Chapter Text
George Russell prided himself on being flawless. Crisp tailoring, sharp cheekbones carved by God Himself, and a collection of scarves that could rival a Paris runway—all carefully curated. And yet, there he was, sitting in the glass-walled office of The Ton’s Publishing Start-up, with a stack of papers that made him feel like the most tragic character in a Victorian novel.
His team just informed him about the new purchasing feature the Tech Department incorporated into their apps. They claimed this particular feature would solve their issues and open doors for various purchasing options, hence generating more revenue for the company. He was deep into a drafted proposal for the campaign when the glass door to his office was pushed open by none other than Oscar Piastri.
“George,” Oscar said, in that maddeningly calm tone of his, “you’ve got a tax breach.”
George blinked. “I’ve got what?”
Oscar’s lips pressed into a thin line while he held up a brown file, like this were nothing more than a minor scheduling mishap. “A breach. You’ve been underpaying for the last fiscal year. Due to… creative accounting by our previous finance manager, who, if I may remind you, hated your guts.”
George scoffed, running his hand through his curls before accepting the file from Oscar. “He hated everyone’s guts.”
“Yes, but yours specifically,” Oscar countered smoothly. “The point is, HMRC has noticed. You owe them fifty thousand pounds.”
George’s eyebrow shot up at the information, his blue eyes boring into Oscar’s calming brown ones as if searching for humour. He knew Oscar would be the last one to joke about this.
“Are you taking the piss?” George asked, still, just to make sure.
“Nope, and it’s effective immediately,” Oscar explained. “And, unless you fix your situation, the same fine applies next year.”
George stared at the neat, damning line of numbers on the page. Then back at Oscar. Then down again. “This is… illegal. Offensive. Traitorous, even. I—I paid taxes like a normal citizen.”
“You didn’t,” Oscar retorted.
“I did!”
“You didn’t,” Oscar repeated, this time with the grim patience of a man who had already mentally written his resignation letter. His reaction was understandable, considering the amount of wreckage he had to patch up after Lewis fired their last finance manager, Ethan, that repulsive git.
George stood from his ergonomically perfect chair, “I will look at it and tell you how I’d like to proceed with this.”
“Good, let me know if you need any assistance,” Oscar offered. He looked a little sympathetic.
After Oscar left, George sighed, releasing a breath he didn’t know he was holding. He was clutching the papers like a letter of execution, and stormed into the nearest bathroom stall on that floor. He pulled out his phone and texted furiously.
George Russell: Alex, they’re trying to murder me via paperwork. Fifty thousand pounds. FIFTY. THOUSAND.
The typing bubbles popped up immediately.
Alex Albon: What did you do this time?
George could not do it through text, so he called his best friend.
“The government is onto my arse.”
“Jesus, George! I told you your tax bill was dodgy,” Alex sounded exasperated, probably supervising the junior chefs.
“Ethan—that atrocious stinkpot—cleared me when I asked him about the reduction in my payment,” George spat angrily.
“I think you can pay them, just fine,” Alex said.
He rolled his eyes. “Yeah, by emptying my savings, probably selling some of my precious scarves and chinos.”
“Let’s discuss this at home, yeah? A Japanese fry chef is sulking,” Alex informed.
“Yuki is a fry chef?” George asked, distracted.
Alex sounded dejected. “Yeah, he got into a fight with another fish chef, and there were profanities thrown; they punished him at the fry kitchen.”
“Sounds awful.”
“You tell me, talk to you later, mate.”
“Yeah, sure.”
George groaned theatrically, letting his head thunk against the bathroom door. He was a marketing manager, not some criminal mastermind. He was no stranger to numbers, but this, the finance team was responsible for. Ethan sabotaged him. He wanted to work on ideas, not subtraction. He should’ve been in a strategy meeting right now, dazzling Lewis with his campaign for the autumn release. Instead, his career was dangling by a thread, strangled by a tax bill in a brown envelope.
The door to the bathroom creaked open. Kimi Antonelli, his wide-eyed intern, was holding a gorgeous-looking green drink and a fruity one.
“Um, I heard about the tax. Are you okay?”
George peeked under his long lashes. “Do I look okay, Andrea?”
Kimi shrugged. “No. But I brought an oat milk matcha latte, they use new ceremonial grade one.”
George snatched the cup with a groan. Kimi slipped into the bathroom, eyeing his supervisor, taking an unusually large gulp of matcha latte.
“This latte can’t save me now, but this should dull my rage,” George hissed. “They’ll take my flat, my clothes, my dignity. I’ll have to live under a bridge, styling rats for a living.”
Kimi winced at his words and tilted his head, curls unkempt. “You could… find a partner? That helps with taxes sometimes. Household deductions, split liability.”
George blinked at him. “What is this? Tinder for the fiscally doomed?”
The younger sipped his fruity drink and shrugged again. “Could work.”
George was about to laugh the idea off when the bathroom door opened again. This time, Lewis Hamilton himself stepped in—CEO, boss, and the only man on earth who could wear a three-piece suit with trainers and look like royalty.
“George,” Lewis said with that silky voice of quiet authority. “Oscar briefed me. Handle this quietly. Don’t let it affect your campaigns.”
“Lovely, Oscar is very quick,” George murmured, then straightened his suit. “Yes, of course, handled. I’m always… handling.”
Lewis gave him a long, sceptical look before leaving. George slumped back against the stall wall. His career was on the line, his dignity hanging by a thread, and his whimsical intern thought marriage was the answer. Absolutely ridiculous. George knew that he couldn’t afford a distraction with their campaign approaching. So, he made Kimi read through the drafted proposal and make it look “presentable and classy” while he nursed the excruciating pain in his temple.
Later, in the afternoon, almost 5 PM, Oscar poked his head again into his office, shiny tablet in hand and said, “You know, Verstappen has similar tax problems. You might—hypothetically—benefit from combining…”
George nearly choked on the last gulp of his latte. He knew what Oscar was implying. “You mean Max Verstappen? That Max Verstappen? The emotionally constipated robot who eats ready meals and talks about server crashes like they’re in Shakespeare?”
Oscar’s mouth twitched. George could be wrong, but there was a slight amusement there.
“He also happens to have the right paperwork despite being a foreigner like me. And a need.”
From the corner of his eyes, he caught Kimi’s head turned in his direction, brown eyes sparkling with hope. Unbelievable.
George laughed, sharp and shrill. “Absolutely not, I’m not even friends with that guy. I will talk to my flat-mate, we’ll figure this out.”
Kimi’s shoulders visibly dropped at his refusal, his lips jutted like a kicked puppy. What was his problem?
Oscar carefully made his way into George’s desk. There was an unusually suspicious expression on his face.
“So, I was thinking that Max could use the benefit of joint income tax with a citizen, since you know, he is Dutch, and you could use that partnership to annul the fine,” Oscar resumed. “Hitting two birds with one stone.”
“God, you are practically Ethan but in the non-evil-scheming way,” George muttered while massaging his temple. “Honestly, I would rather die single, bankrupt, and buried in silk rather than dealing with guys from the Tech Department."
“Just think about it, and let me know your decision,” Oscar insisted.
He nodded and threw looks like daggers at Kimi, who looked unreasonably elated with whatever madness Oscar was saying.
By 6 PM, George walked down the Canary Wharf underground station, joining the buzz of other office workers. Alex texted him, apologising that he’d be late and would bring tempura for George. He typed a quick ‘thanks’ before completely losing connection inside the tube. The short 5-minute ride to Bermondsey felt like forever, and the loud sound of the Jubilee Line carriage just added to his stress. He’d need a proper bath, chamomile tea, and probably a change of his silk bedsheets.
That night, in the silence of his compact but comfortable flat—Alex still out doing God-know what—the fifty thousand pounds fine echoed in his brain like a death knell. And his coconut-scented lotion did very little to calm him down. He sighed, staring at his ceiling, maybe, just maybe, Kimi and Oscar were onto something.