"Violet—"
"No." My voice is steady now, determined. "This is not a matter of being emotional about one point. He's been terrorizing us for months. Leaking photos. Manipulating the media. And now this? There's a line, Blake. He’s not tiptoeing, he fucking crossed it and has been taunting us since."
Belforte steps forward, gently examining my bloodied knuckles. "These need cleaning," he says, deliberately changing the subject. "And you need to sit down before you fall down."
He's right. The adrenaline has completely drained from my system, leaving me shaky and weak. I ran like a maniac wearing high heels. The cuts on my arms and hands throb in time with my heartbeat. My head pounds with the beginning of what promises to be a spectacular migraine.
"I messed up," I admit quietly.
"No," Belforte says, surprising me. "You showed that bastard that actions have consequences. That's valuable." He pauses. "Expensive, potentially career-damaging, but valuable."
Despite everything, a small laugh escapes me, quickly transforming into a sob. "What am I going to do?"
"First," Blake says pragmatically, "we get your hands cleaned up. Then we face whatever comes next. Together."
The FIA's conference room resembles a courtroom—sterile and judgmental. I sit straight-backed in an uncomfortable chair, facing three stewards whose expressions give nothing away.My knuckles throb beneath hastily applied bandages, blood already seeping through the white gauze. Across the table sits Dominic, his face a masterpiece of calculated victimhood—split lip prominently displayed, handkerchief occasionally dabbing at the crusted blood around his nose. He's playing his role perfectly. Poor, innocent Team Principal, viciously attacked by an unstable woman. The irony would be laughable if the stakes weren't so high. The only thing missing is the wheelchair, and he’ll have the "rich criminal is not guilty" starter kit ready.
"Ms. Colton, do you deny physically assaulting Mr. Harrington?" The chief steward's tone is clipped, formal.
"I do not." My voice is steady despite the fury still simmering beneath my skin.
"And do you have an explanation for this behavior, which violates numerous FIA codes of conduct regarding sportsmanship and appropriate paddock behavior?"
Dominic's eyes meet mine across the table, a smirk playing at the edges of his damaged lips. He thinks he's won. Maybe he has.
"I believe Mr. Harrington tampered with William Foster's car, resulting in the crash that nearly killed my driver." The accusation hangs in the air, bold and dangerous.
The stewards exchange glances.
"I saw him laughing while replaying footage of a crash that could have been fatal," I continue, cutting through the objection. "After months of harassment, threats, and undermining tactics against our team, this was a step too far."
"Do you have evidence of this tampering?" the female steward asks, her tone neutral but her eyes sharp.
"Not yet," I admit. "But the timing—"
"Then these are merely allegations," the chief steward interrupts. "Serious ones that would require their own investigation, but allegations nonetheless. They do not justify physical violence."
Dominic shifts, wincing theatrically. "If I may," he says, voice carefully modulated to sound pained. "I understand Ms. Colton is distressed about her driver's accident.We all are.Safety is paramount in our sport. But her behavior was not only unprofessional—it was dangerous. She attacked me without warning, through a glass door." He touches his face gingerly. "I could have been seriously injured."
The hypocrisy nearly chokes me. I grip the edge of the table, knuckles screaming in protest.
"We cannot condone violence in any form," the chief steward says, looking directly at me. "Regardless of provocation or emotional distress."
I already know what's coming. Can see it in their expressions, in the way they've arranged their papers, in Dominic's barely contained satisfaction.
Blake and Belforte wait outside, their expressions telling me they already know the verdict. Blake reaches for my arm; a gesture of solidarity that nearly breaks the composure I'm desperately maintaining.
The door opens behind me. Dominic passes close enough that I catch the scent of his cologne, mingled with antiseptic from his treated wounds. He pauses, gaze sliding to mine.
"Such a shame about your driver," he says, voice dripping with false sympathy. "And now you can't even support him trackside. How...unfortunate."
Belforte steps forward, blocking Dominic's path. He leans in close, speaking rapid Italian that I can't follow completely. But the tone needs no translation—it's a pure, elegant threat,delivered with the casual confidence of a man who knows exactly how to back it up. Dominic's face pales slightly beneath his bruises.
Without waiting for a response, Belforte turns, taking my arm firmly. "We're leaving," he says, guiding me away.
"What was the verdict?" Blake asks as he slides next to me.
"I'm suspended from paddock attendance for six races, effective immediately. Colton Racing will be fined two hundred thousand euros. We can’t appeal any of it," I say as I avoid his gaze.
