Roads of Redemption | F1 | Toto Wolff

7.2. | Rush.

She's exactly as described.

She's there, standing in the center as I step inside, her dark eyes watching me. I close the door behind me, the click of the lock echoing in the quiet space.

She's beautiful—too beautiful. Dark hair that spills down her back in waves, deep brown eyes framed by long lashes, lips painted the color of blood. She resembles her. The one I can't forget. The one who haunts me. My chest tightens as I take her in, the resemblance unnerving.

But she's not her. I remind myself of that as I walk toward her.

As I get closer, I notice the subtle differences—the slight curve of her lips, the shape of her nose. They aren't the same. But she was chosen to resemble her, to play this role because of the way she looks, because someone thought this would help me forget.

They were wrong.

I stepped closer, so close that I could feel the warmth of her body. She smelled faintly of vanilla and something else—maybe jasmine. It was intoxicating, a scent that tried to pull me in, tried to make me forget why I was really here. I wouldn't let it.

I take the seat across from her, setting the papers aside. I don't need to look at them—they're just the standard agreement, listing limits, safe words, expectations. What matters is the conversation we're about to have.

"Look at me," I ordered, my tone sharp enough to slice through the air. She obeyed, her gaze lifting to meet mine. For a brief second, my breath caught in my throat. Those eyes... they were almost hers. Almost.

But not quite.

"Take a seat," I say, gesturing to the chair opposite me. She sits down, her movements graceful, controlled. She's calm, collected, but I can see the way her fingers tap lightly on her thigh—a sign of anticipation, maybe even nervousness.

"Kätzchen," I begin, using the impersonal nickname that I've chosen for her, "we both know why we're here. But before anything happens, we need to talk."

She nods, her expression serious. "Yes, Sir."

"You've been briefed, I assume. You know my preferences, my style." My tone is steady, authoritative, but not unkind. I need to be clear, to make sure she understands exactly what I'm expecting.

"Yes, Sir. I understand your expectations." Her voice is soft, but there's a strength in it, a resolve. "I've read your list, and I agree to everything."

"Good." I lean back slightly, studying her. "But I want to hear it from you. What are your hard limits? What won't you do?"

She hesitates for a moment, gathering her thoughts. "No permanent marks, no extreme degradation, no blood," she says, her voice steady. "And my safe word is 'Eis'."

"Eis," I repeat, letting the word hang in the air for a moment. It's fitting—cold, sharp, and capable of stopping everything instantly. "And what are you looking for tonight? What do you need?"

She takes a deep breath before answering, her gaze steady on mine. "I need to feel controlled, to let go completely. I want to be pushed, Sir, but within the boundaries we've discussed. I trust you."

The words are simple, but they carry weight. Trust is the cornerstone of everything we're about to do, and hearing it from her—hearing her give that trust to me—ignites something inside.

"I'm going to push you, Kätzchen," I say, my voice low and firm. "I'm going to take you to your limits, but I'll keep you safe. If you use your safe word, everything stops immediately. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Sir," she replies without hesitation. There's a flicker of something in her eyes—anticipation, perhaps? Or is it fear? Either way, it's exactly what I need.