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It was peaceful a few hours ago, just the calm breeze on the waves gently lapping at his yacht. The scenic sunset in the background, the coastal views.
And yet...
Now there is a storm brewing, the waves are now gently battering instead of lapping, the sun had set long ago and draped them in darkness. A perfect starry sky. The stars that shined like the Mercedes logo.
As Max Verstappen sits across from Toto Wolff.
Toto's yacht had never seen such a guest. But they sit opposite each other, at a table by the bar. Toto had a whiskey glass in hand that he drank from - small calculative sips.
And Max as if taunting him had requested a Redbull and Vodka.
The blonde man was dressed smartly for once, no denim jeans, no Redbull shirt. It was unsettling. It was nothing like the Redbull Max. That grey almost silver linen shirt, perfect for the hot weather even at this time, black trousers, and a black lined blazer to match them. A mockery of the Mercedes colors or funeral attire. A hint at the death of his old persona? The black suit was certainly a choice.
The man sits proud against the soft cushions of the expensive chair, leaning against the ebony wooden table.
Nothing like the slouchy - 'I hate to make public appearance and manners', Max.
No, this was a different Max. A new Max.
His eyes are swirling, a storm brews. But at the same time they look shiny and cold like ice.
The blonde hair had been carefully styled - had Kelly done that? Did Kelly even know?
But he stared at Toto who for once was dressed down. Still smart casually but not a full suit. Merely a white cotton, button up shirt and some loose trousers - pants even. But then again it was Toto's yacht.
Max had said it so calmly so final that Toto thought he had imagined it: "I will race for Mercedes next season" Not want, not wish to but 'will. Like the ink had already dried on the contract.
He had been shocked but it was rather at the choice of words, he knew Max wanted to leave RedBull. Everyone could see it, the team was crumbling apart at the seams, falling faster than a cent thrown off the side of a skyscraper.
Not even Max with his talent and driving could save that sinking ship. But perhaps Max wanted to leave to save himself as when had Max cared for others?
What Toto had similarly not expected was Max to give the choice to Toto.
Whether to sign him or not.
Maybe it was his ego, his cockiness. That knew Toto would sign him, that it was a loosing battle to argue. As the negotiations of the actual contract will come later and through their teams. This was merely a pleasantry or even the first step.
Toto was pleased of course. He had wanted this. Wanted this since Lewis left - maybe even before. But he had not expected the man to be so upfront. Then again, it was his style.
"I am very glad you think so" - The power had to remain with him. As though Toto was unsure of his decision.
"I will race the next season with George" Max stated, calm, too calm. Like he isn't proposing to race with the man he supposedly hates - 'I'd bash your head against a wall'. Wasn't that what George claimed that Max had told him? The man that adored Kimi like a mentor and father. The only person he hadn't exploded and began to bash them for crashing into him. He was so sure that it would be George leaving - not Kimi, never the new rookie.
Toto was in shock for a couple of seconds. He blinked. Caught off guard. "George?" he repeated, tried to not sound meek. His previous statement now useless. The power had clearly shifted to Max. Max was the one making the demands.
"Yes" came the reply. "I want to race against and with George." Never wish, never the diplomatic answer that his other drivers gave, because Max was blunt, Max just states. And Max wants.
Toto nodded. Not trusting words, and picked up his whiskey to finish off.
"Will there be other requirements?" The brunette asks, knowing it was not so simple. Knowing that even 102 million would not appease Max. You can not throw money at a storm or a lion and expect it to spare you.
"Yes, after I sign the contract of course".
"Of course" Toto parroted.
Then Max picks up his glass, that atrocious RedBull and Vodka. And sips. Sips like a cat that's got the mouse.
He sips, content, then lowers the glass, now half full. Places it on the table, stares at it. And gazes at Toto. "It was never about the seat, it was never about the team, it was about power." comes the cold and icy statement.
And Toto's breath stutters, because it all made sense now. Why Horner had been fired so unceremoniously, why Max had done those things, the curse of the second seat and now George. He wanted that pure power that comes with sheer adrenaline - where you feel unstoppable.
Max knew he had every card, he knew he could make anyone and anything move for him. Forget moving mountains, the world would move for Max if he asked, steer itself away from the sun's orbit just as he had done. Redbull's second golden boy. The sunshine, the bright boy that Toto had failed to sign those years ago, had turned to darkness, to the storm - there is a crack from outside. Thunder.
102 million. That was the number. The definitive number that would make history, rebreak a record set just the previous year. Because Max has to one up everyone, has to have those records. He can't be beaten by Lewis Hamilton, even saying the name makes his heart clench - is this how Nico felt after that season?
Max stares across from him, smirk in place, fingers laced and placed on the table top on Toto's yacht, acting at home but giving Toto the illusion of choice, of being in charge. Acting like this is Toto's choice.
It was not. It had never been his choice. Not then, not now.
The Verstappen name hang over him like a dark cloud - a storm cloud.
The father had been first, shoving the boy in that F1 car, eyes hardened and tense. It was the first and last time Max Verstappen had sat in a Mercedes. Toto had been honest with them, but mostly Max. The father wanted Max in Mercedes - "they're winning championships boy, the team that Michael raced in, the team that has Hamilton - the replacement" even then it had been a slap in the face. Toto's blood pumps harder.
And now it is the son, the son who had chosen Redbull, the son who had chosen Christian Horner over Toto Wolff, because Toto had been too practical, too business like. While Horner, Horner had been like a father, a true father, nothing like Verstappen Snr. He had been all smiles, all nice, all - "we'll make you a true World Champion Max, just like Seb." And the boy starving for affection for a true father figure had chosen Redbull, had fought his father, had challenged him.
But in the end Toto knows it wasn't even a fight. Max had no choice and neither did the father.
As in the end Toto had told them - "You're too young Max, maybe in a couple of years, when you've gotten control" had sugar coated his crazy driving, it was unpredictable, uncontrolled. 'Mad Max'.
Now, Max sits, calm, collected, in control and with all the power. A startling contrast in just 5 simple years. Toto almost wants to laugh manically.
Even when Max had snatched that title in Abu Dhabi - had given Toto his first sense of true loss after the streak of wins, of invincibility. Jos had always been there in the corner - waiting.
He knew that Redbull was on borrowed time, he knew the insides of that team, knew that Christian had cemented himself a slowly crumbling dictatorship. Held together by those loose wins and podiums.
"Checo's been saying the car is fucked"
It had been an omen, one that Christian ignored.
Because Max would not want scraps, the lion would not chew on bones when it could go out and kill.
Christian had thought he had shaped the boy, made him unquestionably loyal to himself. But Max was only loyal to Christian's power.
Christian being willing to do anything to keep Max.
The car made only for him, the missed Media meetings, the salary, the filed FIA penalties for all those other drivers.
And then that power had crumbled - the sexual harassment case that proved Horner was not invincible, then the horrid season, the driver changes, half the team leaving.
It was the final nail in the coffin, Max was no cub anymore, he was a lion. Toto's breathing becomes audible. As he takes in a sharp breath.
Christian's promises weren't enough, the affection nor the history.
Just like Lewis had left.
And now here sits his arch rival.
The parallel was too haunting.
They had sat down exactly like this, in the old English cottage by Oxford, where only the sheep can hear your secrets, sprawling green fields and centuries of history.
History that had crumbled - just like him and Lewis.
Yet there was the new history that was being made on top of the old.
And Max is - could be that new history.
All Toto has to do is say 'yes'.
'Yes Max, we will be glad to have you on the team'
But now, now. Toto knows that Max will not just be 'on the team' but 'be the team'. Like Lewis had been. Lewis was Mercedes.
And now Max wants to what? Replace him? Or to show that he could do what Lewis couldn't. Max to Mercedes or Mercedes to Max?
He wants George. George to stay and race with him - alongside him. Because kicking him out of the team would be too easy. Having Antonelli as his teammate would prove nothing. Kimi was still a rookie.
Max Verstappen winning against an 18 year old is patronising. But perhaps Max was scared of being the other driver. What if he was being beaten by that 18 year old? His power and uncrushable image - shattered.
Mark Webber and Sebastian Vettel.
Winning against George would be killing two birds with one stone, making Russell the second driver (unofficially of course) and putting his newest rival in his place.
It would no doubt be a Nico-Lewis situation. But Toto had survived that.
He could handle a Russel-Verstappen.
They did not have that shared trauma and childhood friendship that had etched itself into their bones, that co-dependency.
Toto stared at Max Verstappen again. It had most certainly been a minute, maybe two since any of them had uttered any words. But the silence speaks for itself, the storm still rumbling on in the background, the yacht starting to slowly sway.
Because in the end it was not a choice.
He had spent years trying to resign Max after he witnessed what he could do - it was the one good thing Horner ever did, putting a 17 year old Max in his car.
Toto had expected Max to take joy in having the grand Mr Wolff, practically plead to get the Lion on his team. But instead the Lion had come, had stalked into his territory and had made an unmistakable claim.
He wants to sign, Max wants to move to Mercedes - needs to.
Needs to prove to the world that even RedBull firing their Team Principle of 20 years merely to keep him appeased, to try to get him to reconsider to stay, was all for naught.
The storm rages on after all.
It does not stay in one place.
And besides, what chance did a Wolf have against a Lion?
A Wolf has much better chances with a storm. It works with it, not against it.
Perhaps it is time. Perhaps this is Toto's true revenge.
They do say that good things come to those who wait.
Nico Hulkenberg had waited 15 years for a podium.
Toto just had to wait 5 years for Max Vertsappen.
For the light to fade, for the cub to grow, become a lion and then a raging storm.
The same storm that rages on outside, the same storm that lingers in his eyes, the same storm that he is on track.
Yes.
Horner is gone, Lewis had left, Kimi will be reassigned and Max will be.
That chance to not rewrite but create history.
Mercedes Max - MM. The start of a new millennia - 2000. A perfect abbreviation. MMV - 2005. The same year that Horner became team principle. Ironic.
But perfect irony and tragedy make the best drivers. Make the best everything.
And Max was both.
Yes, Toto never had a choice.
The choice was always written in the stars. In those Mercedes stars that haunt him everyday.
Max was always destined for Mercedes.
Thunder cracks and the yacht sways. The storm approves. And sips the Redbull and Vodka.