A Calculated Risk (Toto Wolff)

The Budget War

I had worked at Mercedes for three years.

Three years of race weekends, emergency meetings, sponsorship calls, cost reports, and surviving on coffee that tasted like burnt disappointment.

Three years of watching people panic over numbers.

Three years of dealing with Toto Wolff.

Which meant I knew two things for certain:

One, Formula 1 never slept.

Two, Toto always found a way to irritate me before 9 a.m.

Today was my first day as Managerial Economist.

Officially.

After weeks of meetings, interviews, paperwork, and enough internal evaluations to make me question every life choice I'd ever made, I'd gotten the promotion.

I should've been excited.

I was excited.

Mostly.

Underneath that excitement was the horrifying realization that my new position meant more executive meetings.

And more executive meetings meant more Toto.

Fantastic.

I walked through the Mercedes building with my laptop under one arm and coffee in my hand.

"Victoria!"

I looked over.

James from finance smiled at me.

"Morning. Big day."

I sighed dramatically.

"I'd rather jump into traffic."

He laughed.

"Nervous?"

"No."

I paused.

"...Yes."

"You're going to be fine."

"I know."

"You've been here three years."

"I know."

"You already know everyone."

"I know."

"Then why do you look stressed?"

I stared at him.

"Because Toto is leading the budget meeting."

His face immediately changed.

"Oh."

"Exactly."

"Good luck."

"Wonderful. Even you sound worried."

He gave me a sympathetic smile.

Then walked away.

Traitor.

I continued toward the conference room.

As soon as I reached the glass doors, I stopped.

Because through the windows, I could already see him.

Of course.

Of course he was already here.

Toto stood beside the screen at the front of the room speaking with two executives, sleeves rolled slightly under his suit jacket, reports in his hand.

Focused.

Serious.

Annoyingly composed.

I narrowed my eyes.