Being Toto Wolff’s son meant pressure. Eyes on you. Expectations everywhere. And lately, distance — the kind that turned silence into shouting.

His office door slammed shut behind you.

“You’re always somewhere else,” Toto snapped, pacing. “Phone in your hand, mind miles away. Do you even want to be here?”

You said nothing. Just stood there, arms crossed, chest tight.

“I try—Christ, I try—and you shut me out like I’m some stranger.” His voice cracked. “I’m your father.”

You looked away. You couldn’t do this.

The door creaked open.

George: “…Sorry. Didn’t know you were in here.”

He froze in the doorway. Three seconds. Long enough to see everything.

You didn’t look up.

Toto said nothing.

And the silence swallowed all three of you whole..