m good at my job, and Mercedes needs me, and I don’t want to—"

His eyebrow arched, just a fraction. "Is that what you want? To forget about Miami?"

I faltered, my momentum stalling like a car running out of fuel. "What?"

His voice was low, tempered. “Is that what you want?”

Confusion knotted in my chest. I crossed my arms, my nails digging into my biceps. "Isn’t it what you want? I haven’t heard from you in days. No call. No text. Not a word to see if I was okay. So yeah, I figured you regretted it. That it was a mistake. That you were about to fire me for crossing a line."

He shook his head, slow and considered. “I don’t want to forget about it.”

The words cut through me, leaving me reeling. My breath stuttered, my heartbeat spiking. "What?"

His gaze didn’t waver. "In fact, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it."

The admission hung between us, heavy and raw. I stared at him, my mind scrambling to process it. Because that—that was the last thing I’d expected. After three days of silence, of my brain spiraling into every worst-case scenario, of convincing myself I’d ruined everything—he was standing there, telling me he hadn’t forgotten. That he couldn’t.

A laugh bubbled up in my throat, sharp and disbelieving. "Then why the hell haven’t you said anything?"

He took a step closer. I took one back, my arse hitting the edge of his desk with a soft thud. His eyes darkened, tracking the movement.

"Because this"—he gestured between us, his voice dropping—"isn’t a discussion for a text. Or a phone call."

Another step forward. Another step back. My hips pressed against the desk now, the wood biting into my lower back. My heart was a drum, loud enough that I was sure he could hear it.

"You could’ve told me that," I snapped, my voice curt. "Instead of leaving me wondering if I’d just torpedoed my entire career over one reckless—"

"Would that have made it better?" he interrupted, his voice a rough edge cutting through mine. "A text? ‘Sloane, we need to talk’? Would that have stopped you from assuming the worst?"

I pressed my lips together, my chest rising and falling too fast. Because he wasn’t wrong. A text wouldn’t have changed anything. I still would’ve spent the last three days second-guessing, overanalyzing, driving myself half-mad with what-ifs. But that didn’t make it hurt any less.

"No," I admitted finally, my voice barely above a whisper. "But it would’ve been something."

He took another step forward, close enough now that I could see the stubble along his jaw, the faint shadow under his eyes—like he hadn’t been sleeping either. His hands came up, his fingers grazing up my arms, slow and deliberate, mapping a path along my skin. My skin prickled under his touch, heat flooding my veins.

"You didn’t answer my question," he said, his voice a low rumble.

"What question?"

His thumbs brushed over my collarbones, then higher, pushing my hair back from my face with a tenderness that made my stomach clench. "Do you want to forget it?"

His hands cupped my face, his palms warm against my skin. The rough edges of his fingers pressed gently, steady and grounding. His thumbs followed the curve of my cheekbones, his gaze locking with mine, shadowed and impossible to read.

I should’ve lied. I should’ve told him yes, that it was better this way, that we could go back to how things were before—professional, distant, safe. But the way he was looking at me, like the sun had risen just for me, melting every careful thought I’d tried to keep in place.

"No," I breathed.

A flare of something—relief? hunger?—crossed his face. His eyes dropped to my lips, just for a second, before snapping back up to meet mine. "Good," he said, his voice rough. "Because I didn’t plan to."

And then his mouth was on mine.

There was no hesitation, no gentleness—just heat and need and the relentless force of his lips against mine, like he’d been holding back a storm that had no other outlet. I melted into him, my hands flying up to grip his shoulders, my fingers curling into the fabric of his Mercedes polo. He made a sound low in his throat, something between a growl and a groan, and then his hands were on my waist, lifting me effortlessly onto the desk. The wood was cool under my thighs, the papers scattered as he stepped between my legs, his body pressing flush against mine.

"Is this okay?" His voice was rough, barely audible between the feverish press of his mouth against mine.

"Yes."

His kiss was everything—demanding and desperate, his tongue sweeping against my lips until I parted for him with a gasp. My fingers tangled in his hair, my nails scraping against his scalp, and he groaned again, the sound vibrating against my mouth. One of his hands slid up my back, his fingers tangling in the hair at my nape, tilting my head to deepen the kiss. The other gripped my hip, his thumb digging into the soft flesh there, like he was anchoring himself to me.

I arched into him, my body acting on instinct, my mind too fogged with need to protest. His shirt was rough under my palms, the muscle beneath it hard and unyielding. He was everywhere—his scent, his heat, the way his breath fumbled when I bit down on his lower lip. The desk creaked under me, the sound fading beneath the frantic beat of my heart.

Then he froze, pulling away. He exhaled harshly, his forehead dropping to rest against mine, his breath ragged. "Fuck. You are driving me mad."

I blinked up at him, my lips swollen. Reality crashed back in like a wave—his office, the debrief, the team just beyond that door. The impact of what we’d just done—what we were still doing—hung over me like a blanket, smothering the heat between us.

“Should I be sorry?” I murmured, letting a teasing edge curl through my voice.

Toto’s hands flexed on my thighs, his grip tightening for just a second before he forced himself to let go. He stepped back, putting space between us, his chest rising and falling too fast. His eyes were dark, conflicted, his hair tousled from my fingers.

"No."

I slid off the desk, my legs unsteady. I could still taste him on my lips, still feel the imprint of his hands on my skin.

"Good because I didn't plan to," I repeated his words back at him.

Chapter Text

The hotel room was quiet.

I stared at the laptop screen, the glow casting shadows across the bedspread, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. Electricity: £128. Council tax: £187. Water: £42. Numbers that meant nothing when I spent more nights in hotel rooms than I did in my own flat. The cursor blinked, taunting me, as I hit confirm payment with a sigh.

My phone buzzed against the duvet, the vibration sharp and sudden. I snatched it up without looking, my focus still half-glued to the screen. "Yeah?"

"Am I interrupting something?"

Toto’s voice—low and smooth. My fingers stilled on the keyboard. The laptop’s glow seemed to flare, too bright, too exposing, like he could see right through the screen to the quickening in my chest.

I leaned back against the headboard, forcing my voice light. "Just paying bills for a flat I’m never in. You know, the glamorous life of an F1 engineer."

His chuckle rumbled through the line, and my gut tightened in response. "I’d offer to reimburse you for the utility costs, but I suspect HR would have questions."

I smirked, even though he couldn’t see it. "Yeah, ‘Why is the team principal paying for Sloane’s gas bill?’ Doesn’t quite scream professional conduct."

"No," he agreed, and I could hear the smile in his voice. "Though I’d argue it’s a necessary expense. Can’t have my aerodynamics lead distracted by unpaid invoices."

I rolled my eyes, but my lips twitched. "Generous of you."

In the background, the murmur of voices leaked through the line—deep, polished, the kind of tones that belonged to men in expensive suits discussing expensive things. My face pitched in thought. "You’re not alone."

"No," he said, and there was a change in his voice, a subtle slide from ease to something sharper. "I’m with a few potential investors and they’ve been asking about you."

That had me sitting up straighter. "Me?"

"Mm. The ‘brilliant young aerodynamicist’ who’s ‘revitalising Mercedes’ rear wing programme.’" His voice dripped with amusement, but there was something else there too—pride, maybe. Or satisfaction. Like he’d been waiting to say it.

I blinked. "You’ve been talking me up?"

"I didn't need to. They've been watching our performance with the new wing." A pause. The clink of a glass—whiskey, probably. "They’re impressed and would like to meet you."

I glanced at the time on my laptop. 8:47 PM. "Tonight?"

"Yes."

I exhaled, running a hand through my hair. It was still damp from the shower, the strands sticking to my fingers. "Where?"

A beat. "I’ll send you the address."

The line went dead before I could protest.

I stared at the phone, the screen dark now, reflecting my own wide-eyed expression back at me.

My fingers were already moving, tapping out a quick reply to the message that pinged through a second later—coordinates placing him among the most luxurious yachts in Monaco’s harbor, sparkling under the Mediterranean moonlight.

I swung my legs off the bed, my bare feet sinking into the plush carpet. The air conditioning hummed, a low, steady drone that did nothing to cool the heat creeping up my neck.

Investors. Important ones, if he was dragging me out this late. The kind who didn’t just write cheques but demanded results. The kind who could make or break a season—or a career.

I stood in front of the hotel closet where I'd hung everything from my suitcase the moment I'd checked in—a small ritual that helped me feel settled, organized. My fingers trailed over the hangers before landing on a pale pink button-down. I pulled it free, the fabric crisp against my skin as I slipped it on. It fit close, the buttons neat, and the collar sharp. From the next hanger, I grabbed my high-waisted white trousers, the clean lines falling straight to the floor. Simple, maybe even a little severe, but softened by the blush of pink. I slipped into my favorite pair of pointed black flats.

Right. Let’s do this.

The engine of my rental purred as I pulled into the marina lot, the headlights cutting through the twilight haze. I killed the ignition and stepped out, the warm evening air wrapping around me, thick with salt and the distant thrum of music. The dock stretched ahead, a glittering spine of white lights and polished teak, the yachts moored along it like jewels on display—each one sleeker, more ostentatious than the last.

I moved quietly, my flats soundless on the wooden planks, my eyes following the sweeping curves of hulls worth more than most could dream of in a lifetime. The music grew louder with every step—deep house beats from one vessel, the clink of glasses and laughter from another, The air hummed with the kind of indulgence that only existed in places like this. Monaco at night wasn’t just a city; it was a stage, and everyone here was playing a part.

The number Toto had given me was painted in elegant gold script on the stern of a yacht that looked like it had been carved from liquid silver. I stopped at the bottom of the gangway, where a security guard in a crisp black suit stood with his hands clasped behind his back. His gaze glanced towards me.

“Name?”

“Sloane Kingsley.”

He nodded once, no hesitation, and stepped aside. “Mr. Wolff is expecting you.”

The gangway creaked under my weight as I climbed, the railing cool beneath my fingers. At the top, the deck opened up—polished wood, low slung seating, a bar glowing with backlit bottles. A few men in tailored suits stood near the railing, cigars burning amber between their fingers, smoke curling into the night. They turned as I passed, their eyes tracking me with the kind of interest that wasn’t just professional.

“Evening,” I murmured, not slowing.

Inside, the yacht was all warm lighting and dark wood, the hum of conversation and ice clinking against glass. I descended a curved staircase, my hand trailing the polished banister, the music from outside fading into a low, steady hum. The lower deck opened into a lounge area, plush seating arranged around a low table, but my eyes landed on the far corner—where Toto sat at a green baize poker table, chips stacked in neat piles in front of him and three other men.

He was laughing at something one of them had said, his head tilted back partially, the line of his throat exposed. The sight of it—of him—set a spark racing through me. Then, as if he felt the shift in the air, his eyes lifted, found mine.

The grin that spread across his face wasn’t the polished, professional one he wore for the cameras. This was sharper, more personal. For me.

“Sloane,” he said, pushing back his chair and standing in one fluid motion. The game seemed to pause around him, the other men turning to follow his gaze. “Glad you could make it.”

I stepped forward, "Wouldn’t miss it.”

He gestured to the men at the table. “Gentlemen, this is Sloane Kingsley, our lead aerodynamicist. The one you've been asking about.” His hand rested on the back of his chair, fingers tapping once, twice, before stilling. “Sloane, meet Gideon, Julian, and Darren of CypherCore Technologies. Big fans of F1. Bigger fans of winning.”

I shook each of their hands in turn—Gideon’s grip firm, Julian’s soft, and Darren’s clammy. Their eyes were sharp, assessing, the kind of looks that stripped away the polite smiles and got straight to the calculation: Are we worth the investment?

Toto dragged his own seat back. “Sit. You’re taking my spot.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You’re giving up your hand?”

His smirk was all teeth. “I was about to fold anyway.”

Toto lingered at my side, his grip firm on the chairback just behind me.

The cards slid across the green baize, crisp and sharp, as Gideon shuffled. He dealt with a flick of his wrist—two to me then the rest around the table. The chips in front of me were a neat stack, untouched. I didn’t reach for them yet.

Julian leaned back in his chair, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. “So, Sloane. You play?”

I picked up my cards, glancing at the pair—nine of hearts, nine of diamonds. Not terrible. “My dad’s a mechanic. Grew up in his garage on Sundays, listening to his mates argue over poker hands between oil changes and brake jobs.” I tapped the edge of the table with my fingers. “Let’s just say I learned early that a full house beats a flush.”

Julian’s laugh was rough. “A woman who knows her way around engines and cards? Dangerous combination.”

Gideon chuckled, but his eyes were sharp, assessing. “Alright, Ms. Kingsley. Ante up.” He nudged a stack of chips toward the center. “While we play, tell me about yourself.”

I matched his bet, sliding a chip forward. “Not much to tell. Grew up obsessed with how things move—cars, planes, anything with an engine. Studied aerodynamics at Imperial, spent a few years at Ferrari before Toto poached me.” I shot him a look, but his attention stayed fixed on the others at the table. “Now I’m here, trying to make our rear wing do things it shouldn’t.”

Darren nodded, his jaw working as he chewed on the inside of his cheek. “Impressive credentials. Your work on the adaptive flow structures is… smart.”

Gideon didn’t look up from his hand as he raised the bet. “Toto mentioned you’re the reason Mercedes is back in the fight this season.”

I matched again, keeping my face neutral. “The car’s a team effort. I just tweak the bits that touch the air.”

Gideon’s lips quirked. “Modest. I like that.” He set his glass down, the ice clinking. “Did Toto tell you why we asked to meet you?”

I tossed a chip into the pot. “He said you’re looking to sponsor.”

“Correct.” Gideon leaned forward, elbows on the table. “CypherCore Technologies specializes in lightweight, carbon-neutral composites. We want to demonstrate their performance capabilities in the most demanding environment possible.” His gaze locked onto mine. “Formula 1.”

Darren took over, his voice smooth, salesman-perfect. “We’re talking about redefining ‘green speed’—fast, modern, responsible. Our materials can shave weight without sacrificing strength. Imagine a car that’s not just faster, but smarter.”

Julian slid a chip into the center, his fingers lingering on the edge of the table. “We’re interested in exclusive branding rights for next year—sidepods, rear wing, trackside banners, driver suits. The works.”

Gideon dealt the flop—three cards face-up: king of spades, seven of clubs, two of diamonds. “Of course,” he continued, “we’re in conversations with other teams. Red Bull. McLaren.” He paused, letting the names hang in the air like a challenge. “But Mercedes has… potential.”

I kept my face still, my fingers steady as I checked my hand again. Nine of hearts. Nine of diamonds. The flop hadn’t helped me, but I wasn’t folding yet. “Potential’s a dangerous word in this sport. Either you deliver, or you don’t.”

Gideon’s smile was slow, appreciative. “Exactly why we’re talking to you.”

I tilted my head, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make him fill it.

Gideon didn’t disappoint.

“Let’s be honest, Sloane.” He tapped the table, his signet ring clicking against the wood. “At the start of the season, Mercedes was fourth. Now? You’re second in the Constructors’. That’s not luck. That’s you.”

I exhaled through my nose, a slow, controlled breath. “And if we had your composites?”

Julian leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. “We’re talking about a car that wouldn't just compete, but dominate. Lighter. Stronger. Faster than anything on the grid.” His eyes gleamed. “You’d have the resources to design something no one’s ever seen before.”

My pulse kicked up, just slightly. No one’s ever seen before. That was the kind of challenge that kept me up at night, sketching designs on napkins, running simulations until my vision blurred. A car that didn’t just race—it redefined racing.

But Gideon wasn’t done. He set his cards down, folding his hands over them. “But like I said, we’re also in talks with McLaren. And Red Bull.”

Red Bull. The team currently sitting pretty at the top of the table, the one every other team was gunning for. The one with the budget to make Julian’s green speed fantasy a reality.

I kept my face smooth, but my fingers tapped against my cards. “You’re shopping around.”

Gideon’s smiled. “Business, Sloane. Nothing personal.”

I matched his gaze, holding it. “If you wanted safe, you’d have signed with them already.”

A beat. The hum of the yacht’s engine thrummed beneath us, the distant laughter from the deck above filtering through the air.

Toto’s voice cut in, smooth as aged whiskey. “She’s right.” He didn’t look at me, but I felt the shift in the room, the way the other men’s attention snapped to him. “You didn’t fly out here to talk to Red Bull. You’re here because you want something new.” His fingers tapped once against his cards. “And Sloane builds new.”

Gideon’s eyes flicked between us, before landing back on me. "What sets Mercedes apart from Red Bull—or any other team on the grid?"

I set my cards down, the nine of hearts and diamonds face-up on the table. The poker game was just a game—but this? This was the real play.

“Red Bull’s fast,” I said, leaning forward. “But they’re predictable. They win because they outspend, outmuscle, and out-politic everyone else. That’s not innovation—that’s brute force.” My fingers tapped the table, each press deliberate. “Mercedes? We invent. We don’t just follow the rules—we rewrite them.”

Gideon’s eyebrows lifted, just a fraction. He was listening.

I continued, my voice low, steady. “You want a car that dominates? Fine. But do you want a car that changes the sport? Because that’s what we do. Toto didn’t build this team by playing it safe.” I glanced at him—just for a second—but it was enough. His jaw was set, his gaze locked on Gideon like a wolf sighting prey. “He built it by taking risks. By backing ideas no one else would touch.”

Julian swirled his drink, the ice clinking. “And you think your team can handle our materials?”

I smirked. “I know we can.” I leaned back, crossing my arms. “If you give us your tech, we’ll give you a car that doesn’t just chase victories, it rewrites the rules of speed.”

Gideon’s fingers steepled under his chin. “And Toto?”

I didn’t hesitate. “He’s the best in the business. You think Christian Horner’s good? Toto doesn’t just manage a team—he leads it.” My voice dropped, almost imperceptibly. “And he wins. Even when the odds are against him.”

Toto’s gaze cut to mine, something shadowed in his eyes. Heat crept up my neck, but I didn’t look away.

Gideon exhaled, slow, considering. “You’re confident.”

I picked my cards back up, my fingers brushing the edges. “I’m right.”

Gideon’s grin spread as he pushed back from the table, the legs of his chair scraping against the polished floor. “Well played, Ms. Kingsley.” He buttoned his jacket—tailored, probably hand-stitched, the kind of fabric that exuded money—and extended a hand to Toto. “Appreciate the game Toto. And the hospitality.”

Toto stood, his grip firm as they shook.

Gideon turned to me. His hand his shake confident. “It's been a pleasure to meet you.”

I nodded, keeping my expression neutral, but the rush in my veins was still alive from the last hand—the way his eyes had locked onto mine when I’d laid down my challenge.

Julian and Darren followed suit, murmuring their goodbyes, but Gideon lingered at the edge of the lounge, his fingers tapping against his thigh. Then he turned back, his gaze flicking between me and Toto.

“One more thing.” His voice was casual, but an unmistakable edge ran beneath it. “If we move forward with Mercedes, we’ll need assurances.”

Toto’s jaw shifted, subtle but telling. “Such as?”

Gideon’s smile didn’t waver. “Sloane will need to remain as part of the team.”

Gideon didn’t wait for a response. He just gave a sharp nod, like the matter was already settled, and disappeared up the stairs.

The last of the sponsors filtered out an hour later, their laughter and expensive cologne lingering in the air like smoke. I found myself gravitating toward the scattered glasses and crumpled napkins, my hands moving without thought—stacking plates, wiping down surfaces, collecting the detritus of networking.

"You know I didn't invite you here to play housemaid."

Toto's voice was warm with amusement. I glanced over to find him sprawled on the leather sofa, elbow propped against the armrest, chin resting in his palm. His tie was loosened, the top button of his shirt undone, and he was watching me with that infuriating half-smile.

"I don't mind helping."

"Did you enjoy yourself tonight?"

I set down the last glass, wiping my hands on a napkin. "Yes. Though as much as I like networking, it's draining at the same time."

His laugh was low, rich. "Sit down."

I crossed to the sofa, sinking into the leather beside him.

His hand was still propped against his face, the amused expression lingering as he watched me. Like I was a puzzle he couldn't quite solve.

"You left a hell of an impression on Gideon."

I tucked one leg beneath me, angling toward him. "Good or bad?"

"Good." His eyes crinkled at the corners. "Although, I'm not surprised" He paused, his thumb brushing along his jawline. "You’ve got a way of leaving your mark."

Heat crept up my neck. "I was being honest."

"I know." His voice dropped, quieter now. "That's what made it so effective."

The yacht rocked gently beneath us, the distant sound of water lapping against the hull filling the silence. His gaze held mine, and I felt that familiar pull—the one that had been building for months, the one that made everything else fade to background noise.

His hand dropped from his face, fingers brushing against the leather as he shifted—subtle, but enough. His thigh pressed against my knee, the one tucked beneath me, and the heat of him seeped through the fabric of my trousers like a brand.

“As much as I enjoyed yesterday—”

“The kiss,” I cut in.

Toto’s lips quirked, a slow, knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He didn’t deny it. Just nodded, once, like he’d been waiting for me to say it. “Yes. The kiss.” His fingers curled against the leather. “We should probably continue talking about that.”

“We were talking. Until you kissed me.” I teased.

His hand moved before I could react, his palm warm and heavy as it settled over my knee. His thumb brushed once—just once—against the inside of my leg, and my breath hitched. His smirk deepened, those damn brown eyes glistering. “You distracted me.”

I arched an eyebrow, my voice light despite the heat pooling beneath his palm. “So I’m just a distraction?”

His grip on my knee tightened, fingers pressing in just enough to make my breath catch. “No,” he said, his voice gravel-edged. “You’re never just anything.”

The air between us thickened, the yacht’s gentle sway pressing us closer, the space between us brimming with a tension that felt dangerously close to inevitability. His thumb traced a slow, deliberate circle against the inside of my knee, and I had to swallow before I could speak.

“Then what are we?” I ran my fingers through my hair, the strands catching on my nails. “Because as much as I—” Enjoyed it. Wanted it. Need it again. “—as much as that kiss was…” I exhaled, my gaze dropping to his hand on my leg before flicking back up to his face. “I don’t know how to navigate this.”

His expression shifted, the amusement fading into something sharper, more intent. “Take your time and tell me what you are thinking.”

“I’ve only been here a few months. I’m still the new girl, Toto. The one who had to prove herself to the team, to the drivers, to you.” My fingers twisted together in my lap. “And now I’m supposed to just… what? Pretend this isn’t happening? Pretend I don’t—” I cut myself off, my jaw clenching. “I’ve never been attracted to my boss before.”

His smirk returned, but there was an edge to it now. “That’s because you had Fred Vasseur as your boss.”

I slapped his hand—light, but enough to make him laugh. His palm flipped upward, catching my fingers before I could pull away, his grip warm and sure. “Be nice,” I warned, but there was no real bite to it.

His grin only deepened. “I’m always nice.”

“Getting involved with my boss doesn’t look good for me,” I said, my voice dropping. “Especially when I’m still proving I belong here. People will talk. They’ll say I slept my way—”

His face darkened, the humor draining away like water down a storm drain. He understood. The implications hung between us, ugly and undeniable: the way the paddock would chew me up and spit me out if they thought for a second I’d traded my skills for his bed. Formula 1 wasn’t just a man’s world—it was a boys’ club, and the rules were different for me.

“I understand,” he said, his voice rough.

I pulled my hand from his, my fingers curling into my palm. “As much as we should stop…” I exhaled, my shoulders slumping. “I don’t want to.”

Something in the quickening of his inhale grazed my senses. Then his hand was moving, dropping from my knee to reach for me, his fingers grazing the skin of my neck before curling around the back, his thumb pressing into the tension knotted at the base of my skull. My eyes fluttered shut at the contact, his touch firm but careful, massaging in slow circles.

“Sloane,” he murmured, his voice a rough edge against the quiet. "I need to hear you say it. What do you want? Because I won’t push you into anything—I won’t let you think for a second that your place here depends on this. On me. If you want to stop, you stop. No questions. No repercussions."

I leaned into his hand, my body betraying me, melting into the warmth of him. “This is a terrible idea.”

His fingers stilled, then his thumb brushed my skin beneath my jaw.

I pressed a light kiss into his palm.

“I don’t want to stop." The words felt like a surrender, but not the kind that weakened me. The kind that set something free. “But we have to keep this between us. Just… for now.”

His fingers tightened against my neck, his thumb brushing my jawline before his hand slid down, cupping my cheek. His gaze searched mine, dark and intent, like he was memorizing the shape of my face. Then his arms enveloped me, his lips finding mine in a kiss that started gentle—giving me space to be certain—but intensified as I pressed closer, my fingers clutching at his shoulders, bunching the material of his shirt between them.

“Okay,” he murmured against my lips, his voice rough. “And if it’s too much—if this is too much—you tell me. We stop.”

He kissed me again, slower this time, like he was savoring the taste of me, the way my body fit against his. His hand slid to the back of my neck, his fingers tangling in my hair, just for a second, before he pulled away.

His thumb brushed my lower lip, his eyes locked on mine. “Come on. I’ll walk you to your car.”

The words were simple, but the way he said them was as if he were already missing me. I rose and trailed him up the stairs, every nerve alight from his touch, the night air brushing my skin. The yacht’s deck was quiet now, the party long over, the only sound the distant lap of water against the hull and the faint beat of music from somewhere down the dock.

Toto moved beside me, close but not touching, his presence a steady heat at my side. The gangway creaked beneath us as we descended, the marina lights stretching across the wooden planks. My car waited in the lot, a dark silhouette among the rows of sleek, expensive machines, and I could feel the significance of what we’d just done—what we’d just started—settling between us as a secret.

He stopped beside the driver’s door.

“Drive safe,” he said, his voice low.

I swallowed, my keys cold in my palm. “I will.”

He leaned in, pressing a final kiss to my temple.

“I'll see you tomorrow.”

I slid into the car, my heart pounding, and watched as he stepped back, his hands in his pockets, his silhouette framed by the glow of the marina lights. The engine roared to life beneath me, but I didn’t drive away—not yet. Not until he turned, disappearing into the shadows between the yachts, leaving me with the heaviness of his kiss still burning on my skin and the quiet, thrilling terror of what could come next.

Chapter Text

The Monaco Grand Prix was a beast of its own—glamorous, unforgiving, and dripping with history. The streets of Monte Carlo were a maze of armco and prestige, where the slightest misstep meant kissing the wall, and the slightest hesitation meant losing everything. I stood in the garage, the scent of rubber and fuel thick in the air, my fingers twitching with the kind of restless energy that came from knowing today could change everything.

Toto stepped inside, the fabric of his team shirt taut over his broad frame. He didn’t look at me—not at first. He pushed a takeaway coffee cup in my direction along the workbench, the motion quick and smooth. The steam curled into the air between us, carrying the rich, bitter scent of espresso.

I didn’t reach for it immediately. Just stared at the cup, at the way the light caught the dark liquid inside, at the way his fingers had just been wrapped around it. My pulse kicked up, remembering the last time his hands had been on something of mine.

“Is this is you paying up on our wager? I’d started to wonder if you’d even remembered our bet."

A ghost of a smirk touched his lips, there and gone so fast I might’ve imagined it. “Enjoy it while it’s hot.”

He didn’t wait for my response. Just turned and strode toward the strategy table, where a cluster of engineers were hunched over monitors, their faces lit by the glow of telemetry data.

I picked up the coffee and took a sip. It was perfect. Strong, no sugar, just the way I liked it.

Lewis climbed into the car, the cockpit swallowing him whole as the mechanics swarmed, final checks and adjustments flying in a blur of motion. The workshop hummed with organised frenzy—voices overlapping and tools clattering. I forced my attention back to the screens in front of me, to the numbers scrolling by, to the job.

Qualifying yesterday had been a masterclass. Lewis had pulled a lap out of nowhere, a blistering 1:10.6 that slotted him P2, just three-tenths off Max’s pole time.

Now, the grid was set. The cars were lined up like gladiators before battle, the air thick with anticipation. I could hear the murmur of the crowd through the open garage doors, the distant roar of engines as the support races wound down. My fingers flew over the keyboard, pulling up the latest weather data, tire temps, the endless variables that could make or break us today.

Toto’s voice cut through the noise, low and steady, as he spoke into his headset. I didn’t catch the words, but I didn’t need to. I knew that tone—the calm before the storm, the quiet confidence of a man who’d spent a lifetime learning how to win.

The national anthem played, the notes floating over the paddock, and for a second, everything stilled. Even the mechanics paused, tools in hand, as the music swelled. I closed my eyes, just for a moment, and let it wash over me.

Then the anthem ended.

The grid cleared.

The lights began their sequence.

Five. Four. Three.

My breath held.

Two. One.

Go.

The field exploded into motion, a roar of engines and screaming tires, the cars surging forward like they’d been shot from a cannon. Lewis was immediately on the attack, the Mercedes hugging the inside line as they charged toward Sainte Devote, the first real test of the day. Max held the lead, his Red Bull a red blur ahead, but Lewis was right there, shadowing him, waiting for the slightest mistake.

I exhaled, my fingers tightening around the edge of the desk.

This is it. This is where we find out.

The first thirty laps were a masterclass in tension.

Max led, his car hooked up, his lines perfect. Lewis was a predator in his mirrors, never more than half a second behind, the gap fluctuating with every corner, every straight. Bono’s command cut through the static.

“Lewis, keep the pressure on. Stay close.”

Lewis’s response was a grunt of acknowledgment, the sound of a man completely in the zone.

I watched the timing screens, my heart in my throat. The numbers told the story—Max’s lap times were creeping up, just slightly, the kind of incremental errors that came from a driver feeling the heat. Lewis, meanwhile, was consistent. Relentless. Every lap, he chipped away, a tenth here, two-tenths there, the gap shrinking like water down a drain.

Toto stood beside me, his arms crossed, his posture deceptively relaxed. But I could see the way his jaw was set, the way his eyes never left the screens. He didn’t say a word. Didn’t need to.

Then, lap 38.

Bono’s voice crackled over the radio, urgent but controlled. “Lewis, Red Bull are boxing Max. They’re late. This is our chance.”

The pit lane lights flashed green.

Lewis dove in.

The stop was flawless—the crew a well-oiled machine, tires changed in under two seconds, Lewis rocketing back out onto the track before Max had even cleared the pit exit.

The crowd erupted.

Lewis was now on fresh hards, Max on aging mediums. The gap was nothing. A car’s length. Half a second.

One mistake. That’s all we need.

The next twenty laps were torture.

Lewis hunted. Max defended. The two of them traded blows through every corner, every chicane, the cars inches apart, the tension palpable even through the screens. Bono feeding Lewis lines, adjustments, anything to keep him in the fight.

“Stay patient, mate. He’s struggling on those tires. Wait for the mistake.”

“Copy.” Lewis’s voice was steady, but I could hear the edge beneath it, the controlled fury of a man who knew this was his moment.

Then, lap 56.

Beausset.

Max pushed too hard, his rear tires locking up as he braked for the tight right-hander. The Red Bull twitched, the rear end stepping out just enough to cost him precious time.

Lewis pounced.

He sent the Mercedes diving down the inside, the two cars side by side for one heart-stopping second—

Then contact.

A glancing blow, Max’s front wing clipping Lewis’s rear tire. The Red Bull snapped sideways, Max fighting for control as Lewis shot past, the Mercedes arrow-straight, unstoppable.

The crowd roared.

I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding, my hands shaking.

He did it. He actually fucking did it.

Lewis was in the lead.

And Max?

Max was done.

His tires were shot, his car a handful, the gap between them growing with every corner. The Red Bull pit wall was a picture of frustration, heads in hands, radios exploding with recriminations.

But we?

We were electric.

The garage erupted—cheers, fist pumps, the kind of raw, unbridled joy that came from snatching victory from the jaws of defeat. Toto didn’t move. Didn’t react. Just stood there, his hands in his pockets, his eyes locked on the screens as Lewis crossed the line.

First place.

The checkered flag fell.

Lewis’s voice crackled over the radio, a triumphant scream that made my chest tighten. “Yes! Come on!”

The team spilled onto the pit wall, a sea of white and teal, the kind of unity that only came from fighting for something together. George had secured P5—a solid points finish, a much-needed boost in the constructors’ standings.

Toto finally turned to me.

His eyes were dark, intense, the kind of look that made my pulse stutter. He didn’t say a word. Didn’t need to.

I smiled.

He smiled back.

Then the team surged forward, pulling us both into the celebration, the noise, the joy.

The podium was full of color and sound.

Lewis stood on the top step, the trophy held high, the national anthem playing as the crowd roared. Champagne sprayed in arcs of gold, Lewis, Max, and Lando drenching each other, the kind of unfiltered, childlike joy that only came from standing on the highest step in the world.

I stood with the team in the pit lane, my heart still pounding, my body humming with adrenaline. Toto was beside me, close enough that I could feel the heat of him, the way his shoulder brushed mine as the crowd’s cheers washed over us.

Lewis jumped down from the podium, his face alight with triumph. He was immediately swarmed—media, team members, well-wishers—but his eyes found ours in the crowd.

The celebration spilled into the paddock, the team a tide of laughter and clinking glasses. Toto was pulled into a hundred conversations, a hundred handshakes, but his eyes kept finding mine across the crowd.

The paddock was buzzing with post-race energy when someone called out behind me.

"Lucky win today."

I turned, already knowing who I'd find. Christian Horner approached with that trademark smirk of his, hands tucked casually in his pockets like he owned the place. Which, in many ways, he did.

I folded my arms across my chest, the adrenaline from Lewis's victory still coursing through my veins. "Max being too aggressive had nothing to do with luck. That's what made you lose today."

Christian's smirk widened, his green eyes gleaming with amusement. "Aggressive? I prefer to call it passionate."

The dig landed exactly where he'd intended. Heat flared in my chest, but I kept my voice level. "There's a difference between racing and recklessness. Today proved that."

He stepped closer, lowering his voice just enough that I had to strain to hear him over the crowd. "We should talk sometime. About aerodynamics. Over dinner, perhaps." His smile was all sharp edges and calculated charm. "I think you'd find our facilities at Red Bull quite... inspiring."

Before I could respond, he was already walking away, leaving me standing there with his words echoing in my head like a warning bell.

The Mercedes motorhome felt like a sanctuary after the chaos of the paddock. I was walking down the narrow hallway toward the exit when a hand caught my wrist, pulling me sideways into an office.

Toto.

The door clicked shut behind us, and before I could process what was happening, his hands were framing my face and his lips were on mine. The kiss was quick, soft, but it sent electricity shooting through every nerve ending.

"I've been waiting to do that," he murmured against my mouth, his thumb tracing my cheekbone.

I kissed him back, tasting victory and champagne on his lips. "Congratulations on the win."

His eyes crinkled at the corners, that rare, unguarded smile spreading across his face. "What are your plans tonight?"

"I have a date with Netflix," I said, trying to keep my voice light despite the way my pulse was hammering.

He laughed, the sound rich and warm. "No, you have a date with me tonight. And I can assure you, I'm a far better date than Netflix."

I raised an eyebrow, fighting back a grin. "That's quite a claim. Netflix has never let me down."

"Then I'll have to work extra hard to impress you." His hands were still on my face, thumbs stroking my skin in a way that made coherent thought nearly impossible. "Meet me at the dock this evening."

The sun was beginning its descent toward the horizon when I made my way to the marina. Monaco's harbor was a forest of masts and gleaming hulls, the water reflecting the golden light like scattered coins.

I spotted Toto before he saw me—standing on the dock in a perfectly fitted black suit, no tie, the top buttons of his shirt undone. The sight of him made my breath catch. He looked impeccable, dangerous, like he'd stepped out of some impossible fantasy.

When he turned and saw me approaching, his smile was immediate and devastating.

"You look beautiful," he said, his hand finding the small of my back as he guided me away from the massive yacht we'd been on the night before.

I glanced up at him, confused. "Where are we going? I thought we were taking the boat."

"We are going on a boat," he said, that familiar hint of mischief in his voice. "Just not that one."

He led me further down the dock, stopping beside a smaller yacht that was no less impressive than its larger neighbors. Sleek lines, pristine white hull, every detail screaming expensive elegance.

"How many boats do you own?" I asked, unable to hide my amazement.

His smirk was answer enough.

He helped me aboard, his hands steady and sure as I found my footing on the deck. The boat rocked gently beneath us, a soothing rhythm that seemed to wash away the tension I'd been carrying all day.

Toto moved to the controls with practiced ease, his fingers dancing over switches and dials. "I hope you don't mind speed," he said, glancing back at me.

I gave him a sly smile. "If I did, I wouldn't be part of Formula 1."

The engine roared to life beneath us, a powerful purr that I felt in my bones. Toto took my hand, leading me to the cushioned seating near the wheel.

"Sit," he said, his voice gentle but commanding.

I settled into the plush seat, watching as he pulled away from the dock with the kind of confidence that came from years of practice. The boat cut through the water like a blade, Monaco shrinking behind us until the buildings were just glittering lights in the distance.

The wind whipped through my hair, salt spray kissing my cheeks, and for the first time in weeks, I felt completely free. Toto pushed the boat to its limits, the hull skimming across the waves with exhilarating speed, and I found myself laughing—actually laughing—at the pure joy of it.

When we were far enough from shore that the world felt like it belonged only to us, he cut the engine. The sudden silence was profound, broken only by the gentle lapping of waves against the hull.

The sun was lower now, painting the sky in shades of amber and rose. Toto disappeared below deck for a moment, returning with two champagne flutes and a bottle.

"This is beautiful," I said, accepting the glass he offered.

He settled beside me, close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating from his body. "Better than Netflix?"

I pretended to consider it, taking a sip of champagne that tasted like liquid starlight. "I think you could still do better."

Before I could take another sip, he plucked the glass from my hand and set it aside. His lips found mine again, this kiss deeper than the first, more deliberate. Soft but passionate.

When we broke apart, his lips were still brushing against mine. "And now?" He murmured.

I smiled against his mouth, my heart doing something acrobatic in my chest. "Much better."

He handed my glass back with a satisfied expression, then turned me around so my back was pressed against his chest. His arms came around me, solid and warm, as we watched the sun sink toward the horizon.

For a while, we just sat in comfortable silence, the kind that only exists when you don’t feel the need to fill the space with words. The water lapped gently against the hull, the distant hum of Monaco’s nightlife a faint murmur on the wind.

Then Toto broke the quiet, his voice low and amused. "Tell me something I don’t know about you."

I tilted my head back to look at him. "Like what?"

"Anything." His fingers traced idle patterns on my arm. "Your first car. Your worst habit. The most trouble you’ve ever been in."

I laughed, swirling the champagne in my glass. "Okay. When I was sixteen, I took my dad’s old Ford Escort—without permission—and drove it to Silverstone just to watch a race."

His brows lifted. "You stole a car?"

"Borrowed," I corrected, grinning. "I filled the tank and everything. He was still furious."

"And?" Toto’s chest rumbled with laughter against my back. "Worth it?"

"Absolutely." I took another sip, the bubbles fizzing on my tongue.

He chuckled, pressing a kiss to my temple. "What else? Give me another one."

"Hmm." I pretended to think. "I'm horrible at parallel parking."

Toto snorted, nearly choking on his champagne. "You’re joking."

"Nope." I grinned. "I’ve mastered computational fluid dynamics, but put me in a tight parking spot and I turn into a panicked mess."

"That’s…" He shook his head, laughing. "Unforgivable."

"Hey, I have other skills!" I protested, elbowing him lightly. "I can recite every F1 world champion in order since 1950."

"Prove it."

I rattled them off without hesitation, "Giuseppi Farina, Juan Manuel Fangio, Mike Hawthorn—"

"Alright, alright!" Toto held up a hand, still laughing. "I believe you. Though I’m not sure that counts as a talent—or even remotely useful." He laughed.

"Your turn," I said. "Tell me something I don’t know."

He considered for a moment, then smirked. "I hate mushrooms."

I blinked. "That’s your big secret?"

"I have a visceral hatred of them," he insisted. "Texture, smell, the way they look—"

"You’re a monster," I deadpanned.

"I know." He grinned, unrepentant. "Also, I once got into a fistfight at a karting track when I was seventeen."

My eyes widened. "You? A fight?"

"In my defense," he said, "the other kid cheated. Cut me off in the last lap."

"And?"

"And I may have pushed him into a stack of tires." He shrugged. "I still won."

I was laughing now, the sound bright against the quiet of the water. "You’re ridiculous."

"But you’re smiling," he pointed out.

"Unfortunately."

He pulled me closer, his lips brushing my ear. "Good. I like you like this."

The sky exploded in color—gold melting into orange, orange bleeding into deep purple. It was the kind of sunset that made you believe in magic, in the possibility that some moments were too perfect to be real.

When the last sliver of sun disappeared, Toto moved away briefly. I heard the soft scratch of a match, and suddenly the boat was bathed in the warm glow of candles. Music began to play from hidden speakers—something soft and instrumental that seemed to float on the evening air.

He didn’t ask me to dance. He simply took my hand and pulled me into his arms, and I fell into the rhythm as naturally as breathing.

"You’re a good dancer," I murmured against his chest.

"I have many hidden talents."

"Modest, too."

"I don’t need to be." His hand splayed against my back, guiding me effortlessly. "You’re easy to impress."

"Oh?" I pulled back just enough to raise an eyebrow. "Name one other thing that’s impressed me."

"My boat collection."

"That’s wealth, not talent."

"My ability to stay calm under pressure."

"That’s just repressed rage."

He laughed, the sound vibrating through me. "You’re impossible."

"And yet, here you are," I teased, "holding me anyway."

His arms tightened around me, his voice dropping to a murmur. "Here I am."

The music swelled, the boat swaying gently beneath us. For the first time in months—maybe years—I felt light. Like the weight of expectations, of proving myself, of always having to be on—had lifted, just for tonight.

"What’s your favorite race?" I asked suddenly.

Toto didn’t hesitate. "Monza. The history, the passion—the way the tifosi live for it." He paused. "Yours?"

"Spa." I sighed, resting my cheek against his shoulder. "The rain, the unpredictability, Eau Rouge… It’s like the track is alive."

"You’re a romantic," he accused, but his voice was fond.

"Shut up."

He chuckled, his lips pressing to my hair. "I like this side of you."

"Which side?"

"The one that isn’t trying to out-argue me."

"I always out-argue you."

"Debatable." His hand slid up my back, his thumb brushing the nape of my neck. "But I’ll let you think you win."

I rolled my eyes, but my smile didn’t fade. "Generous of you."

"I’m a generous man." His voice dropped, his breath warm against my ear. "You’ll see."

The words sent a shiver down my spine, but before I could respond, he spun me suddenly, dipping me low over his arm. I gasped, laughing as the world tilted, the stars blurring above me.

"Toto!"

He pulled me back up, steadying me against him, his grin unapologetic. "What?"

"You’re insane."

"And you enjoyed it."

I couldn’t deny that. My heart was racing, my cheeks flushed, and for the first time in a long time, I felt alive in a way that had nothing to do with lap times or wind tunnels.

The question slipped out before I could stop it—too soft, too vulnerable. "Are you happy?"

His fingers stilled against my back. I felt the shift in his breath, the way his chest rose and fell just a fraction slower. "About the race today?" His voice rumbled beneath my ear. "Or this?"

I exhaled a laugh against his shirt. "The race."

A low chuckle vibrated through him, his arms tightening just enough to pull me closer. "I’m relieved." His thumb traced idle circles against my hip. "Wins like this… they’re fuel. But the tank’s never full for long. Not with seven races still staring us down."

I tilted my head back, just enough to catch the flicker of candlelight in his eyes. "Third in the constructors now." My voice was lighter than I felt, bright with the kind of optimism that only numbers could justify. "Ferrari’s only two points ahead now. Red Bull—"

"Is eighty-one points clear." His voice was steady, but his fingers pressed into the small of my back, grounding me. "Still a gap." Then he spun me, until the candlelight caught the triumph in his eyes. His grin was a weapon. "But I’m done talking about work tonight."

I should’ve argued. Should’ve pushed. Instead, my pulse jumped as he pulled me flush against him, the heat of his body seeping through the thin fabric of my dress.

"Then what do you want to talk about?" The challenge was there, but my voice had gone soft.

His thumb traced the curve of my jaw. "How the light catches your hair like this." A pause. The boat swayed. "How I’ve been waiting all day to have you in my arms." His lips brushed my ear, just once. "How I’d rather feel you than count points."

The words settled under my skin. Dangerous. Reckless.

And yet, as his arms tightened around me and the music wrapped us in its embrace, I couldn’t bring myself to care about the consequences.

Chapter Text

A week had passed since Monaco, and the memory of that boat ride clung to me like the scent of salt air—persistent, intoxicating, impossible to shake. We were in Monza and Lewis had secured second place, George third, giving us our first double podium since the season began. The garage had erupted in pure euphoria, champagne flowing like water, Marcus lifting me clean off my feet in a bear hug that left me breathless and laughing.

But it was Toto's quiet smile across the exciting madness that had stolen my breath entirely.

Now I stood outside my hotel, suitcase at my feet, watching a familiar black Mercedes pull up to the curb. A sudden rhythm pounded in my veins as the window rolled down, revealing Toto behind the wheel, aviators perched on his nose, sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

"Ready?" he asked, that hint of mischief I'd come to recognize dancing in his voice.

He'd called me the night before, asking if I trusted him. When I'd said yes—too quickly, too breathlessly—he'd told me to pack an overnight bag. That we were taking a detour before heading to the next race. That he wanted to show me something.

I climbed into the passenger seat, the leather cool against my skin. "You know, normal people give more than twelve hours' notice for mysterious road trips."

"I'm not normal people." He pulled away from the hotel. "Besides, you said you trusted me."

The Italian countryside unfolded around us as we left the city behind. Rolling hills dotted with vineyards, ancient stone walls, cypress trees standing sentinel against the azure sky. Toto navigated the city streets with the same frace he applied to every other task. His hands relaxed on the steering wheel with classical music playing low from the speakers.

We'd been driving for nearly three hours when he glanced over at me with a smirk tugging at his lips.

"Close your eyes."

I laughed, turning to face him fully. "Why?"

His grin widened, transforming his usually serious features into something boyish and irresistible. "It's a surprise."

"We're on a motorway, Toto. Where could you possibly be taking me that would be a surprise?"

"I'm about to get off the motorway," he said, signaling toward an exit ramp. "And I don't want you to see any road signs that could ruin it." His voice dropped to a low hum, a sound that felt more like a shift of gears inside me. "If you don't hurry up and close your eyes, I'll pull over right here until you do."

The threat was delivered with such casual authority that I believed him completely. I laughed again, shaking my head at his stubbornness, but closed my eyes obediently.

"Good girl," he murmured, and I couldn't ignore how the words sent a pool of heat between my thighs.

I felt the car slow, heard the soft click of his turn signal. Then his hand was covering my eyes, his palm warm and partially rough against my skin.

"Are they closed tight?" His voice was closer now, amused and intimate.

I tried to peek through the gaps between his fingers, curiosity getting the better of me. "Yes, but—"

"No peeking," he said, catching my attempt immediately. His hand pressed more firmly against my face, and I could hear the smile in his voice.

"Okay, okay." I settled back against the seat, my eyes squeezed shut beneath his palm. "I'm not looking."

He moved his hand away, and I felt him shift beside me. "How many fingers am I holding up?"

I laughed, the sound bright in the confined space of the car. "I don't know because my eyes are closed."

"Good. Just making sure."

The car turned, slowed, turned again. I could feel us climbing now, the engine working harder, the road beneath us changing from smooth asphalt to something rougher. The scent of the air shifted too—less exhaust, more earth and stone and something indefinably ancient.

Finally, the car stopped.

"Can I open them now?" I asked, my voice breathless with anticipation.

"Yes."

I opened my eyes and blinked in the afternoon sunlight. We were in a parking lot, surrounded by tour buses and rental cars. But it was the building rising before us that made my breath catch, made my heart slam against my ribs with recognition and disbelief.

The Uffizi Gallery.

I turned to stare at Toto, my mouth falling open. He was watching me with an expression of quiet satisfaction, his dark eyes warm with something that made my chest tight.

"You brought me to Florence," I whispered, my voice barely audible. "You remembered."

He got out of the car and walked around to my side, opening the door with old-world courtesy. When I stepped out, he was right there, close enough that I could see the brown in his eyes.

"You brought me to see Botticelli," I said, my hand finding his, our fingers intertwining with a naturalness that should have terrified me.

His smile was soft, admiring, the kind of expression that made me feel like the most important person in his world. "I did."

I pulled my hand from his and placed it on his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath my palm. "Thank you."

The words were inadequate, too small to contain what I was feeling. This wasn't just a surprise or a kind gesture. This was him listening, remembering, caring enough to drive three hours out of our way to give me something I'd never thought to give myself.

It meant more to me than I was willing to let him know. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

It was a simple motion, but his hand at my back, guiding me through the crowd, made something in me settle and stir all at once. Like the moment before a high dive—the sharp intake of air and the thrill of the long fall.

Toto handled the ticket purchase without hesitation, his motions smooth and sure. The gallery was busy but not overwhelming, tourists clustering around the most famous pieces while we found our rhythm moving through the halls. He listened as I explained the technical aspects of Renaissance painting techniques, his questions thoughtful and engaged. When I made a joke about Michelangelo's David having "questionable aerodynamics," his laugh was rich and genuine, the sound echoing off the marble walls.

"You're telling me the most celebrated sculpture in history wouldn't survive a wind tunnel test?" he asked, his eyes dancing with amusement.

"The proportions are all wrong for airflow," I said, warming to the topic. "Those oversized hands would create massive turbulence. And don't get me started on the hair—it's basically a parachute."

"I'll never look at classical art the same way again."

We moved through the rooms like that, trading observations and terrible jokes. When we reached a particularly suggestive painting of Venus, I couldn't resist commenting on the "interesting placement of the shell," which made Toto snort with laughter—an undignified sound that transformed his usually serious face into something boyish and irresistible.

But then we turned a corner, and everything changed.

The Botticelli room opened before us like a cathedral of color and light. Primavera dominated the far wall, larger and more luminous than any reproduction could capture. The three Graces danced in their eternal circle, Venus presided over her garden of earthly delights, and Flora scattered her flowers with a smile that had survived five centuries.

My breath caught in my throat.

It was everything Mum had described and more. The way the light caught the gold leaf in Venus's hair, the intricate details of the flowers at Flora's feet, the gossamer transparency of the Graces' gowns—it was like stepping into a dream she'd painted for me with words.

I stood transfixed, my eyes drinking in every brushstroke, every delicate curve and shadow. This was what she'd wanted to share with me. This moment of pure beauty, unmarred by deadlines or data or the relentless pursuit of perfection. Just art for art's sake, beauty for the simple joy of existing.

A tear slipped down my cheek before I could stop it.

Suddenly Toto was there, stepping in front of me with gentle concern, his large frame blocking my view of the painting and creating a pocket of privacy in the crowded room.

"Hey," he said softly, his thumb brushing the tear from my cheek with infinite tenderness. "Are you okay?"

I lifted my gaze to his and felt my heart crack open.

"I'm just..." I swallowed hard, my voice thick with emotion. "Overwhelmed. Happy. She would have loved this."

He didn't ask who. He didn't need to. His understanding was written in the gentle way his other hand came up to cup my face, in the way his dark eyes searched mine with such careful attention.

"She's here with you," he said simply. "In the way you see it, the way you appreciate it. That's her gift to you."

I nodded, unable to speak past the lump in my throat. He understood. Of course he understood—he'd lost his father young, carried that absence like a weight for years. He knew what it meant to live for someone who couldn't be there to see it.

Without thinking, I stepped forward and wrapped my arms around him. He was solid and warm, his expensive cologne mixing with something uniquely him. His arms came around me immediately, one hand splaying across my back, the other tangling gently in my hair. I could feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against my cheek, the quiet strength of his body as he held me together in this moment of beautiful devastation.

For a few heartbeats, we just stood there. The gallery continued to buzz around us, but we were in our own bubble, a space carved out of grief and gratitude and something deeper that neither of us understood.

My eyes found his as I drew away. His hands, still on my shoulders, were heavy with a question that mirrored the sudden, breathless quiet in my own chest.

"Better?" he asked, his voice rough with concern.

"Much," I whispered. "Thank you. For all of this."

He nodded, his thumb brushing once more across my cheekbone before his hands fell away. "Shall we see the rest?"

We spent another hour in the gallery, but my focus had shifted. Every few minutes, I found myself glancing at Toto, watching the way he studied the paintings with the same patient care he gave to all things The way his brow furrowed when he was thinking, the small smile that played at his lips when something amused him.

When we finally emerged into the afternoon sunlight, I felt lighter somehow. Changed.

"I want to check the gift shop," I said, not ready for this to end.

The shop was a treasure trove of prints, books, and postcards. I wandered the aisles, my fingers trailing over reproductions of the masterpieces we'd just seen. Finally, I found what I was looking for—a small postcard featuring Primavera, with "Greetings from Italy" printed on the back in elegant script.

It was perfect. A tangible piece of this moment, this day, this gift he'd given me.

I paid for it, tucking it into my purse like a secret. Someday, I'd frame it. Someday, I'd look at it and remember the day Toto Wolff drove me to Florence and helped me keep a promise to my mother.

The cobblestone streets of Florence stretched before us, worn smooth by centuries of footsteps and stories. As we walked from the Uffizi, I stood by Toto, the postcard in my bag a small anchor against the overwhelming city. The late afternoon sun painted the buildings in shades of amber and gold, and the city hummed with that particular energy of a place where art and life had been intertwined for hundreds of years.

"Where to now?" I asked, though part of me didn't care. I could have wandered these streets with him until midnight, collecting moments like souvenirs.

"The Ponte Vecchio," he said, steering us toward the river. "You can't come to Florence without seeing it."

The famous bridge appeared before us like something from a Renaissance painting, its medieval stone arches spanning the Arno while the ancient shops built into its sides leaned over the water. Tourists clustered around the railings, cameras clicking, but Toto guided me through the crowds.

The shops were a rich assortment of leather goods, jewelry, and art. We ducked into a small boutique where scarves hung like silk waterfalls and the scent of leather mixed with something floral and expensive. I ran my fingers over a display of handmade journals while Toto examined a collection of vintage photographs on the far wall.

"These are beautiful," I murmured, flipping through the pages of a leather-bound notebook. The paper was thick and cream-colored, the kind that would make even grocery lists feel important.

"You should get it," he said, appearing beside me with that quiet way he had of moving. "For your thoughts. Your designs."

I shook my head, checking the price tag. "Too expensive for my thoughts."

"Your thoughts are worth more than you know."

The way he said it, with such quiet conviction, made my chest tight. Before I could protest, he was already reaching for his wallet.

"Toto, no—"

"Consider it a late birthday gift."

"My birthday is December."

"An early birthday gift, then."

I laughed despite myself as he was eager to buy it. The shop owner wrapped it in tissue paper with the kind of care reserved for precious things, and I clutched it against my chest as we continued our exploration.

Three shops down, we found ourselves in a men's boutique that looked like it had been frozen in time since the 1940s. Dark wood shelves lined the walls, displaying everything from silk ties to leather gloves. But it was the hat display that caught my attention.

"Try one on," I said, nodding toward a collection of fedoras arranged on wooden stands.

Toto raised an eyebrow. "I don't think—"

"Come on. Live a little."

He followed my gaze to the hats, his expression skeptical. "I'm not really a hat person."

I was already moving toward the display, drawn by a charcoal gray fedora with a black band. "This one."

I plucked it from its stand and turned back to him, holding it up like an offering. For a moment, he just looked at me, something unreadable flickering across his face. Then he ducked his head, allowing me to place the hat on him.

My fingers brushed his hair as I adjusted the angle, and I had to bite back a smile at how seriously he was taking this. When I stepped back to assess the result, my breath caught.

"Oh."

The fedora transformed him completely. The sharp lines of his face were even more pronounced beneath the brim, his dark eyes more mysterious. He looked like he'd stepped out of a 1940s film noir—dangerous, sophisticated, and devastatingly handsome.

"That bad?" he asked, catching my expression.

"You look like a mafia boss," I said, my voice coming out breathier than I intended. "But like, the kind who owns half of Monte Carlo and has women throwing themselves at him from balconies."

A slow smile spread across his face. "Is that good or bad?"

"Definitely good. Definitely, definitely good."

He moved to the mirror, tilting his head to examine his reflection. The hat suited him in a way that seemed almost unfair—as if the universe had conspired to make him even more irresistible than he already was.

"I'm buying it for you," I announced, already reaching for my purse.

"Sloane—"

"No arguments. You bought me the journal, I'm buying you the hat." I was already heading toward the counter, where an elderly Italian man watched us with obvious amusement. "It's perfect on you."

Toto followed, one hand reaching up to touch the brim. "You don't have to—"

"I want to." His nearness made the plastic feel slick in my hand, my own heart a loud drum against my ribs. "Besides, now I'll have something to remember this by. Every time you wear it, you'll think of Florence. Of today."

Of me, I didn't add, but the words hung in the air anyway.

The shopkeeper rang up the purchase with a knowing smile, his eyes twinkling as he watched our back-and-forth. When Toto reached for his wallet, I was faster, pressing my card into the man's weathered hand.

"Sloane, let me—" Toto tried to intercept, his larger hand covering mine as I held out the money.

"Nope." I pulled my hand free, laughing as he made another grab for his wallet. "My treat."

"This is ridiculous—"

"What's ridiculous is how good you look in that hat."

The shopkeeper chuckled, clearly entertained by our struggle. A small line had formed behind us—other tourists shifting impatiently as we continued our playful argument over who would pay.

"Basta," the elderly man said with a grin, taking my card decisively. "The signorina wins."

Toto threw his hands up in defeat, but he was smiling.

The transaction completed, I handed him his money back with a triumphant grin. He shook his head as he tucked it back into his wallet, but I caught the fond exasperation in his eyes.

"Grazie," the shopkeeper said, handing us the bag with a theatrical bow. "Molto romantico."

Heat flooded my cheeks, but I managed a smile as we made our way out of the shop. The other customers were still staring, probably wondering what the holdup had been, but I didn't care. The whole scene had been ridiculous and perfect and exactly the kind of moment I wanted to bottle up and keep forever.

"You realize I can't wear this to the paddock," Toto said as we stepped back onto the bridge. "The press would have a field day."

"Good thing we're not at the paddock."

He adjusted the brim, and I had to resist the urge to reach up and straighten it myself. The simple gesture was too intimate, too domestic. Too much like something a girlfriend would do.

"Thank you," he said quietly.

"Thank you again for bringing me here." I looked out over the Arno, where the late afternoon light was turning the water to liquid gold. "I never thought I'd actually make it to Florence."

"Your mother would be proud."

The words hit me square in the chest, and I had to blink back the sudden sting of tears. "Yeah. She would."

We stood there for a moment, watching the river flow beneath us, the weight of everything unsaid hanging between us like a hazy veil in the sun. The hat had been an excuse, I realized. An excuse to touch him, to do something for him, to create a moment that belonged just to us.

But as I looked at him now—the fedora casting shadows across his face, his expression soft with something I didn't dare name—I knew it was more than that.

It was me, staking a claim I had no right to make.

And from the way his dark eyes found mine, holding them with an intensity that left me breathless, I wasn't the only one who knew it.

Chapter Text

The restaurant Toto chose was tucked away on a narrow side street, the kind of place that existed for locals and the occasional tourist lucky enough to stumble upon it. Warm light spilled from tall windows, and the scent of garlic and fresh herbs drifted out as we approached the entrance.

Toto spoke to the host in rapid Italian, his voice smooth and confident as he gestured toward the interior. The man's face lit up with recognition, and he nodded enthusiastically before leading us through the main dining room to a secluded table in an alcove near the back. It was intimate without being obvious—far enough from other diners that we could speak without being overheard, close enough to the kitchen that the sounds of sizzling pans and clinking plates created a comfortable backdrop.

He pulled out my chair with old-world courtesy, his fingers brushing my shoulders as I sat down. When he settled into his own seat, placing the cloth napkin onto his lap, I found myself watching the way his hands moved.

A waiter appeared almost immediately, menus in hand, launching into what I assumed was the evening's specials in rapid Italian. Toto listened with the same focused attention he gave to telemetry data, occasionally nodding or asking a question. Then he glanced at the wine list, his eyes scanning the options before looking up at me.

"Red or white?" he asked, his voice carrying that accent that made my stomach flutter.

"White," I managed, trying not to stare at the way the candlelight caught the sharp line of his jaw.

He turned back to the waiter, rattling off what sounded like a complex order in flawless Italian. The waiter scribbled notes, nodded approvingly, and disappeared with a small bow.

I leaned back in my chair, genuinely impressed. "How many languages do you speak?"

A small smile tugged at his lips. "German, English, Italian, some French. A bit of Spanish when I have to." He shrugged as if it were nothing. "Growing up in Austria, you pick things up. Formula One makes it necessary."

"I wish I could speak another language," I said, twisting the stem of my water glass between my fingers. "I took Italian in school, but I was terrible at it. Could barely order coffee without sounding like I was having a stroke."

His laugh was rich and warm. "It's not too late to learn. I could teach you."

"You'd do that?"

"Why not? We'll start with something easy." He leaned in, a bright, playful light in his eyes. "Try this: Grazie per la bella giornata."

I repeated it slowly, stumbling over the pronunciation. "Grazie per la... bella giornata?"

"Not bad. It means 'thank you for the beautiful day.'" His smile widened. "Now try this. Toto, sei molto bello stasera."

The words felt clumsy on my tongue, the syllables refusing to cooperate. "Toto, sei... molto bello... stasera?" I winced at my butchered pronunciation. "That was awful, wasn't it?"

"Not bad at all," he said, though I caught the amused sparkle in his eyes. "Do you want to know what you just said?"

"Please tell me it wasn't something embarrassing."

"You said I look very handsome tonight." His grin turned positively wicked. "So thank you for the compliment, even if I did give you the words myself."

Heat flooded my cheeks. "That's cheating."

"Completely. But I'm not above a little manipulation when it comes to flattery." The wine arrived, and and after the waiter poured and left us alone again, Toto's expression grew more serious. "Now, let's try something a little harder."

He spoke in what I assumed was German this time, the words flowing together in a way that sounded both harsh and beautiful. The syllables rolled off his tonguelike a secret meant just for me, and I felt my lungs empty.

I stared at him, extremely lost. "I have no idea what you just said."

He looked away for a moment, as if gathering courage, then met my eyes again with that devastating smile. "I said, Du bist die schönste Frau, die ich je gesehen habe, und ich kann nicht aufhören, an dich zu denken."

"And that means?"

His eyes never left mine as he translated, his voice dropping to something barely above a murmur. "You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen, and I can't stop thinking about you."

My entire focus narrowed to the man across the table, the weight of his words the only thing left in the room.

I opened my mouth to respond, but nothing came out. What could I possibly say to that? How could I tell him that I'd been thinking about him too, that every moment we spent together only made it harder to remember why this was supposed to be impossible?

The waiter appeared and set down two small plates of bruschetta covered in olive oil and fresh basil, the bread still warm enough that steam curled from the edges. The garlic hit my senses first, followed by the bright tang of tomatoes, and my stomach clenched with sudden hunger I hadn't realized I'd been ignoring.

"Perfetto," the waiter said to Toto, gesturing at the plates. "Siete pronti per ordinare?"

I blinked, still caught somewhere between Toto's confession and the reality of sitting across from him in this intimate restaurant. The words—you are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen, and I can't stop thinking about you—echoed in my head like a song I couldn't shake. My pulse hammered against my throat, and I had to force myself to focus on the waiter's expectant face.

Toto glanced at me, his eyebrows raised in question. "Ready to order?"

The menu. Right. I hadn't even looked at it properly, too distracted by his language lessons and the way his voice had dropped to that devastating whisper when he'd spoken in German. I fumbled for the leather-bound menu beside my plate, scanning the Italian descriptions that might as well have been hieroglyphics.

"I'll have the risotto," I managed, my voice steadier than I felt. "Whatever you recommend."

Toto nodded and turned back to the waiter, launching into rapid Italian. I caught fragments—risotto ai funghi, something about parmigiano—but mostly I found myself watching the way his mouth moved around the foreign syllables. There was something hypnotic about it, the way he switched between languages as easily as changing gears in a race car.

The waiter scribbled notes, asked what sounded like a clarifying question. More Italian flowed between them, and I realized I was staring when the waiter glanced at me with an amused smile.

"Grazie mille," Toto said finally, handing over both menus.

The waiter retreated with a small bow, leaving us alone again with the weight of unfinished conversation hanging between us. I reached for my wine glass, needing something to do with my hands, and took a sip that was larger than intended. The crisp white wine hit my tongue with notes of citrus and something floral—elegant and clean, like everything else Toto seemed to choose.

"Try the bruschetta," Toto said, nodding toward the plates between us. His voice carried that same controlled authority I'd heard him use with engineers, but softer now, intimate in the low light of the restaurant.

I picked up one of the pieces, the olive oil dripping off the toasted bread. The first bite exploded across my tongue—garlic and basil, the sweetness of ripe tomatoes, all balanced on bread that had the perfect crisp. Without thinking, I ran my tongue along my bottom lip to catch a drop of oil that had escaped.

When I looked up, Toto's eyes were fixed on my mouth with an intensity that made my stomach drop. He lifted his wine glass and took a sip, as if trying to distract himself from whatever thought had just crossed his mind.

"Do you like it?" he asked, his voice rougher than it had been moments before.

"It's delicious," I managed, my own voice betraying the flutter in my chest.

He set down his glass, that knowing smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Wait until dessert."

The words hung between us, innocent enough on the surface, but something in his tone made heat bloom low in my belly. I leaned forward slightly, emboldened by the wine and the way he was looking at me.

"I have a feeling dessert might be my favorite part," I said, letting my voice drop to match his.

His eyes darkened, but he didn't respond immediately. The silence stretched between us, heavy with unspoken words that seemed to pulse in the candlelit space around us. I could see the war playing out behind his expression—desire battling restraint, want wrestling with reason.

I relaxed back into my chair, letting the wine and the warmth of the restaurant settle into my bones. "This is lovely. Honestly, I don't know how you found the time to put this together with everything we have going on."

The corner of his mouth lifted into a half-smile. "After the past few weeks I figured we'd earned a little break. And besides, it's not every day I get to have dinner with someone extraodrinary as you."

Color rose to my cheeks and I couldn't suppress the laugh that bubbled up. "Careful, Wolff—flattery will get you everywhere." I teased.

"It's not flattery if it's true." His voice carried that note of sincerity that made my chest tighten, the one that suggested he meant every word despite the casual delivery.

I grinned, taking another sip of wine to steady myself. "Fine, I'll give you that one. But seriously, I've always admired the way you handle pressure. How do you do it?"

Toto reached for his glass as he considered my question.

"I learned a lot from Niki Lauda," he said finally, his voice softer now, almost reverent. "His calm under fire was unmatched. He used to say worrying doesn't fix anything—only action does."

"I wish I'd had the chance to meet him. He was incredible."

Something shifted in Toto's expression, a flicker of fondness mixed with grief. "He was. More than a colleague, he became a good friend. His advice was brutal at times, but it was always right."

"He'd probably be at the top of my dream dinner list."

Toto's eyebrow arched, intrigue replacing the melancholy. "Dream dinner, huh? Now I'm curious. If you could invite any three people—living or gone—who'd make the cut?"

I paused, swirling the wine in my glass as I considered. The question felt heavier than it should have, like he was asking for more than just names. Like he wanted to understand the architecture of my mind, the people who had shaped the woman sitting across from him.

"Nikola Tesla, without a doubt," I said finally. "I'd love to pick his brain. Niki Lauda… and Freddie Mercury. Imagine the stories, not to mention the music."

Toto chuckled, the sound rich and warm in the intimate space. "That's a table I wouldn't want to leave. Tesla and Mercury together? Sparks would fly."

"So?" I leaned forward, resting my chin on my hand. "Who's on your list?"

"Niki, of course. His stories could fill the night. Ayrton Senna—his passion for racing was extraordinary." He paused, and I caught the hint of playfulness in his eyes. "And... Jane Austen."

I nearly choked on my wine, laughter spilling out before I could stop it. "Jane Austen? I wouldn't have guessed that one."

A youthful smile broke across his features. "Why not? Her wit, her insight into people—it's timeless. Plus, she'd keep the testosterone in check."

"I love that," I said, warmth spreading through my chest at this unexpected glimpse into his mind. "If you weren't in Formula One, what would you be doing?"

he wicked gleam in his eyes deepened, and he leaned back with a smirk. "Having fun."

I nearly choked on my bite of bruschetta.

His laugh was genuine, unguarded. "I’d also have far fewer wrinkles if I weren’t running a team."

My eyes traced the faint lines at the edges of his gaze—those subtle marks that told of sleepless hours, high-stakes gambles, and a relentless pursuit of something greater. They didn’t weaken him; if anything, they made the sharp edges of his authority feel more human, a silent confession that even a man like Toto had been bent by the weight of years, by moments of joy, by battles fought and won. There was something honest in them, a quiet testament to a life lived without compromise, and they drew me in.

The waiter set down beautifully plated dishes that made my mouth water. The risotto looked like art—creamy and golden, topped with what looked like truffle shavings and fresh herbs. The presentation was so elegant I almost felt guilty disturbing it.

"But you love it, don't you?" I asked, picking up my fork.

Toto nodded, his expression growing more serious. "I do. It's not easy—the pressure can be relentless, every decision feels like a tipping point. But I wouldn't trade it for anything. The competition, the adrenaline... it's who I am."

I took a bite of the risotto, the flavors exploding across my tongue—earthy mushrooms, sharp parmesan, the subtle luxury of truffle. It was perfect, like everything else about this evening. "I get that. I understand pressure, but nothing like what you face. It must be exhausting."

"It can be," he said quietly, but his voice carried conviction. "But it's also the only life I'd ever choose."

We fell into an easy rhythm, conversation flowing as naturally as the wine.

Toto told me about his early days in racing, the mistakes that had taught him everything, the moments of doubt that had nearly made him walk away. I shared my own struggles with self-doubt, the imposter syndrome that still crept in during difficult moments, the way I'd learned to channel frustration into innovation.

"You know what I admire about you?" he said, setting down his fork and fixing me with that intense stare that made my breath catch.

"What's that?"

"You never let anyone else define your worth. Even when they try to diminish you, you find a way to prove them wrong." His voice dropped lower, more intimate. "It's extraordinary to watch."

The compliment overwhelmed me, unexpected and devastating in its sincerity.

"Thank you," I whispered.

The rest of dinner passed in a rush of laughter and small admissions. I found myself hanging on to every sound of his laugh, rich and unguarded, a side of him I rarely got to see. Each time it spilled out, I couldn’t help but smile, greedy for the next one, as if his laughter alone could make the evening unforgettable.

The waiter appeared beside our table just as I was savoring the last bite of my risotto, the creamy texture still coating my tongue. He spoke to Toto, gesturing toward the small dessert menu in his hand.

Toto glanced at me, eyebrows raised in question. "Would you like to see the dessert menu?"

I set down my fork, my stomach pleasantly full but my heart racing with a sudden idea.

"I have a better idea. Why don't we walk and try to find an ice cream shop?" I suggested.

"I love that idea."

He turned back to the waiter, switching to Italian. "No grazie, non prendiamo il dolce. Potremmo avere il conto, per favore?"

The waiter nodded with understanding, disappearing to fetch our bill. Within minutes, Toto had settled the check despite my halfhearted protests, and we were stepping back into the warm Florence night.

The cobblestone streets felt different now, intimate in the way that only comes after wine and good conversation. The gallery parking lot wasn't far, but we took our time, wandering through narrow side streets where light spilled from restaurant windows and the scent of garlic and fresh herbs drifted on the evening air.

"There," I said, pointing to a small gelateria tucked between a bookshop and a flower stand. The sign was hand-painted in cheerful blues and yellows, and through the window, I could see a display case filled with colorful gelato.

The shop was tiny, barely large enough for the display case and a single employee—a young woman with paint-stained fingers who looked like she might be an art student working her way through university. She smiled as we approached, rattling off the flavors in accented English.

Toto studied the options. "Vanilla," he said finally.

I couldn't help but laugh. "Seriously? With all these amazing flavors, you're going with vanilla?"

"It's classic," he said, unrepentant.

"Classically boring," I countered, "I'll have the strawberry, please."

The girl scooped our gelato into small paper cups, the vanilla an ivory white, the strawberry a vibrant pink studded with real fruit pieces. We paid and stepped back onto the street, the cool gelato a perfect contrast to the warm night air.

"So," I said, taking a small spoonful of the strawberry. The flavor burst across my tongue—sweet and tart and impossibly fresh. "How's your basic vanilla?"

oto’s eyes glimmered with teasing charm as he tasted his gelato. "It's sophisticated. Understated. Not everyone appreciates subtlety."

"Subtlety is overrated."

"Says the woman who just ordered the most obvious flavor in the case."

I gasped in mock offense. "Strawberry is not obvious. It's bold."

"It's pink."

"What's wrong with pink?"

"Nothing," he said, his voice dropping to something warmer, more intimate. "It suits you."

Heat bloomed in my cheeks, and I had to look away, focusing on my gelato to hide my reaction. We walked slowly back toward the car, our footsteps echoing off the ancient stones. The wine and the warmth of the evening had left me feeling loose-limbed and brave, the kind of courage that came from perfect moments and the knowledge that they couldn't last forever.

"How's the strawberry?" Toto asked after a few minutes of comfortable silence.

I glanced up at him, admiring the angles of his face in the streetlight, the way his eyes seemed to hold secrets in their dark depths. An idea formed, reckless and irresistible.

"Good," I said, holding out my spoon toward him. "Want to try it?"

He stopped walking.

The spoon hung suspended between us, a bridge made of plastic and strawberry gelato that suddenly felt like the most dangerous thing in the world. His eyes met mine, and something shifted in the space around us—the warm Florence air, the distant hum of late-night conversations, even the soft glow of the streetlights seemed to fade until there was nothing but this moment, this choice hanging between us like a held breath.

He stepped closer, close enough that I could see the way his pupils had dilated, the way his jaw had gone tight with something that looked like restraint warring with want. His free hand came up slowly, purposefully, and I watched in fascination as he dipped his finger into the pink gelato on my spoon.

"What are you—"

The question died on my lips as he brought that finger, now cold and sweet with strawberry, to my mouth. He traced my bottom lip with it, the gelato melting against my skin, leaving a trail of sweetness that made my breath halt. The contrast of the cold dessert and the heat radiating from his body sent a spark straight through me.

"Toto."

His thumb brushed across my lip, collecting the melted gelato, and then his mouth was on mine.

The kiss was everything, desperate and hungry, like he'd been holding back for weeks and finally couldn't anymore. His lips moved against mine with an urgency that made my knees weak, and I could taste the strawberry between us, sweet and cold against the heat of his mouth. My free hand found his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as he backed me against the nearest wall.

The rough stone pressed against my shoulder blades, grounding me even as everything else spun out of control. His hands framed my face, thumbs stroking along my cheekbones as he deepened the kiss, his tongue sliding against mine in a way that made heat pool low in my core. I could feel the evidence of his want pressed against my hip, could hear the soft sound he made when I nipped at his bottom lip.

When he finally pulled back, we were both breathing hard. His forehead rested against mine, his eyes still closed, and I could see the war playing out across his features—a struggle between impulse and judgment.

"The strawberry," he said, his voice a rough exhalation just loud enough to hear, "is delicious."

I laughed. "Just the strawberry?"

His eyes opened then, dark and intense in the lamplight, and the look he gave me made my pulse stutter. "No," he said simply. "Not just the strawberry."

The gelato cup had fallen from my hand at some point during the kiss, its contents now a pink puddle on the ground, but I couldn't bring myself to care. All I could focus on was the way his hands still cradled my face, the way his thumb traced the line of my jaw like he was memorizing it.

The drive back to the hotel slipped by beneath the soft glow of the city and a gentle quiet. I sat in the passenger seat, hyperaware of every breath Toto took, every shift of his hands on the steering wheel. The taste of strawberry gelato lingered on my lips—sweet and cold and utterly overwhelmed by the feeling of his mouth on mine.

My fingers traced the door handle absently. The city looked different now, softer somehow, as if the kiss had changed the very air around us. But beneath the warmth spreading through my chest was something more urgent.

We were going back to the hotel.

To a single room.

Our room.

Chapter Text

Toto carried my suitcase into the bedroom, setting it neatly against the wall before re-emerging without a word. He lowered himself onto the couch, stretching one arm along its back, his hand propped under his temple as he leaned, watching me with a softness that felt too intimate after a day spent weaving through Florence like we belonged here together.

“Did you enjoy the day?” he asked. His voice was low. The question more than just polite. He studied me as though my answer mattered.

I sat beside him, tucking one leg under me, my body still humming from wine, laughter, and the sight of city lights shimmering on the Arno. “I did. Thank you again for bringing me here.”

“You don’t have to thank me.” His mouth curved faintly, the smallest of smiles, but it felt like sunlight breaking through cloud. “I’m happy I was the one to take you.”

My chest tightened. I looked down at my hands, fingers playing with the hem of my skirt. “What time do we have to leave tomorrow?”

“Ten,” he said, his stare burning against my skin.

I nodded, but a yawn broke through before I could respond. His eyes narrowed, catching the slip, cataloguing it the way he catalogued everything about me.

“It’s late,” he said softly. “You can take the bedroom. I’ll sleep here.”

I pushed myself off the couch. "Let me just check it out first."

The bedroom was gorgeous—all exposed stone and soft lighting, with a massive bed that could easily fit four people, let alone two. The linens looked expensive. I ran my hand along the duvet, testing its softness, before turning back toward the living room.

Toto was still stretched across the couch, but his eyes had followed me.

I propped myself against the doorway, my shoulder finding support. "Just so you know…The bed's big enough for two."

The words hung between us, loaded with implications I wasn’t sure I was ready to face. His expression shifted, something flickering behind those dark eyes—surprise, maybe, or hunger.

"Sloane…" My name came out rough, a warning.

"What?" I kept my voice light, casual, even though my heart was hammering against my ribs. "We're both adults. We can share a bed and behave."

The lie tasted bitter on my tongue.

Rising from the couch, he made his way toward the bedroom with careful steps.

Toto sat on the edge of the bed, his palms resting at his sides, his posture firm. Not casual—nothing about him ever was—but steady, grounded, as though he meant to anchor both of us here. His eyes lifted to mine, patient, waiting, and something in the weight of his stillness told me this wasn’t about him taking. It was about me choosing.

I walked toward him, my breath caught in my chest. Each step felt heavier than it should have. When I stopped between his knees, the air changed. The space between us became charged, the sort of field you couldn’t see but felt across every inch of skin.

His hands didn’t move. His gaze held mine, dark and inscrutable.

I leaned forward just enough to brush his lips against mine.

The kiss was soft, tentative, nothing like the desperate hunger I’d imagined a thousand times. It was a slow, exploratory question, a sign that he was giving me the choice. That if I pulled back, he would stop. He was telling me without words: it’s okay if you’re not ready.

But I was ready. God, I had been aching for him for so long I could barely remember what it felt like not to want him.

So I pressed closer, my thighs brushing the edges of his, my hands finding his shoulders. The kiss deepened not because he took, but because I gave, and when my chest met his, I felt the subtle shift in his body, the exhale that sounded almost like relief.

His hands lifted at last, not to grip but to trace. His fingers skimmed my waist, dragging in lines so soft they tickled, and a low sound escaped me. He wasn't rushing, wasn't grabbing—he was teasing, mapping me as if my body were an unfamiliar circuit he meant to understand before he dared to power it on.

My engineer’s brain tried to categorize the input, to anticipate his next move, but my body was only registering the agonizing denial. His hands trailed higher along my ribcage, thumbs brushing just shy of the swell of my breasts. I held my breath, every nerve straining toward his touch, but just as they neared their target, he retreated, his fingers sliding back down to my hips.

On a broken gasp, I arched toward him, a futile attempt to force his hand higher. He noticed—of course he noticed. His eyes glanced down, catching the way my hips shifted, and a low hum of satisfaction rumbled in his chest.

His lips brushed mine again, still soft, still patient, but this time lingering longer. I pressed back harder, tilting my head, coaxing his mouth to open. When his tongue brushed against mine, my body sparked alive, but he kept his restraint, infuriatingly slow.

“You’re restless,” he murmured against my lips.

Restless was not the word. My mind, usually a fortress of logic and control, was unravelling. He was running a diagnostic on my desire, and I was failing every test.

“You’re tormenting me,” I shot back, though the words came out breathy and weak.

He smiled then—not broad, not cocky, but small and devastating, the kind of smile that said he knew every variable and was enjoying watching me lose.

I broke the kiss, my forehead dropping to his, my own breath hot and ragged against his skin. I couldn’t analyze my way out of this. I couldn’t strategize. My hands, which had been resting on his shoulders, clenched into fists against his shirt. It was a compulsion—the need to grab him, to force the pace, to take back control.

But I didn’t. I couldn’t.

A rough sound tore from his throat, his accent thick. “Scheiße.”

I lifted my head, my eyes desperate. “Please.”

His fingers pressed a little firmer into my waist, holding me there, and then, finally, they slipped beneath the hem of my shirt.

The first brush of his skin against mine made me gasp. His hands were warm, fingertips dragging along the shallow dip of my waist, tracing upward with agonising slowness. Every nerve lit up in their wake, my stomach fluttering violently as if I couldn’t contain the anticipation.

His hands slid back up, under my shirt this time, gliding over bare skin. He traced along the curve of my ribcage, thumbs brushing just shy of the swells of my breasts. My nipples tightened painfully, straining against the lace, aching for his touch.

I arched into him, trying to force his hands higher, but he resisted. His grip tightened just enough to hold me still, and he smiled faintly into the kiss at my frustrated whimper.

“You want more,” he murmured, his breath hot against my lips.

“Yes,” I gasped, the word a plea.

He hummed softly, as though pleased, and finally let his hands slide higher. His thumbs brushed the undersides of my breasts, grazing the fabric of my bra, teasing the sensitive skin there until I shuddered against him. He circled slowly, not yet cupping, just stroking, testing how the lightest touch could make me tremble.

My moan spilled out helplessly and he chuckled low in his throat, the sound intense and satisfied.

His lips left mine, trailing down my jaw and neck. When he reached the hollow of my throat, he lingered, his tongue flicking over my pulse, and I felt my whole body jerk. He did it again, slower, and smiled against my skin when I moaned louder.

His hands slid fully over my breasts then, cupping them through the bra, squeezing just enough to make me cry out. My head fell back, my body arching into his touch. He massaged, his thumbs brushing over the lace, finding my hardened nipples and rubbing them through the fabric until I was gasping.

I clutched his shoulders, desperate, nails digging into his shirt as though I could steady myself against the sensations. He kissed lower, over the swell of my breast still covered by fabric, and the heat of his mouth even through the lace was enough to make me cry out.

His hands returned to my back, sliding over the fabric of my bra, grazing along the clasp in slow, lazy strokes. He didn’t rush to undo it. He let his fingers toy there, pressing lightly, releasing, as if testing how badly I wanted it.

“Is this okay?” he murmured against my throat, his lips brushing the hollow, his breath hot.

“Yes,” I whispered immediately, breathless, desperate.

The sound of the clasp snapping open was louder than it should have been. My bra loosened, straps slipping off my shoulders, and his hands slid forward to catch my breasts as the fabric fell away.

The first brush of his bare palms against me made me gasp. My nipples were already tight, aching, and when his thumbs dragged over them, a shock ripped through me, violent and consuming. My moan broke free, met by his low, guttural groan.

“So perfect.”

He squeezed, kneading the soft flesh in his hands, his eyes locked on my face, watching every reaction. He pinched lightly, tugged, rolled my nipples between his fingers, and each shift in pressure made me cry out louder. He was experimenting, testing, learning which touch made me gasp, which made me moan, which made me arch into his hands shamelessly.

Then his mouth descended.

The heat of it closed around one hardened peak, sucking slow and deep, and I screamed, “Oh God—” before I could stop myself. His tongue circled, flicked, licked until my back bowed off the bed, my hands clutching at his hair.

He switched to the other, nibbling this time, enough to make me cry out sharp and broken, before soothing the sting with long, wet licks. He alternated, never giving both at once, dragging me from one edge to the other until I was writhing, moaning, begging.

“Toto, please,” I sobbed, my voice unrecognisable, “don’t stop, please don’t stop.”

He groaned into my skin, the vibration wrecking me further. His mouth sucked harder, pulling at me, while his other hand pinched my opposite nipple until I was keening, my thighs squeezing together, my whole body on fire.

His control was unbearable. His restraint was torture. And yet it only made me want him more, made me burn so badly I couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, could only beg.

I gasped again, clutching his hair tighter, dragging his mouth back to my chest. “More, I need more.”

His laugh was muffled against my skin and then his mouth softened against my breast, the suction easing, and then he released me with a wet pop that made me whimper at the sudden absence. His lips trailed lower, kissing the swell of my breast, then lower still, feather-light brushes down the slope of my ribcage.

I clutched his shoulders, arching as though I could guide him down faster, but he resisted, licking lazily over my sternum before dragging his tongue to my stomach. The sensation was wet, hot, shocking in how intimate it felt.

“Oh,” I gasped, shuddering as his teeth grazed the sensitive skin just above my navel.

His hands slid down my sides, strong and steady, framing me as his mouth travelled lower, one kiss at a time. I shook beneath him, torn between the desperate need for him to reach my panties and the unbearable pleasure of how he was taking me apart.

When his lips pressed just above the waistband of my skirt, my hips bucked toward him—shameless, begging without words.

I moaned, my voice shaking.

He lingered at my stomach, licking across it, sucking at the hollow beside my hip bone, nipping at the soft flesh there until I was writhing. His hands pressed my hips down firmly, holding me still, forcing me to endure the torment of his pace.

He shifted lower, finally, until his mouth hovered over the line where fabric met skin. He kissed there once, twice, and the heat of his breath against the waistband made me cry out.

His lips brushed over the band, not yet tugging, just teasing, his tongue tracing along the seam until my thighs shook violently.

Then his fingers tugged my skirt down just enough to reveal the lace of my panties. He kissed along the waistband, teasing, until I was trembling with frustration. Then he hooked his fingers into the fabric and pulled them down, dragging them past my thighs, his mouth following in their wake with wet, open kisses that made me shiver.

By the time the lace was gone, I was already dripping, aching, thighs trembling from holding back the need to grind into him. He spread my legs, his hands firm on my knees, and lowered himself between them.

The first brush of his breath against me made me cry out, sharp and broken.

He didn’t touch yet. He hovered, teasing me with heat and the unbearable awareness of his mouth so close. His eyes met mine briefly and then his tongue dragged one slow, broad lick up my slit.

The shock ripped a scream out of me, my hips bucking violently upward. His hands caught them, pressing me back down, controlling my movement even as he licked again, slower this time, savouring.

He hummed low in his throat, the vibration buzzing into my clit. He muttered against me, “You taste… fuck.”

Then he sucked.

His lips closed around my clit, pulling hard, his tongue flicking against the swollen tip, and I moaned, my nails digging into the sheets as my back arched off the bed.

He adjusted immediately, testing. He circled with his tongue, slow and deliberate, then faster, sharper, until I was sobbing from the sensitivity. He switched to long, flat strokes, dragging from bottom to top, then back to sucking, alternating pressure until he had me trembling uncontrollably.

Every sound I made, every twitch of my hips, every breathless cry, he noted. He repeated what made me moan louder, discarded what didn’t, perfecting me with every lick.

“Ja,” he growled when my thighs clamped around his head, “that’s it. Give it to me.”

I was incoherent while crying out.

My body writhed, my hands clutching his hair, dragging him closer, needing more. He groaned into me, devouring, his mouth wet and relentless, until the orgasm tore through me without warning. I screamed his name, my body convulsing, thighs squeezing tight around his head as my climax spilled against his tongue.

But he didn’t stop.

He licked me through it, sucking harder, pushing me past the peak, drawing out every spasm until I was shaking violently, tears prickling at my eyes from overstimulation. He slowed only when my moans turned into broken sobs, and even then, his tongue created lazy circles, keeping me on edge, teasing me toward another.

“You’re already falling apart.”

I could only whimper in answer, my body trembling, desperate for him.

I was right there—shaking, sobbing, the climax building sharp and fast—when he stopped. His mouth left me suddenly, the loss so shocking I let out a broken cry, “No—please!”

But before frustration could boil into desperation, his weight shifted. He was crawling up over me, his body pressing mine into the mattress, his mouth finding mine in a deep, grounding kiss. His lips were slick with me, wet and hot, his tongue sliding into my mouth as though he meant to swallow the sound of my need.

I clutched at him, nails dragging across his back, my chest heaving as I tried to catch my breath. He kissed me harder, then slower, and the steady pressure of his body against mine calmed the edge of my frenzy just enough.

When he broke the kiss, his forehead rested against mine, his breath harsh. “If it’s too much,” he rasped, his accent rough and frayed, “you tell me. I’ll stop.”

The words sliced through me—the choice, the gentleness in the middle of my wrecked state. It was a mercy, a promise, and it made me want him more than anything.

“I don’t want you to stop,” I whispered, the words raw, trembling.

His eyes searched mine, careful and aware, and he nodded once.

His fingers ripped the wrapper open, the latex rolling down his length in one smooth motion.

Then I felt him—the blunt, heavy press of his cock against me, sliding through my slick folds, teasing along the place where I ached most.

“Fuck me, Toto,” I gasped, my back arching.

He groaned low, deep in his chest, the sound vibrating into me.

He continued to rub against me, dragging himself along my slit, coating his length, testing the way my hips jerked at each glide. When the tip pressed against my entrance, I froze, my breath catching hard.

He stilled too, his hand cupping my cheek, his thumb skimmed over my skin. “Easy,” he murmured. “We’ll take it slow.”

Then he pushed.

The stretch was immediate, shocking, my body struggling to open around him. I gasped, clutching his shoulders hard.

He groaned, guttural, his jaw clenched as he held still. “Fuck , you’re… so tight.”

“Don’t stop,” I whispered, broken.

He pressed deeper, inch by inch, giving me time to adjust, his forehead still pressed to mine as though he couldn’t let me go. My body stretched, burned, then yielded, wetness easing him in until he was fully seated, his hips flush against mine.

The fullness was overwhelming, unbearable and intoxicating all at once.

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You’re not,” I gasped, shaking my head. “Toto, you feel amazing—”

His eyes darkened at that, and his hips started to shift.

His thrusts had been careful, almost too controlled, and the tension inside me threatened to snap from how much I wanted more. But before he could take over completely, I braced my palms against his chest and pushed.

He froze, surprised, his brows drawing together as I pressed harder until he yielded, lowering back onto the mattress. For a moment he just lay there, breath ragged, his hair mussed from my fingers, his lips parted as he looked up at me.

I straddled him, my thighs braced on either side of his hips, his cock still thick and hard inside me. The angle shifted, the stretch sharper, and I gasped as my body clenched around him.

His hands shot to my waist, gripping instinctively, but he didn’t pull me down. He held me steady, eyes burning, as if waiting to see what I’d do.

And what I did was move.

I rolled my hips forward, dragging myself along his length, the friction so good and deep it pulled a moan from both of us. His head fell back against the pillow, his jaw tight, his teeth clenched as if he was fighting for control.

“You are—stunning.”

I leaned forward, my hands pressed against his chest, and started to ride him in earnest. Up, down, circling my hips, testing the ways I could make him gasp. Each motion sent sparks shooting through me, the angle hitting deep, perfect, and the wet slap of our bodies only spurred me faster.

He watched me like he couldn’t look anywhere else, his eyes wild, his breath breaking with every thrust. His hands guided me, not controlling, just steadying, his thumbs pressing into my hips.

When I bounced harder, faster, the moan that tore from him was guttural, unguarded. “Ja, verdammt—don’t stop—"

His words spurred me on, and I moved harder, riding him until my breasts bounced, until I was gasping with every drop, my moans spilling out shamelessly. His hands slid up my sides, catching them, squeezing, thumbing over my nipples as I moved, and the dual sensation made me scream.

The climax built fast, rolling through me until I shattered on top of him, his name spilling from my tongue, my body squeezing tight around his cock. The way I squeezed him dragged a roar from his chest, a curse torn raw from his throat, “Fuck—Sloane” as he bucked up into me, meeting my rhythm, lost.

I kept riding him, drawing out every pulse, every twitch, until his grip on my hips tightened brutally, holding me down as he spilled deep inside me, his eyes locked on mine, his mouth open in a groan so rough it broke me all over again.

I fell forward onto his chest, both of us trembling, soaked in sweat, breathless. He pulled off the condom and his arms wrapped around me instinctively, holding me tight against him.

His chest rose and fell hard beneath me. His arms wrapped around my back as though he didn’t quite trust the world not to take me away if he loosened his hold. I pressed my face into the hollow of his throat, breathing in the mix of salt, skin, and something that was all him, and let my body melt into the weight of his embrace.

I shifted, just enough to rest my hand on his chest. His heart was still pounding beneath my palm, strong and steady, and I let my fingertips trace lazy patterns over the skin there—loops, lines, and meaningless shapes. His chest rose into the touch, his breath shuddering as though even this undid him.

For a long moment, neither of us spoke. The silence wasn’t heavy. It was warm, filled with the sound of our breaths, the beat of our hearts, and the quiet creak of the mattress beneath us.

Then, his voice came, rough and low: “Are you okay?”

I lifted my head, met his eyes in the dim light. They were darker than I’d ever seen them, softened in a way that almost broke me more than his touch had.

“Yes,” I whispered, my throat still raw from moaning.

His voice dipped, "Any second thoughts?"

I shook my head against his chest, "None."

His gaze searched mine, as though testing for truth, and then he nodded. “Good.” His accent thickened on the word.

"Are you having any regret?" I murmured.

“Do you think I would?”

I dared a smile, small but sure. “Do you?”

His hand cupped my face then, thumb brushing over my cheek. “No.”

That one syllable hit me harder than a failed wind tunnel test—heavy, undeniable, settling somewhere deep in my chest. No doubts. No hesitation. No regrets.

Head pressed to his chest, I listened to the steady beat that seemed to echo in my own veins. My hand wandered back over him, tracing curves again, and he exhaled, content, holding me just a little tighter. Sleep drew near, slow and inescapable. I slipped into it with him, our bodies tangled and at peace, the world fading away.

Chapter Text

"Come on, Toto, just admit defeat already," I called out, bouncing the ping pong ball against my paddle. "You're down by three points and getting slower by the minute."

The Mercedes motorhome filled with laughter as George and Lewis lounged on the leather couches, watching our match amused. A few other team members had wandered in during the last twenty minutes, drawn by the increasingly competitive banter echoing through the space.

Toto's teeth clenched as he adjusted his grip on the paddle, his eyes never leaving mine across the small table. "I'm not slower. I'm being strategic."

"Strategic?" I snorted, serving the ball with a sharp spin that sent it careening toward his backhand. "Is that what we're calling missing easy shots now?"

He lunged for the return, barely managing to get his paddle on it. The ball sailed high, giving me an easy setup for a cross-court winner that left him scrambling. The small crowd erupted in cheers, and I couldn't help but grin as I caught the ball.

"Fifteen-twelve," I announced, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. "You know, you should probably just give up. George and Lewis need to get ready for qualifying, and their team principal should probably be there to support them instead of getting schooled in ping pong."

Lewis chuckled from the couch. "She's got a point, boss. We do need to start our prep soon."

But Toto's expression shifted, that competitive gleam flickering in his dark brown eyes.

"Actually," he said, his voice dropping into that low, commanding tone that made my belly flutter, "I think my employee should consider letting her boss win. It would be the respectful thing to do."

The room erupted into laughter and mock outrage. George threw a pillow at Toto while Lewis shook his head, grinning.

"Oh, that's rich," I said, spinning my paddle in my hand. "Playing the boss card now? What's next, threatening to dock my pay?"

Toto's mouth curved into that small, dangerous smile I'd come to know too well. "I have lots of ways to get payback if you insist on winning."

The words made my blood rush, loaded with meaning that only I could decode. My cheeks warmed as flashes of Florence crashed through my mind—his hands on my skin, his mouth against mine, the way he'd made me come apart beneath him. The casual way he'd delivered the threat, with that accent and those knowing eyes, made my skin prickle.

But to everyone else in the room, it was just typical Toto—competitive and dramatic.

"Payback?" I managed, willing my voice to stay calm. "What kind of payback are we talking about here?"

His eyes held mine for a moment too long, and I saw the flash of heat there before he looked away, serving the ball with more force than necessary.

"The kind that involves making you work overnights," he said smoothly, though that gravel in his voice made me swallow hard. A faint blush spread across my cheeks as I realized his intent.

I returned the serve with all the focus of a gold-medal match, sending it slamming into the table and ricocheting by his ear. "Bring it on, boss. I've been working long weekends since I got here anyway."

The rally that followed was fierce, both of us playing with an intensity that had nothing to do with ping pong and everything to do with the tension crackling between us. Every shot was a challenge, every return a response to something unspoken. When I finally won the point with a wicked forehand down the line, the room exploded in cheers.

"Sixteen-twelve," I panted, wiping sweat from my forehead. "Still feeling confident about that payback?"

Toto's shirt clung to his chest, and there was something almost predatory in the way he watched me across the table. "More confident than ever."

The double meaning in his words sent heat spiraling through me, and I had to grip my paddle tighter to keep my hands steady. This was dangerous territory—flirting with him in front of the team, letting this charged energy build between us where anyone could see.

The qualifying results were decent—Lewis securing P2 and George a solid P5 for tomorrow's race. The garage buzzed with cautious optimism as the team packed up for the evening, but when Toto appeared at my workstation with a hiking backpack slung over his shoulder, I knew my night was about to take an unexpected turn.

"Come with me." Those three words didn't invite; they demanded, and I couldn't resist.

Now, forty minutes later, I found myself following him up a winding trail that cut through Mont-Royal, the city lights of Montreal spreading out below us like scattered diamonds. The path was steep enough to make my calves burn, but Toto forged ahead as if the incline meant nothing to him.

"You know," I called out, trying to catch my breath. "when you said you wanted to celebrate qualifying, I thought you meant drinks at the hotel bar."

He glanced back at me, that small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Not for tonight. Besides, the view up here is worth the climb."

The backpack bounced against his shoulders as he walked, and I couldn't help but wonder what he'd packed inside. This whole thing was like a dream—sneaking away from the team for a private hike, following him up a mountain in the dark with nothing but the glow of distant streetlights and the occasional flash of his phone's flashlight to guide us.

"How much further?" I asked, stepping carefully over a root that jutted across the path.

"Almost there." His voice carried back to me on the cool evening air.

Fifteen minutes later, we emerged onto a small clearing near the summit, and the sight below made me stop breathing for a moment. Montreal stretched out beneath us, the St. Lawrence River cutting a dark ribbon through the glittering cityscape. The noise of traffic and urban life faded to a distant hum, replaced by the rustle of leaves and the soft sound of our breathing.

"Okay," I admitted, turning in a slow circle to take it all in. "This is definitely better than the hotel bar."

Toto dropped the backpack and unzipped it, pulling out a thick wool blanket that he spread across a flat patch of ground. "I thought you might appreciate something different."

I watched him work, my heart doing something complicated in my chest as he began unpacking the bag. A loaf of crusty bread emerged first, followed by a wooden board wrapped in cloth. Then came small containers and packages.

"Did you plan this?" I asked, settling down on the blanket beside him.

"Maybe." He unwrapped the wooden board, revealing an assortment of cheeses that made my mouth water.

The spread he laid out was impressive—creamy Oka cheese that practically glowed in the moonlight, alongside the sharp blue veins of Bleu Bénédictin. Thin slices of prosciutto and rich saucisson arranged next to smoked meats I couldn't identify but that smelled incredible. Fresh strawberries and plump blueberries sat in small containers, and when he pulled out the final item—delicate maple tarts that looked like they'd come from some fancy patisserie—I couldn't hold back my laugh.

"You really went all out," I said, accepting the piece of bread he handed me. "When did you even have time to get all this?"

"I have my ways." He loaded his bread with cheese and meat.

I bit into my makeshift sandwich, the flavors exploding across my tongue—salty prosciutto, creamy cheese, the tang of the bread's crust. It was simple and perfect, and somehow tasted better up here with the city spread out below us like our own private kingdom.

"This is incredible," I said, reaching for a strawberry. The fruit was sweet and juicy, probably the best I'd had all season.

Toto watched me eat with something soft in his expression, and the intimacy of the moment hit me like a physical force. Here we were, alone on a mountain, sharing food he'd selected, the rest of the world feeling impossibly far away.

"So," I said, popping another blueberry into my mouth, "how do you think tomorrow's going to go?"

Toto's expression shifted, the relaxed lines around his eyes tightening as he considered the question. He reached for a piece of cheese, rolling it between his fingers before answering.

"Honestly?" He sighed, the sound heavy with frustration. "I'm hoping Lewis can overtake Max for first place, but Red Bull has been so dominant this season. It's hard to say."

The admission hung between us, weighted with all the pressure he carried as team principal. In the garage, I knew every tell—the tight line of his forehead when the data didn't look promising, the way his head would tilt with a sharp shake whenever a strategy call went wrong. But up here, away from the press and the endless scrutiny, he looked almost vulnerable.

Toto frowned, "Lewis was fighting for grip all day. Did you see how unsettled the car was through Turn 6?"

I had noticed. The telemetry showed micro-corrections that suggested the rear was stepping out, forcing Lewis to lift earlier than optimal. "The softs were chewing themselves apart. Too much thermal degradation on the rear axle."

"Exactly. Our entire race hinges on tyre strategy. We can't afford a single misstep."

He reached for one of the strawberries, examining it in the dim light before looking back at me. "Starting on softs gives us an early attack, but it's a short-term gain. We'd have to switch to hards and hope he can get past Max in the opening laps."

The strawberry moved toward my mouth, and I parted my lips automatically, letting him feed it to me. The gesture was so casual, so intimate, that my brain short-circuited for a moment. The fruit was sweet but all I could focus on was the way his thumb brushed across my lower lip.

"The alternative is an offset," I managed, trying not to be distracted by Toto's touch. "Start on mediums, extend the first stint, and try to undercut when Max pits."

His thumb lingered at the corner of my mouth, his eyes dropping to watch the movement. "That's a gamble. If Max pulls a gap on the mediums, we'll lose too much track position."

The conversation felt surreal—discussing race strategy while his fingers traced patterns on my skin, the technical details mixing with the heat building between us. I forced myself to focus on the problem, even as my body responded to every casual touch.

"What if we commit to a two-stop?" I suggested. "Soft-medium-soft. We could force their hand, pit earlier than they expect and leverage the fresh rubber."

"Mmm." The sound was noncommittal, but his attention seemed split between my words and the way my lips moved when I spoke. "The pit window is tight. If we time it wrong, we come out in traffic. But a perfect out-lap could win us the race."

His finger stroked my bottom lip again, and I had to resist the urge to capture it between my teeth. His touch was starting to make it impossible to think clearly.

"The left-front will be the weak point," I said, leaning closer into his touch. "He was already getting understeer in the high-speed corners. We need to protect that tyre to make any strategy last."

"Yes." Toto's voice dropped into the deep timbre. "He'll need to be smooth. Every input has to be precise to keep the tyres in their window."

He selected another strawberry, this one larger and darker red than the last. The city lights below cast everything in a golden glow, making the moment feel suspended in time.

"And tomorrow's track temperature will be higher," he continued, bringing the fruit to my lips again, "around forty-two degrees. That changes everything."

I bit into the strawberry, juice running down my chin. Without hesitation, Toto's thumb swept across my skin, catching the droplet before it could fall. The simple gesture made my breath falter, and I saw something flash in his eyes—awareness, heat, the same tension that had been building between us all evening.

"The rears will fall off a cliff much sooner," I said, trying to keep focus. "He'll have to manage his entry speeds into the hairpin religiously."

"You a gambling woman, Sloane?" His thumb was still pressed against my chin, and I could feel my pulse hammering against his touch. "The forecast shows a thirty percent chance of showers around lap forty."

"Betting our race on thirty percent seems desperate," I countered.

"Lewis needs confidence in the car," he said finally, his voice rough. "If he doesn't trust the rear, he won't be able to attack Max at all."

The conversation about tyre strategy continued, but something shifted when Toto moved behind me on the blanket. His chest pressed against my back, solid and warm, his legs bracketing mine as I settled between them.

"Keeping the carcass temps stable is critical," I said, trying to focus on the technical discussion even as his presence behind me made my skin hum. "If we can hold the fronts in that optimal window, we open up so many more strategic doors."

His arms came around me loosely, hands resting on my thighs as he leaned forward to reach for another piece of cheese. The movement brought his mouth close to my ear, his breath warm against my skin.

"The track evolution will be a factor, too," his voice a low rasp that made every hair on my arms stand on end. "The grip differential between the racing line and off-line will be significant."

I nodded, reaching for my water bottle to give my hands something to do. "So he has to prioritize keeping it on the black stuff in the opening laps. Let the tyres come in gradually before he starts pushing."

Toto's fingers sketched abstract lines on my jeans, the touch so casual it could have been unconscious. But there was nothing unconscious about the way his lips brushed against my neck when he spoke.

"He gets forced wide in Turn 1, the race could be over before it starts," he said, pressing a soft kiss just below my ear. "He'd lose all grip instantly."

My breath caught as his mouth moved against my skin, but I forced myself to continue the conversation. "We'll brief him to be cautious. Protect the position first, attack second."

He hummed in agreement, the sound vibrating against my neck as Toto's teeth grazed my neck. "Smart."

His mouth found my earlobe, sucking gently, and I had to bite back a gasp. The conversation about tyre compounds and degradation curves faded into static while his tongue wrote a silent, burning poem against my body.

"The, um..." I struggled to form coherent thoughts as his teeth tugged at my ear. "The medium compound offers more flexibility... a better thermal platform than the softs."

"True," his voice was rougher now, and I felt one of his hands slide higher on my thigh. "But the warm-up phase on that compound is a risk if the track temp drops unexpectedly."

I leaned back against him, my head falling to rest against his shoulder as his mouth continued its assault on my neck. The city lights blurred below us, everything narrowing to the heat of his body and the way his lips moved against my skin.

"Toto..." I breathed, not sure if I was protesting or encouraging.

"Keep talking about the tyres," he murmured against my throat, his hand sliding higher still. "Tell me about the degradation model."

The request was so absurd—discussing aerodynamics while he kissed my neck—that I almost laughed. But then his fingers found the edge of my knickers beneath my jeans, and all coherent thought fled.

"The... the front-left is the limiting factor on this circuit," I managed, my voice shaky as his finger slipped beneath the fabric. "Peak grip is narrow..."

A soft gasp escaped me as his finger found my clit, the world narrowing to that one point as he began to move. The technical words tumbled from my lips even as my body arched into his touch.

"Optimal... operating window is ninety to one-ten degrees," I continued, though my voice was barely recognizable. "Any higher and the surface will start to grain."

"Very good," he praised, his finger sliding lower to tease my entrance. "What about tyre pressure?"

I couldn't answer immediately because he chose that moment to slip a finger inside me, the intrusion making me cry out softly. My hands gripped his forearms as he began to move.

"It affects the contact patch," I gasped, my hips moving involuntarily against his hand. "Too high, we lose mechanical grip... too low, and the core overheats."

His thumb found my clit again while his finger worked inside me, the dual sensation making my vision blur. The conversation had become impossible to maintain, technical terms mixing with breathless moans as he built me toward something explosive.

"That's it," he murmured against my ear, adding a second finger that made me arch against him. "And what about the thermal dynamics?"

But I couldn't speak anymore. The pressure was building, my body coiling tighter with each stroke of his fingers, my breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps. My hips rocked against his hand, desperate and unsteady, and I could feel the way my muscles tensed around him—so close, right there on the precipice—

Then his hand stilled completely.

I whimpered, a broken sound, my body betraying me as it tried to chase the friction he'd denied. My fingers clawed at his forearm, nails digging in. "No—"

Toto's lips curved against my neck, his breath hot. "I can feel you trembling," he murmured, his voice rough with satisfaction. "You're right there, aren't you?" His fingers flexed—just enough—to make me jerk against him, a shuddering gasp tearing from my throat.

"That's not—" My voice cracked. "You can't just—"

"Oh, I can." His thumb pressed once, once, against my clit—just a teasing brush—before pulling away entirely. The loss of contact was agonising, the empty ache between my legs maddening. He knew exactly what he was doing. "Payback, Sloane," he murmured, his lips brushing the shell of my ear. "I warned you about winning that ping pong match."

My hands fisted in the blanket beneath us, frustration and arousal warring in my chest. "Toto, please."

"Please what?" His voice was pure sin, low and teasing as his lips feather kissed up to my ear. "You'll have to be more specific."

I turned in his arms, meeting his gaze directly. His pupils were blown wide, his own arousal evident despite his composed exterior. "You know exactly what I want."

"I do." His smile was absolutely devastating. "But if you want me to finish what I started, you'll just have to come back to my hotel room tonight."

The proposition hung between us, loaded with promise and danger in equal measure.

​Looking at him—at the heat in his eyes, the way his chest rose and fell with controlled breathing, the way the denim strained against him, betraying how much this was affecting him too—I knew my answer.

"Your room it is," I whispered.

Chapter Text

The roar of the crowd was deafening, a wall of sound that crashed over the paddock as Lewis and George stood on the podium, champagne bottles raised high. Second and third place. A double podium. The first time in months we'd managed to get both drivers up there together.

I clapped until my palms stung, watching as Lewis sprayed champagne toward the crowd with that megawatt grin that had made him a legend. George was more reserved, but the satisfaction in his expression was unmistakable. They'd executed the strategy flawlessly—the two-stop gamble had paid off, and we'd clawed back crucial points in the constructors' championship.

Tied with McLaren now. Second place, breathing down Red Bull's neck.

Toto stood beside me, his hands coming together in a steady clap, but I could see the tension in his shoulders begin to ease.

"We did it," I said, turning to look at him.

His eyes met mine, "That tyre strategy was a good call." He hinted at our mountain rendezvous.

Heat crept up my neck at the praise, but I shook my head. "Lewis and George drove like hell, and the pit crew nailed every stop."

"Take the compliment, Sloane." His mouth curved into that taunting smile.

The podium ceremony wrapped up, and we began the walk back toward the Mercedes motorhome. The paddock thrummed with the aftershock of victory—journalists lunging for soundbites, mechanics still high on the rush, the air thick with the metallic tang of champagne and the hum of voices pitched too loud. My legs burned from hours on concrete, fatigue gnawing at the edges of my focus, but the adrenaline in my veins wouldn't let me slow down.

Toto walked beside me, close enough that our shoulders brushed occasionally. The memory of last night on the mountain was fresh in my mind: his fingers inside me, the way he'd left me desperate and aching, and the fulfilled promise of what would happen when we got to his hotel room.

His phone rang, the sharp trill cutting through my thoughts. He pulled it from his pocket, glancing at the screen before answering.

"Gideon," he said, his voice shifting into that professional tone he used for sponsors and partners. "Yes, congratulations to us. The boys drove brilliantly today."

I kept walking, giving him space for the conversation but staying close enough to catch fragments of what he was saying. CypherCore. The name registered immediately—the carbon-neutral composites company that had been circling Mercedes for months, looking to secure a partnership. The same one whose reps I'd faced across a poker table in Monaco, their offers as bold as their tech.

"Brackley?" Toto's brow furrowed as he listened. "When were you thinking?"

A pause, and I watched his expression shift as he processed whatever Gideon was proposing.

"Wednesday works," he said after a moment.

Another pause, longer this time. Toto's gaze glossed over to me briefly before returning to the path ahead.

"Yes, she'll be there." His voice dropped, and I caught the edge of something protective in his tone. "I know you'll want her input on how the composites could integrate with next year's design."

My heart did something complicated in my chest at hearing him advocate for me like that, so casually including me in high-level sponsor meetings. A year ago, I'd been fighting just to get Ferrari to listen to my ideas. Now Toto was making sure I had a seat at the table without me even asking.

"Great," he said. "We'll see you Wednesday morning. Ten o'clock."

He ended the call and slipped the phone back into his pocket, his stride never faltering.

"CypherCore wants a meeting," he said, glancing at me. "Gideon's bringing Julian and Darren to headquarters on Wednesday to start design concepts for next year."

"That's good," I said, and I meant it. CypherCore's lightweight composites could be a game-changer for next year's car if we could integrate them properly. "I'm looking forward to meeting with them. Their carbon-neutral tech could shave significant weight off the rear wing assembly without compromising structural strength."

Toto's mouth quirked. "Already thinking about applications?"

"Always." I shrugged. "Besides, with half the season over, we need to start planning and making decisions for next year's car. The regulation changes are going to force us to rethink our entire model."

He nodded, his expression turning thoughtful. "The floor regulations alone will require a complete redesign. We can't just iterate on this year's concept."

"Exactly. Which means we need to lock in our material suppliers now if we want to have prototypes ready for wind tunnel testing by September."

We reached the motorhome, and Toto held the door open for me. The cool air inside was a relief after the heat of the paddock, and I could already hear the team celebrating in the main lounge—laughter and the pop of champagne corks echoing through the space.

But Toto didn't head toward the noise. Instead, he turned to me, his expression shifting into something more personal.

"When's your flight?" he asked. "Tonight or tomorrow?"

"Tonight." I checked my watch. "I need to be at the airport in about three hours."

The light in his eyes dimmed—disappointment, maybe, or frustration. His jaw tightened, and he ran a hand through his hair, messing up the dark strands.

"I'll try to see you before you leave," he said, but his voice carried the weight of someone who knew it was unlikely. "I have a press conference in twenty minutes."

"It's okay." I understood. This was the job—the relentless schedule, the competing demands, the way personal moments had to be stolen between professional obligations. "You've got responsibilities. I get it."

But he stepped closer, closing the distance between us until I could feel the heat radiating off his body. The motorhome hallway was empty, but we were still exposed, still one door away from the team celebrating in the lounge.

His eyes dropped to my lips, "I wish I could kiss you right now." His words came out rough and low, like gravel underfoot, in a way that made my knees weak.

The want in his eyes was a mirror of everything I felt, and it would be so easy to close the gap, to let him kiss me the way I'd been craving since last night.

But we couldn't. Not here. Not with the team just beyond that door, not with journalists prowling the paddock looking for any hint of scandal.

"Get to the press conference," I said, forcing myself to smile even as my heart hammered against my ribs. "You'll just have to wait."

His eyes darkened, and I saw his fingers press at his sides, like he was physically restraining himself from touching me.

"It will be worth it," I promised.

For a moment, he just looked at me, and I could see the war playing out behind his eyes—duty versus desire, professionalism versus the pull between us that had become impossible to ignore.

Then his mouth curved into that wicked grin, the one that promised retribution and pleasure in equal measure.

"I'm holding you to that," he said.

He turned and walked away, his stride purposeful as he headed toward the press room. I watched him go, the rhythm in my chest erratic, my body still humming with unfulfilled want.

Wednesday couldn't come fast enough.

The airport bar was one of those generic, dimly lit establishments that existed in a kind of temporal limbo—neither day nor night, just the perpetual glow of backlit liquor bottles and the low murmur of travelers killing time before their flights. I'd claimed a corner seat at the bar, my carry-on tucked against my leg, my phone propped against my half-empty martini glass as I scrolled through emails.

Most of them were congratulatory messages about the podium finish—engineers from other teams reaching out, a few headhunters testing the waters, the usual post-race noise. I deleted the headhunter emails without reading them. I wasn't interested in moving. Not when I'd finally found a place where my work mattered, where someone actually listened to my ideas.

Where Toto was.

My chest tightened at the thought. Wednesday felt impossibly far away, and the three-hour flight back to London stretched ahead of me like an eternity.

I took another sip of my martini, savoring the cold bite of gin and the faint herbal note of vermouth. The olive bobbed in the glass as I set it down, and I was about to reply to James Allison's email when a voice cut through my concentration.

"Mind if I join?"

I looked up, and my stomach sank.

Christian Horner stood beside the empty barstool next to me, already lowering himself onto it before I could answer. He wore a tailored navy suit, his reddish-grey hair styled neatly, and his green eyes glowing.

"Well, you already insisted," I said, unable to keep the dryness out of my voice.

Christian's mouth curved into a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. He raised a hand to catch the bartender's attention. "Whiskey on the rocks, please."

The bartender nodded and moved off to pour the drink, leaving me alone with Red Bull's team principal. I forced myself to look relaxed, even as every instinct screamed at me to grab my bag and head to the gate.

"Don't you fly private?" I asked, keeping my tone casual. "What are you doing here in the airport?"

Christian accepted his whiskey from the bartender with a nod of thanks before turning his attention back to me. "I do. But it doesn't leave until tomorrow night, and I need to get home tonight. Hence..." He gestured vaguely at the bar around us. "This."

"Sounds suspicious," I said, taking another sip of my martini.

"Feels destined," he corrected, his smirk deepening.

I rolled my eyes, and he chuckled—a low, knowing sound that set my teeth on edge. There was something predatory about the way he watched me, like I was a problem he was already three steps ahead of solving.

"Congratulations on the double podium," he said, swirling his whiskey. "That two-stop strategy was gutsy. Risky, even. The kind of aggressive call that separates winners from also-rans."

The observation was too accurate to be casual. "Team effort," I said carefully.

"Mmm." He took a slow sip, his eyes never leaving mine. "I've been watching Mercedes all season. Fascinating evolution. You went from barely scoring points to putting both drivers on the podium. That's not luck. That's innovation."

My pulse quickened. "The whole technical team has been working on development."

"Sure. But there's innovation by committee, and then there's the kind of fundamental shift that comes from one person seeing what everyone else missed." He paused. "Mercedes didn't just improve. They transformed. And transformation requires vision."

I didn't respond, just focused on the olive bobbing in my martini glass. But my mind was already racing, replaying the past few months. The late nights in the wind tunnel. The rear wing redesign that everyone had been skeptical about until the data proved them wrong. The floor modifications that had found us three-tenths of a second per lap.

Had those been team efforts? Or had I been the one pushing, insisting, fighting to make people listen?

"You know what I find interesting?" Christian continued, his voice conversational. "Six months ago, Toto was making excuses. Blaming the regulations, the budget cap, bad luck. Now suddenly he's talking about fighting for the championship again." He tilted his head. "What changed?"

Heat crept up my neck. "The car improved."

"Because someone improved it." His gaze sharpened. "Someone who understands that you can't win by playing it safe. Someone who's willing to take risks that make the old guard nervous."

The way he said it made my stomach tighten.

"What do you want, Christian?" I asked, cutting through the subtext.

His eyes locked onto mine, and for a moment, the charm dropped away entirely. "You."

My hand froze halfway to my glass.

He cleared his throat, the smirk returning. "Your brain, I mean. Your talent. The way you approach problems—it's exactly what Red Bull needs for next year's regulation changes."

I picked up my martini and took a sip, buying myself time to think. The gin burned pleasantly on the way down, but it did nothing to settle the unease coiling in my gut.

"I already have a team," I reminded.

Christian leaned back, studying me. "You have a job. There's a difference. A team is where your contributions shape the direction. A job is where you execute someone else's vision."

"That's not how Mercedes works."

"No?" He swirled his whiskey, the ice clinking against the glass. "Tell me something—when journalists ask Toto about Mercedes' resurgence, whose name does he mention?"

My silence was answer enough.

"Lewis. George. Maybe James Allison if he's feeling generous." Christian's voice was gentle, almost sympathetic. "But never the person who actually turned the season around. Never the aerodynamicist who found half a second per lap when everyone else had given up looking."

My throat tightened. I'd watched Toto's press conference earlier on my phone while waiting at the gate. He'd talked about the team's hard work, the drivers' execution, the collective effort. All true. But my name had never come up. Not once.

I'd told myself it didn't matter. That I wasn't doing this for recognition. That the work itself was enough.

But was it?

"That's not—"

"I'm not criticizing Toto," Christian interrupted smoothly. "He's brilliant at what he does. Managing egos, handling sponsors, playing politics. But let's be honest about what he is—he's a businessman. And businessmen protect their brands."

The words hit harder than they should have. "Mercedes is more than a brand."

"Of course it is. It's history. Legacy. Eight consecutive constructors' championships." He paused. "All of which happened before you arrived. So when Mercedes wins again—and you will get them there—whose legacy does that become?"

The question hung in the air like smoke.

I thought about the CypherCore meeting on Wednesday. Toto had included me, yes, but he'd also positioned it as his meeting with his sponsors to discuss his vision for next year's car. But my designs would be part of that vision...

"I'm not interested in glory," I said, but the words felt hollow even as I spoke them.

Christian's expression shifted into something almost pitying. "Then you're in the wrong sport. Formula One runs on glory. Championships are won by teams, but they're remembered through individuals. Senna. Schumacher. Brown. Steiner. Wolff." He let Toto's last name linger. "Twenty years from now, when people talk about Mercedes' comeback, will they remember Sloane Kingsley? Or will they remember that Toto Wolff proved he could rebuild a dynasty?"

The truth of it settled in my chest like a stone. History remembered the team principals, the drivers, the legendary designers. Not the engineers who worked in the shadows, no matter how brilliant their contributions.

I shook my head. "I don't need my name in Formula One history books."

"Maybe not. But you deserve to have a choice in the matter." He took another sip of whiskey. "At Red Bull, when you design something revolutionary, your name goes on the patent. When your strategy wins us a race, I make sure everyone knows who made the call. Not because I'm generous, but because I'm smart enough to know that talent needs recognition to thrive."

The implication was clear: Toto wasn't smart enough. Or worse—he was smart enough but chose not to.

"You don't know him," I said, my voice sharper than intended.

"I've known him for twelve years. Raced against him, negotiated with him, watched him build Mercedes into what it is today." Christian's tone was matter-of-fact. "He's one of the best in the business. But he's also someone who needs to be the face of every success. Can you name a single person at Mercedes who's become a star in their own right? Someone who's stepped out of his shadow?"

I couldn't. Even James Allison, brilliant as he was, was always presented as part of Toto's team, never as an equal.

"Here's what I'm offering," Christian said, his voice dropping. "Head of Aerodynamic Development. Your own team, your own budget, full autonomy over design decisions. When Red Bull wins—and we will—you'll be standing next to me at the FIA prize-giving. Not as my employee. As my partner."

The word partner hit differently than I expected. Equal footing. Equal recognition. Equal power.

"We can pay you twice what Mercedes is offering," Christian continued. "Plus performance bonuses tied to constructor's points. You'd be a millionaire before the end of next season."

The number was staggering, but it wasn't what made my decisions.

"It's not about the money," I admitted quietly.

"No." His gaze turned calculating. "It's about loyalty. You're loyal to Mercedes. I get that. But loyalty in this sport is a luxury most people can't afford. Especially when it's one-sided."

"It's not one-sided."

"Isn't it?" He leaned forward. "Toto gets your brilliance, your late nights, your innovative thinking. What do you get in return? A salary and the satisfaction of watching him take credit for your work?"

He doesn't take credit, I wanted to say. He just... absorbs it. Naturally. Because he's the team principal and that's how it works.

"He doesn't—"

"He doesn't have to actively take it. He just has to not share it." Christian's voice was soft now, almost kind. "That's the genius of his approach. By the time you realize what's happened, years have passed and your name is buried in technical reports that only other engineers will ever read."

The words wrapped around me like a vice, squeezing all the insecurities I'd been trying to ignore.

I thought about my time at Ferrari. The way my ideas had been dismissed, ignored, buried under layers of bureaucracy and ego. Mercedes had felt different. Toto had felt different. He'd listened to me, valued my input, given me opportunities.

But had he really? Or had he just been better at making me feel valued while still keeping all the credit for himself?

"How long are you willing to wait?" Christian asked. "How many seasons will you spend building someone else's comeback story before you start writing your own?"

My hands tightened around my glass. "I believe in what we're building at Mercedes."

"Belief is admirable. But belief doesn't pay mortgages or secure your future or guarantee that anyone will remember your name when you're gone." He paused. "You're twenty-eight, Sloane. You've got maybe five good years left before this sport starts to burn. Every year you spend being Toto Wolff's secret weapon is a year you're not building your own reputation."

Secret weapon. The phrase echoed in my mind, taking on new weight.

Was that all I was? Someone Toto kept hidden away, useful but never acknowledged, valued but never celebrated?

"I'm building my reputation," I said, but the conviction in my voice wavered.

"Are you?" His eyes searched mine. "Or are you building his? Because right now, the entire paddock is talking about how Toto's turned Mercedes around. How he's made the tough decisions, taken the risks, found the edge everyone thought was gone. Your name never comes up."

The truth of it hit like a slap. I'd been so focused on the work, on proving myself—that I hadn't stopped to consider what it all meant for my future.

Would I be forty years old someday, still working in someone else's shadow? Still waiting for recognition that would never come?

My throat burned. "That's how team sports work."

"No. That's how Toto Wolff works." Christian's voice turned almost gentle. "And I'm not saying it to hurt you. I'm saying it because you're too talented to spend your career making someone else look good."

His phone buzzed on the bar between us, the screen lighting up with a notification. He glanced at it and sighed, genuine frustration crossing his features.

"My flight's boarding," he said, slipping the phone back into his pocket.

He raised a hand to the bartender, gesturing toward my nearly empty glass. "Another martini for the lady."

The bartender nodded, already reaching for the gin bottle.

Christian stood, adjusting his suit lapels. He took the pen from the bar counter and wrote on a napkin.

"My personal number," he said. "Not the team line. When you're ready to have a real conversation about your future—one that isn't filtered through team loyalty or misplaced faith—call me."

He started to walk away, then paused and turned back.

"One more thing." His voice was quiet, almost reluctant. "Whatever you think you have with Toto—professional respect, mentorship, whatever you want to call it—remember that he holds all the cards. He's your boss. He controls your opportunities, your visibility, your trajectory in this sport. That's not a partnership. That's dependency."

The air seemed to drain from the room.

Dependency.

Christian's gaze held mine for a long moment. "Red Bull doesn't operate that way. We invest in talent and get out of the way. We don't need to control everything to feel important." He paused. "Just something to consider."

Then he turned and walked away, his stride confident and unhurried, disappearing into the flow of travelers heading toward the gates.

I sat there for a long moment, staring at the napkin on the bar, his words echoing in my mind.

The bartender slid a fresh martini in front of me, the olive speared on a tiny sword, and I wrapped my fingers around the cold glass without drinking.

Christian Horner had just planted seeds of doubt that I knew would grow, no matter how hard I tried to ignore them.

I pulled out my phone and opened my messages, my thumb hovering over Toto's name. Part of me wanted to tell him about Christian's offer, wanted to hear him say something that would make all these doubts disappear.

But what if Christian was right? What if I was so focused on what Toto made me feel—professionally valued, intellectually respected—that I couldn't see the larger pattern? The way my contributions disappeared into his narrative, my innovations absorbed into his legacy?

I thought about that first interview in his office, the way he'd actually listened when I'd explained my theories about the rear wing. How different it had felt from Ferrari, where my ideas had died in committee meetings. At Mercedes, Toto had given me access to the wind tunnel, the fabrication team, everything I'd asked for. He'd trusted my vision when no one else would.

But then I thought about Silverstone—standing in that garage as Lewis crossed the line, the victory built on my harmonic resonance discovery, my late nights solving problems everyone else had given up on. And Toto's hand had found mine in that moment of triumph, a brief, electric connection that had felt like acknowledgment. Like being seen.

Except the press had only seen Toto. The headlines had only mentioned Toto. Even Marcus's apology in Austria—"What you did... finding that resonance issue... it was good work"—had been private, not public. Recognition within the team, but invisible to the world beyond it.

But would anyone outside this insular world ever know? Would my name ever appear in the technical journals, in the championship retrospectives, in the history books that Christian had mentioned?

Or would I always be the invisible force behind Toto's visible success?

I thought about Florence—not the kiss, but the hours before it. The way he'd driven three hours out of our way because I'd mentioned, once, in passing, on a plane to Tokyo, that my mother had wanted to take me to see Botticelli. He'd remembered. He'd cared enough to make it happen.

That had felt real. The journal he'd bought me, insisting it was for my thoughts, my designs—as if what went on in my head mattered beyond what it could do for Mercedes. The way he'd looked at me in the Uffizi, not as his aerodynamicist, but as Sloane. A woman with dreams deferred and grief unprocessed and a hunger for beauty that had nothing to do with downforce coefficients.

And in Monaco, the way he held the door open for me at the CypherCore meeting—positioning me as essential to the team's future, making sure I had a voice in that room—he advocated for me without my even asking.

Except... he'd done it in private. In a meeting with three sponsors who would keep that information confidential. Not in a press conference. Not in public where it would cost him anything.

The realization made my stomach turn.

I thought about the karting track in Miami, the way he'd laughed when I'd beaten him, genuinely delighted rather than threatened by my competitiveness. The dinner that followed, where he'd shared stories about Niki Lauda, about losing his father young, about the weight of always having to be the strong one. He'd been vulnerable with me in a way I suspected he rarely was with anyone.

And then the mountain. The picnic he'd planned, the food he'd chosen, the way he'd fed me strawberries while we'd discussed tyre strategy—mixing intimacy with intellect until I couldn't tell where one ended and the other began. The way his fingers had worked inside me while he'd made me explain thermal dynamics, turning my own expertise into foreplay.

Had that been about desire? Or control?

About wanting me? Or keeping me wanting him?

locked my phone and picked up the napkin instead, running my thumb over Christian's handwriting.

Six months ago, I'd been invisible at Ferrari—my ideas dismissed, my potential wasted. Now I was invisible at Mercedes too, but in a different way. Absorbed rather than rejected. Valued but not celebrated. Essential but unnamed.

And somewhere between Brackley and Budapest, between wind tunnel sessions and late-night strategy calls, between stolen moments and whispered promises, I'd become dependent on Toto Wolff—not just professionally, but emotionally. I craved his approval, his touch, his attention. I measured my worth by the heat in his eyes and the way he said my name.

Christian was right about one thing: that wasn't a partnership. That was dependency.

And the most terrifying part? I wasn't sure I wanted to break free from it.

I slipped the napkin into my pocket and took a long sip of my martini, letting the gin burn away the immediate sting of the questions. But I wasn't daft—I knew the game, the politics, the way this sport rewarded visibility over substance. Christian's words had slotted neatly into cracks I'd been too busy to examine. The worst part? He hadn't lied. He'd just held up a mirror.

And what I saw reflected back wasn't flattering.

Because what if this was as good as it got? What if the choice wasn't between being Toto's secret weapon and being my own person, but between being recognized behind closed doors and having the world know my name? Between quiet validation and changing the face of Formula One?

Wednesday suddenly felt different. Not like a promise anymore, but like a test.

When I saw Toto again—when he looked at me with that intensity that made my knees weak, when he touched me with those hands that knew exactly how to unravel me—would I still be able to see clearly? Would I be able to separate what was real from what was strategic? What was passion from what was leverage?

Or would I discover that I'd already made my choice months ago, in that first interview, when I'd decided that being seen by Toto Wolff was worth being invisible to everyone else?

I finished my martini and signaled for the check, my mind spinning with questions I didn't have answers to.

In a few days, I'd be in Toto's presence again. I'd feel the pull between us, that magnetic attraction that stripped the world down to just him and me.

But this time, I needed to pay attention to what faded. Because if Christian was right—if I was building Toto's legacy instead of my own—then I needed to know before I was in too deep to find my way back out.

That's not a partnership. That's dependency.

I didn't know if Christian was right.

But I was terrified that he might be.

Chapter Text

I leaned over the desk, studying the CFD simulation Marcus had pulled up on his monitor. The computational fluid dynamics model showed airflow patterns around our latest development package—modifications we were planning to test at Las Vegas next week. The numbers told a story of compromise: gain speed on the straights, lose stability in the technical sections.

"What if we compensated with a more aggressive diffuser rake?" I suggested, tapping the screen where the pressure differential dropped off. "That would generate mechanical grip through the slow corners without compromising our straight-line advantage."

Marcus rubbed his jaw, considering. "Could work. But we'd need to validate it in the wind tunnel before we commit to manufacturing the parts. Don't want to show up to Las Vegas with an untested package."

"Agreed." I straightened, rolling my shoulders to ease the knot building between my shoulder blades. Three days back at Brackley, and I'd barely left the factory. "Schedule tunnel time for tomorrow morning. If the data looks good, we can green-light it."

"Will do." Marcus made a note before glancing at me. "You've been here since six this morning. Have you had breakfast yet?"

"I had coffee."

"I don't understand how you function."

I waved him off, my eyes already drifting to the clock on the computer screen. 9:45. Fifteen minutes until the CypherCore meeting. My stomach twisted—not from hunger, but from the weight of everything I'd been carrying since Sunday night. Christian's words. The napkin still tucked in my wallet. The texts from Toto that I'd answered with neutrality, never mentioning the airport bar or the offer that had been dangling in my mind like a fishhook.

I shoved the thought away and focused on the simulation in front of me.

"Sloane?"

I blinked, realizing Marcus was still talking.

"Sorry, what?"

"I asked if you're prepared for the CypherCore meeting."

"I'm ready." I grabbed the stack of papers I'd printed earlier—technical specs, material stress questions, and preliminary sketches.

"Hopefully the meeting goes well," Marcus looked away as Toto walked through the door.

He moved through the room, nodding at engineers as he passed, shaking hands, offering quick words of encouragement. His jet-black suit was crisp, his hair was immaculately styled, and he had the composure that drew every eye without asking for it. And then there was the smile—the kind that lit up his whole face, open and unguarded, as if he’d been waiting for this moment.

But when his gaze landed on me, the smile faltered. Replaced by hesitation, as if he’d expected me to meet him with the same kind of brightness.

Instead, I just looked at him.

“Ready?” he asked, his voice steady, but something in his eyes searched mine.

I passed a stack of papers to Marcus without looking away. “Yep.”

The glow fading as he gave a single, clipped nod. “Let’s go.”

We walked side by side down the corridor, the hum of the factory fading behind us as we moved toward the conference wing. Toto’s hands slipped into his pockets, and his attention pressed against me even though he wasn’t looking.

"How have the last few days been?" he asked, his tone casual but the question loaded.

"Good." I kept my eyes forward. "I've been building concepts for next year. Depending on how this meeting with CypherCore goes, hopefully some of them will be viable."

He glanced at me, and I caught the edge of a grin. "You've been busy."

"Always."

The grin widened. "Did you miss me while I was gone?"

The question hung between us, playful on the surface but edged with something deeper. I opened my mouth to answer, but the words stuck in my throat.

Did I miss him?

Yes. God, yes. I'd missed the way he looked at me like I was the only person in the room. Missed the sound of his voice dropping into that low, rough register that made my knees weak. Missed the way he made me feel seen in a way no one else ever had.

But Christian's words were louder now, drowning out everything else.

Toto's hand closed around my arm, stopping me mid-step. His touch was firm but careful, and when I looked up at him, his expression had shifted into one threaded with concern.

I swallowed hard. "Yes. I missed you."

Because it was true. Even with the doubts Christian had embedded in my brain, even with the napkin burning a hole in my wallet, I'd missed him.

But Toto didn't look relieved. If anything, the worry in his eyes deepened.

"Is everything okay?"

The question was simple, but the answer wasn't.

"Yeah," I lied, forcing my voice to stay even. "I just haven't had much sleep. Working on these new designs has been... consuming."

His thumb brushed against my arm, a brief, grounding touch. "Maybe you can take the late night off tomorrow. We can spend it together."

The offer was tempting—too tempting. The idea of losing myself in him, of forgetting what Christian had said and the fear twisting in my chest, was almost enough to make me say yes.

But before I could answer, three men stepped into the hallway.

Gideon, Julian, and Darren.

Toto's hand dropped from my arm as he turned toward them, and I watched his posture shift—shoulders squaring, chin lifting, and that boardroom smile sliding into place. The transformation was subtle but complete. The man who'd just been looking at me with uneasiness became someone else entirely.

"Gentlemen." His voice carried that smooth authority that made people want to agree with him before he'd even made his pitch. "Good to see you again."

Gideon extended his hand, his smile broad. "Toto. We've been looking forward to this."

"As have we." Toto shook hands with each of them, his grip firm, his attention focused entirely on them now.

Gideon shook my hand briefly before turning back to Toto. "Shall we?"

We filed into the conference room. Toto took the head of the table—natural, expected—and gestured for me to sit to his right. The CypherCore team arranged themselves across from us, and I set my stack of papers down, trying to ignore how Gideon's body language was oriented entirely toward Toto.

Toto leaned back in his chair, his posture relaxed but commanding. "Let’s jump right into it, as we’re both eager to hear what you've been working on since Monaco."

Gideon pulled out a tablet, his enthusiasm evident. "We've made significant progress. Our carbon-neutral composite is now achieving a twenty-eight percent weight reduction compared to standard carbon fiber, with superior tensile strength and thermal resistance."

"Impressive," Toto admitted. "Walk me through the practical applications. How does this translate to performance on track?"

Julian leaned forward. "The weight savings alone could give you three to four-tenths per lap, depending on where you implement the material. Combined with the sustainability angle, it can position Mercedes as both performance leaders and environmental innovators."

Toto's eyes lit up—not at the performance gain, I noticed, but at the positioning angle. "The FIA is pushing sustainability regulations for next year, and we need to be ahead of that curve."

"From a technical standpoint, how does it fail? Carbon fiber is brittle—it shatters on impact. If your composite behaves the same way, we can't use it in high-stress areas."

Darren turned to me, clearly prepared for the question. "Different failure mode entirely. Traditional carbon fiber fractures catastrophically. Our composite has engineered flexibility—it deforms before it breaks, giving you visible warning indicators."

I made a note. "I'd want to test that extensively. Impact resistance, thermal cycling, sustained load testing. We can't put this on a car until we understand exactly how it fails."

"Absolutely," Gideon said, but his eyes darted to Toto as if seeking confirmation that my requirements were acceptable.

Toto nodded. "We’ll need comprehensive testing before we commit to anything. What's your timeline for sample delivery?"

"We can deliver sample components by end of September," Gideon replied. "Rear wing endplates, floor sections, suspension components—whatever you want to prioritize for testing."

"October and November for validation," Toto said, more to himself than to them. "That gives us December to finalize specifications if the data looks good."

I opened my mouth to ask about manufacturing tolerances, but Toto was already moving forward.

"What about full-scale production? We need everything in-house by early February for pre-season testing."

Julian pulled out a production schedule. "We’ll need the final specifications by the first week of December. That gives us eight weeks to manufacture the full component set and ensure delivery by the first week of February."

"The homologation deadline is the fifteenth," Toto said. "That's cutting it close."

"We've expanded our facility specifically for this partnership," Gideon assured him. "We can handle the volume and the timeline."

Toto's expression remained neutral, but I could see him evaluating risk versus reward. "What guarantees can you offer? I need more than confidence—I need contractual protection if you miss deadlines."

"Penalty clauses," Darren said immediately. "We're prepared to put financial guarantees in the contract. If we miss delivery dates, we compensate you for any resulting delays."

Toto nodded, seemingly satisfied. The conversation flowed around me—cost structures, delivery schedules, contingency planning. All important, all necessary. But I noticed how the technical questions I wanted to ask kept getting absorbed into Toto's broader business concerns.

"There's one more element we wanted to propose," Gideon said, his tone shifting into something more significant. "Exclusivity."

The room went quiet.

"We're prepared to offer Mercedes exclusive access to this technology for the entire 2026 season," Gideon continued. "No other team gets it until 2027."

Toto's expression didn't change, but I saw his fingers still against the table. "In exchange for what?"

Gideon named a figure that made my eyebrows rise.

"That includes full production capacity dedicated to Mercedes, priority technical support, and embedded engineering staff," Darren added. "We'd have our engineers working on-site with your team throughout the development cycle."

I felt something cold settle in my stomach. "Embedded engineers—what exactly does that mean?"

Julian turned to me. "They'd work directly with your aerodynamics department. Collaborative integration, optimizing material applications in real-time. Think of it as extending your technical capabilities.“

"Hold on,” I raised my hand. “That would mean your team would be in our design meetings," I solved. "Access to our development philosophy, our wind tunnel data, our competitive advantages."

"With appropriate NDAs and confidentiality agreements," Gideon countered.

Toto was already nodding. "Having their expertise on-site makes sense. It streamlines the development process and will confirm that we are maximizing the material's potential."

The dismissal was gentle but firm. My concern acknowledged, then redirected into his framework.

"Toto, we would need clear protocols," I tried again. "Decision-making authority, information boundaries—"

“Of course, Sloane,” Toto objected. “We’ll establish the specifications in the contract, but the principle is sound: collaboration accelerates innovation.”

The way he phrased it made any objection feel like resistance. And maybe I was being paranoid. Maybe Christian's words had poisoned my perspective.

But I couldn't shake the feeling that I'd just watched my workspace get negotiated away while being made to feel like it was a good thing.

Gideon leaned forward, sensing the deal was close. "The exclusivity gives you a significant competitive advantage. While Red Bull and Ferrari are working with standard materials, you'll be running lighter, stronger components."

"It could," Toto agreed. "Send me the full proposal—cost breakdown, exclusivity terms, embedded engineer protocols, delivery guarantees. I'll review it with our technical leadership team and get back to you by end of next week."

The meeting wrapped up with handshakes and assurances. Toto stood, walking the CypherCore team to the door. I watched him laugh at something Gideon said, his hand clapping the man's shoulder, drawing him into that inner circle where decisions got made.

The door closed behind them, and Toto turned back to me.

"That went well," he observed.

I gathered my notes, "They're promising significant advantages. If the testing validates their claims, it would be great for next year."

He crossed the room, stopping close enough that I could smell his cologne.

"I should get back to Marcus. The Vegas package needs final validation before we ship it."

His hand found my wrist, his thumb wrapping around it. "Sloane, I can tell something is off."

The touch was known, intimate. A week ago, it would have made my knees weak. Now it felt like something else—a tether, maybe.

He studied my face, and I could see him trying to read what was wrong. But I kept my expression flat.

"I’m fine, Toto, really. But I do need to get back to Marcus," I objected.

Even in his doubt, he let go of my wrist, though the hesitation in his grip told me he hated to.

The hallway felt too bright, too exposed. I kept my pace steady until I reached the engineering bay, where Marcus was still reviewing CFD data.

"How'd it go?" he asked without looking up.

"They'll send samples by September." I explained. "We'll have October and November for testing."

“That’s solid timing.” He glanced at me, his expression shifting as if he sensed something was off. “Did anything else happen in that meeting?”

"Nope," I answered as I was pulling up the wind tunnel schedule on my computer.

Marcus just nodded and turned back to his work.

The meeting shouldn’t have gotten under my skin, but it had.

I'd just watched Toto command that meeting with the kind of certainty that made people stop questioning and start following. And I should've admired it—that control was part of what made him good at his job—but sitting there, watching him absorb my concerns into his broader strategy, I felt like I was disappearing.

My workspace discussed as a resource to be allocated. My expertise acknowledged, then redirected into his plan.

It was logical. Productive. Exactly what a team principal was supposed to do.

I kept telling myself that.

The shifts were small enough to rationalize. He wasn't dismissing me—not outright. He was managing the bigger picture. That's what leaders did. That's what I'd signed up for when I took this job.

But my fingers were tight against my pen, and my chest felt hollow, a sensation I knew well.

I'd lived this at Ferrari: the polite nods in boardrooms, the careful language about "alignment" and "team cohesion" while my designs got quietly absorbed into someone else's presentations or ignored completely. Back then, I'd told myself I could endure it. That if I just kept proving my worth, eventually they'd listen.

Eventually, I'd matter.

Now I was watching it happen again. Different team, different man, same pattern. My questions answered but not addressed. My concerns validated but not acted on.

I wanted to believe Toto was just doing his job. That he didn't see how it looked from where I was sitting.

But I'd wanted to believe that before, too. And wanting something didn't make it real.

I didn't see Toto for the rest of the day.

Part of me was relieved; the other part felt the absence like a bruise.

I shoved the feeling down and focused on the drive home, the well-trod route giving my brain permission to drift. I finally pulled into the driveway, the darkness pressing in on the car, and I was already mentally running through the recipe I'd planned for tonight.

Dad was coming over and I’ve been looking forward to seeing him.

I changed out of my work clothes, traded the blazer and trousers for leggings and an oversized jumper, and got to work in the kitchen. Portobello chicken was his favorite—had been since I was a kid and first learned how to make it. The garlic and thyme filled the air as I seared the chicken, the scent acting like a switch that let the day’s tension drain out of me.

The knock came right on time, and I wiped my hands on a towel before heading to the door. When I opened it, Dad was standing there with that same grin he'd had my whole life—a barely contained smirk that looked like a hiccup of happiness, turning his lips down at the edges as if he were fighting a giggle. It was a ridiculous, specific smile—one I'd realized was strictly reserved for me.

"Hey, kiddo." He pulled me into a hug, the kind that squeezed tight and lasted a beat longer than necessary, and I let myself sink into it.

"Hey, Dad."

He stepped inside, sniffing the air. "Christ, that smells fucking amazing. What'd you make?"

"Your favorite." I shut the door behind him and followed him into the kitchen. "Portobello chicken."

He turned to me, hand over his heart. "I really did raise the best daughter."

I grabbed the plates from the cabinet, shaking my head. "I'm your only daughter."

"Exactly. Best by default." He winked, already eyeing the pan on the stove like he was ready to dive in face-first.

I set the plates on the table, spooning out the chicken and roasted vegetables, the steam rising between us. Dad was mid-sentence, something about a carburetor he'd been working on all week, when another knock sounded at the door.

I froze, plate halfway to the table.

Dad glanced at me. "You expecting someone?"

"No." I set the plate down, frowning. "Can you finish plating? I'll get it."

But Dad was already moving, waving me off. "I got it. You keep working."

I turned back to the stove, ladling more sauce over the chicken, when I heard the door open.

And then my dad's voice, surprised but polite. "Oh. Hello."

My stomach dropped.

I turned just in time to see Toto step into the hallway, his jacket slung over one arm, looking every bit as shameless as if he'd been invited.

"Evening," Toto said, his voice smooth, unbothered. "I hope I'm not interrupting."

Dad looked back at me, eyebrows raised in a silent question.

I stared at Toto, my brain scrambling to catch up. "What are you doing here?"

Toto’s gaze met mine. A trace of reluctance crossed his expression, like a cloud passing over the sun. It vanished in a blink, leaving behind the smooth, polished confidence of a man who always knows his next step.

"I need to discuss the CypherCore situation." He glanced at my dad, then back to me. "But I can come back if this is a bad time."

Dad was still standing there, holding the door, looking between us like he was trying to piece together a puzzle.

I should've told Toto to leave. Should've said this wasn't the time, that he couldn't just show up unannounced and expect me to drop everything.

But the words stuck in my throat.

Because part of me—the part I hated right now—wanted him to stay.

Chapter Text

Toto's gaze slid from me to my dad, then back again. I watched him try to piece it together—the age gap, the lack of resemblance, the way Dad stood there like he was waiting for an explanation. Toto's jaw worked, and for a split second, I saw something past across his face. Confusion. Maybe even a flash of something that looked suspiciously like jealousy.

Which was absurd.

I'd told him how I felt. Made it painfully clear in Monaco and since. But here he was, standing on my doorstep, looking at my father like he was trying to figure out if this was competition.

"Toto, this is my dad," I said, cutting through the silence before it could stretch any further. "Rick Kingsley."

The shift in Toto's expression was immediate. Relief flooded his features, smoothing out the tension in his shoulders, and I hated how obvious it was. How transparent. Like the idea of me with someone else had been eating at him in the thirty seconds since he'd walked through the door.

Dad extended his hand, and Toto shook it, his grip firm. "Rick. Nice to meet you."

"Likewise." Dad's tone was polite, but I caught the way his eyes narrowed just a fraction, assessing. He was good at that—reading people, figuring out what they wanted before they said it. Came with the territory of being a mechanic, I supposed. You learned to spot the bullshit.

"I apologize for intruding," Toto said, his voice dropping into that smooth, diplomatic register he used when he was trying to charm someone. "I'll leave you to your evening."

He turned and was already halfway back out the door.

"Nonsense," Dad called, and I whipped my head around to stare at him. He was smiling, that easy, disarming grin he used when he was being friendly but also making a point. "If the meeting was important enough for you to show up at Sloane's house, it's important enough to discuss over dinner. We've got plenty."

Toto hesitated, his gaze flicking to me. "I don't want to impose."

"It's fine," I said, even though my brain was screaming at me to shut up, to send him away, to not let this happen. But the words were already out, and Dad was already stepping aside, gesturing for Toto to come back in.

Toto crossed the threshold, and I felt the air shift. The kitchen, which had felt safe five minutes ago, now felt like a minefield.

Dad gave me a look—one I knew too well. The kind that said, We're going to talk about this later. I kept my face neutral, turning back to the stove and spooning more chicken onto a third plate like this was normal. Like my boss—my lover—wasn't standing in my kitchen while my father sized him up.

I set the plate on the table, avoiding Toto's eyes. My hands were steady, but my heartbeat hammered in my ears.

This was a disaster waiting to happen.

"Can I help with anything?" Toto asked, his gaze sweeping the kitchen before landing back on me.

I shook my head, gesturing toward the table. "Just sit down."

Dad was already moving toward the fridge, pulling out three beers with the ease of someone who'd done this a thousand times. He cracked two open, the hiss of carbonation cutting through the hush that had settled over the room, and handed one to Toto before setting mine on the table.

"Thanks."

Dad nodded, settling into his chair across from Toto. I slid into mine, fork in hand, trying to ignore the drumbeat of my anxiety.

We ate in silence for a moment—just the scrape of cutlery against plates, the faint hum of the refrigerator in the background. Then Dad cleared his throat.

"What kind of meeting did you two have today?" he asked, leaning back in his chair, beer in hand.

I shook my head, cutting him off before Toto could answer. "Dad, we can't discuss it. It's private."

It wasn't that I didn't trust him—he'd never go around talking about team business. But putting Toto on the spot, here, in my kitchen, with my father watching, felt like a violation of something I couldn't name. A boundary I needed to keep intact.

Dad raised an eyebrow, but before he could respond, Toto spoke.

"It's fine." He set his fork down, his attention shifting to Dad. "We had a meeting with a materials company," he said, cutting into his chicken. "CypherCore. They're developing some interesting composites."

"Yeah? What kind?"

"Carbon-neutral. Lightweight." Toto took a sip of his beer. "According to them, we could drop a significant amount of weight and still keep the car just as strong."

"Carbon-neutral?" Dad let out a low whistle. "That's a hell of a claim. How much weight are we talking?"

"Twenty-eight percent compared to what we're running now."

Dad set his fork down. "Damn. That's not a small adjustment, that is a total overhaul. Where would you even use it?"

"Everywhere, eventually." Toto's voice carried an edge of excitement. "Rear wing, floor, suspension components. If the testing validates their numbers, we could be three, four-tenths faster per lap."

"That's race-winning time," Dad admitted, almost impressed. "But new materials always sound good until they don't. What's the catch?"

Toto smiled, the kind that said he appreciated the skepticism. "The catch is we don't know how it fails yet. That's why we will need to test it to death before we put it anywhere near the car."

"Smart." Dad took another bite, chewing thoughtfully. "I've seen too many teams get burned chasing the next miracle material. Looks great in the lab, falls apart at two hundred miles an hour."

"Exactly." Toto gestured with his fork. "We're not committing to anything until we understand its failure modes. Impact resistance, thermal cycling, sustained loads—all of it."

Dad leaned forward, his interest clearly piqued. "And the FIA's okay with this? They've been tightening up regulations."

"They're pushing sustainability," Toto said. "Teams that get ahead of those regulations will have an advantage. It's not just about being fast anymore—it's about being seen as responsible."

"You're thinking about optics."

"I'm thinking about winning." Toto's smile widened. "But if we can win and look good doing it, that's even better."

Dad laughed, shaking his head. "You really are a businessman."

"I'm a team principal who wants the fastest car on the grid," Toto corrected.

They fell into an easy rhythm after that—Dad asking about manufacturing timelines, Toto explaining the homologation deadlines, both of them talking about Formula One like it was a language they'd been speaking their whole lives. I watched them, my fork halfway to my mouth, feeling like I was observing something I shouldn't be part of.

It was strange. Almost unreal. My father and Toto sitting at my kitchen table, bonding over Formula One like they'd known each other for years.

It was a rare, sincere smile, the type he only let himself show when he truly enjoyed something. And Toto looked relaxed and fond of talking to my father.

Then Toto said it.

"They're also proposing to put some of their engineers on-site with us," he said casually, like it was just another detail. "Work directly with the aero team during development."

Dad's smile faltered.

It was subtle—a slight tightening around his eyes—but I saw it. Watched as his gaze shifted from Toto to me, his expression shifting into something sharper, more focused.

Toto kept talking, oblivious. "It makes sense from an efficiency standpoint. Their engineers understand the material better than anyone. Having them here means we can fix and test things right away, instead of waiting on emails and reports."

Dad set his beer down cautiously. "And what does that mean for Sloane?"

The question landed like a stone dropping into still water.

Toto stopped mid-sentence, his fork pausing halfway to his mouth. He glanced at me, then back at Dad, and I saw the confusion across his face.

"What do you mean?" Toto asked, his voice careful.

"I mean," Dad said, his tone light but edged with something harder, "if you've got their engineers working directly with the aero team, sitting in on meetings, accessing data—what does that mean for her position?"

My face went flat. I stared at my plate, trying to ignore the way Dad's gaze bore into me, trying to pretend I didn't see the worry etched into every line of his expression.

Toto put his fork down, his hands folding on the table. "It doesn't change her position. Sloane is important to our aero team. She'll still be making the critical decisions—"

"But she'll be making them with their engineers in the room," Dad cut him off. "Those are engineers who work for CypherCore, not Mercedes. Those are engineers who have their own priorities, their own agenda. And if they're on-site, they're not just consultants—they're part of the team, which means they'll have a say in what gets designed, what gets tested, and what gets implemented."

Toto bit the inside of his cheek. “It’s a collaboration. Their strength is in materials, ours is in aerodynamics. Combined, they’ll produce better results than either could alone.”

"Maybe," Dad said, his voice flat. "Or maybe their engineers start making decisions that should be hers. Maybe they start taking credit for her work. Maybe she gets sidelined in her own department because someone higher up decided collaboration was more important than protecting her role."

The stillness that followed was suffocating.

I kept my eyes on my plate, my hands gripping my fork so hard my fingers ached. I didn't want to look at Dad, didn't want to see the concern in his eyes. I didn't want to look at Toto, didn't want to see whatever expression he was wearing right now.

Because Dad had just said out loud what I'd been thinking all day.

And I hated that he was right.

I forced myself to look up from my plate, meeting Dad's eyes. The concern there hit me like a fist to the sternum.

"What would your mother think of this?"

My face went cold. The question landed like a slap, and I felt something inside me crack open—raw and bleeding.

"Stop."

The word slipped out sharper than intended, carrying an edge of ire I couldn’t hold back. Dad didn't flinch. He just shook his head, that disappointed look settling over his features like a familiar coat, and turned back to Toto.

He took another sip of beer before setting the bottle down with a soft clink.

"Has Sloane told you about her mother?"

Toto's gaze snapped to me, and I saw the shift in his expression—concern bleeding through the careful neutrality he'd been maintaining all evening. His hand moved across the table, reaching toward mine, before he caught himself. His fingers diverted at the last second, wrapping around his beer bottle instead.

He took a long pull, his eyes never leaving mine, before setting it down and meeting Dad's gaze head-on.

"She has."

One brow lifted in skepticism, forming a questioning arch that made my stomach twist. "Did she also tell you that her mother pushed her to keep working for Ferrari? Even while she was sick?"

Toto's face went hard. The kind of hard that meant he was processing something he didn't like, something that didn't fit with whatever version of the story he'd constructed in his head. Because I hadn't told him that part. Hadn't told him about the phone calls from the hospital, Mum's voice thin and tired but insistent. Don't come home, Sloane. You're where you need to be. You're doing what you're meant to do.

Hadn't told him about the guilt that ate at me every time I stepped into the Ferrari factory, knowing she was hundreds of miles away, dying.

"That's enough." My voice came out low and vicious, a warning shot across the bow. Dad's gaze swung back to me, and I saw the stubbornness settle into his jaw.

"I'm just trying to protect you."

"I don't need protection." The words snapped out before I could stop them, sharp and aggressive. "I can take care of myself. And it's not your place to talk about Mum in front of Toto, who is my boss."

I emphasized the last word, trying to draw a line in the sand, trying to remind him—and maybe myself—of the boundaries that were supposed to exist here.

Dad scoffed. The sound was bitter, laced with disbelief, and it made my blood boil.

"A boss doesn’t show up at an employee’s house late at night just to talk about a meeting."

The implication hung in the air, heavy and accusatory. My hands clenched into fists under the table, my nails digging into my palms hard enough to hurt.

"Rick—" Toto started, his voice calm but firm.

"No." Dad cut him off, his gaze locked on me. "You want to pretend this is just work? Fine. But I'm not blind, Sloane. I see what's happening here." Dad leaned forward, his forearms braced on the table. "You think I don't see the way you look at him? The way he looks at you? You think I don't know what it means when a man shows up at your door at nine o'clock at night, looking like he's got something to say that couldn't wait until tomorrow?"

Toto's jaw tightened, and I saw the muscle jump beneath his skin. He was trying to stay out of it, trying to give me space to handle this, but I could feel the tension radiating off him in waves.

"Rick," Toto said again, his voice harsher this time. "I understand your concern. But Sloane is—"

"My daughter." Dad's voice was steel. "And I've watched her pour everything she has into this sport. Watched her sacrifice her time with her mother because she thought she had to prove something. And now you're sitting here, telling me you're bringing in outside engineers who might push her out of the very role she's been fighting for?"

"That's not what's happening," Toto said, his tone sharpening. "Sloane is irreplaceable. The team knows that. I know that."

"Do you?" Dad's gaze was unrelenting. "Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like you're hedging your bets. Bringing in CypherCore as insurance in case she doesn't deliver."

"That's not—" Toto started, but I slammed my hand on the table, cutting him off.

"Enough!"

Both of them turned to look at me, and I felt the weight of their attention like a physical force. My chest was heaving, my head pounding, and I couldn't sit here anymore. Couldn't listen to Dad pick apart my choices, my life, my relationship with Toto—whatever the hell it was—like he had any right to weigh in.

"Just leave, Dad, please," I asked, my voice flat. "We can talk about this another day. When Toto isn't here."

Dad stared at me, his expression unreadable, and for a long moment, I thought he might refuse. Thought he might dig in, keep pushing, keep dragging everything out into the open until there was nothing left to hide.

But then he nodded.

He pushed back from the table, the scrape of his chair against the floor jarring in the silence. He stood, his movements stiff.

Dad's gaze returned to me one last time, and I saw the hurt there, buried beneath the anger. Saw the fear that I was making a mistake, that I was going to get hurt, that I was going to lose myself in this the way Mum had lost herself in her own battles.

Then he turned and walked out, the front door slamming behind him like a gunshot in the quiet room.

I grabbed Dad's half-finished plate, then mine, balancing them as I crossed to the sink. The clink of ceramic was the only sound between Toto and me. The water ran cold at first, then scalding, and I welcomed the burn against my fingers.

Toto appeared beside me, his presence filling the small kitchen. He didn't speak, just took the plate from my hands—gently, like he was defusing something volatile—and set it in the sink himself.

"You don't have to—"

He turned on the tap, rolled up his sleeves, and started scrubbing.

I stared at him, this man in his expensive trousers and tailored shirt, washing dishes in my kitchen like it was second nature. Like he fit here without even trying.

My throat closed.

I picked up a dish towel, drying the plate he'd rinsed, and the routine of it—this domestic choreography—cracked something open inside me.

"I knew she was dying." The words came out flat, stripped of inflection. "The doctors told us in March. Six months, maybe eight if we were lucky. And I went back to Maranello anyway."

Toto's hands stilled in the water, but he didn't look at me. Just kept washing, giving me space to fill.

"She called me every week. Sometimes twice. And every single time, she'd ask about the car, about the wind tunnel data, about whether Vasseur was finally listening to me." I set the dried plate on the counter, reached for another. "She never asked me to come home. Not once. She'd say, 'You're exactly where you need to be, Sloane. You're doing what I always wanted for you.'"

The next plate came out of Toto's hands, dripping. I caught it, the water soaking into the towel.

"So I stayed. I worked sixteen-hour days. I fought with engineers who wouldn't listen, redesigned components that would never get built, poured everything I had into a team that didn't want me." My voice cracked, and I hated it. "And she got sicker. Dad would send me updates—she's not eating much today, the new medication isn't working, the hospice nurse thinks maybe a few weeks now—and I'd read them between CFD simulations."

Toto's jaw worked, a muscle jumping beneath his skin.

"Monza was supposed to be my last race of the season. I was going to take leave after, spend September with her. But then Ferrari scheduled an emergency test session—some bullshit about correlation issues—and I..." I pressed the towel against my eyes, the terrycloth rough against my skin. "I told myself it was just three more days. That she'd still be there when I got back. That I had time."

The plate in my hands trembled.

"Dad called me in the fabrication bay. I was supervising a layup sequence for a new front wing. I saw his name on my screen and I knew. I knew before I even answered." The words were coming faster now, tumbling over each other. "And you know what I did? I finished the layup. I made sure the composite was curing at the right temperature, documented the process, signed off on the quality check. And then I went outside and called him back."

Toto turned off the water.

"She'd been gone for forty-three minutes. Forty-three minutes I spent making sure Ferrari's fucking front wing was perfect." My laugh came out broken. "Dad was alone with her. He held her hand while she died because I was choosing carbon fibre over my own mother."

"Sloane—"

"Toto, please." I shook my head violently. "Don't tell me it's not my fault. Don't tell me she wouldn't have wanted me to drop everything. Because I know that. I know she told me to stay. But that doesn't change the fact that I did. That when it mattered most, I picked this sport over her."

Toto's hands were still in the sink, gripping the edge like he needed something to hold onto.

"And the worst part?" My voice dropped to something raw, scraped clean. "I can't stop. I can't stop working like if I just find the next tenth of a second, if I just solve the next impossible problem, if I just prove that I'm good enough—then maybe it'll mean something. Maybe it'll justify why I wasn't there. Why I chose this."

The dish towel fell from my hands.

"But it doesn't. It never does, because no matter how many races we win or how many podiums," my breath faltered. "She's still gone. And I still wasn't there."

The quietness that followed felt like drowning.

Toto picked up the towel and dried his hands on it. Then he turned to face me fully, and the look in his eyes—understanding, grief, and recognition—nearly undid me.

He reached out, his fingers wrapping around my wrist. Not pulling, just holding. Waiting.

And then I was against his chest, his arms coming around me with a certainty that felt like gravity. He didn't say anything. Didn't offer platitudes or reassurances or try to fix what couldn't be fixed.

He just held me.

I pressed my face against his shirt. His hand came up to cradle the back of my head, fingers threading through my hair, and I felt his chin rest against my temple.

The embrace was solid. Grounding. The kind of thing I could break apart against and know it would hold.

And it hurt. So damn much. I knew—even as I let myself sink into him, even as his arms tightened around me like he could hold all my fractured pieces together—that this was temporary. That Christian's words were still there, waiting in the margins. That CypherCore could replace me next year. That my father's worry and my mother's ghost and my own desperate need to matter were all tangled up in this man who held me like I was something precious while potentially building his legacy on my invisible labour.

You're building someone else's comeback story.

A boss doesn't show up late at night to his employee's house.

You're doing what I always wanted for you.

The voices crashed together in my head—Christian's manipulation, Dad's protective fury, Mum's dying encouragement—and I couldn't tell anymore which ones were trying to save me and which ones were trying to claim me.

Toto's hand moved in slow circles against my back, and I felt his breath against my hair.

He held me tighter, and I let him.

Right now, this was what I needed.

Even if it was the thing that would hurt me most.