"You could have trusted me." There's a hint of hurt in her voice.
"We didn't know each other well at first. And my contract was just for one year." I remember those early days, the desperation, the knowledge that this was my one and only chance. "I'd literally begged you for a seat, Vi. Trauma-dumping didn't seem like the best way to make a good impression."
"It wouldn't have been a burden," she says firmly. "Sure, you were an ass at the start, but mental health is serious, William. I would never hold that against you."
The sincerity in her voice makes my throat tight. "I know that now. I should have trusted you sooner. I'm sorry."
She shakes her head, that familiar determination hardening her features. "Don't apologize. Just promise me you'll be honest from now on. If you feel an attack coming, if the anxiety gets bad, the nightmares take over… I want to help. I want to support you."
"Violet, I—" Tears threaten to spill out; I blink fast, but she’s staring deep at me.
"Cry it all out if you need," she interrupts gently, one hand stroking the nape of my neck. "Everything you have. Every tear, every fear, every moment of terror from that tunnel. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere.”
I collapse against her completely, sobbing with abandon. For long minutes, I sob, letting all the frustration and pain spill out. I’m baring my soul, and she’s… accepting me.
"Thank you," I whisper, overwhelmed by all of this. Then, because I can't help myself: "What happens now? With the team, I mean. Now that you know I'm damaged goods."
Violet's eyes flash dangerously. "You arenotdamaged goods. You're a beautiful, caring, gentle soul. And as for the team..." She pauses, considering. "I'm going to hire someone. Create a mental health department at Colton Racing HQ."
"Really?"
She nods. "Felix struggled with mild depression earlier this season—you mentioned it before I hired him as our reserve. EJ doubted himself in the pre-season. Now you're telling me about your PTSD and anxiety. I want my drivers—all my team members—to feel good physically and mentally." Her voice grows passionate, intense. "F1 is emotionally draining. Thestakes are impossibly high. Bad outcomes can include death. I want everyone at Colton Racing to know they can seek help without shame. They're valuable as professionals, yes, but as people first."
I stare at her, amazed. "You keep impressing me, Vi."
She shrugs, but it's obvious how much this means to her. "It's nothing special. I just want people to feel worthy, safe, loved, seen." Her expression softens. "I… sought therapy myself after my parents died. Couldn’t take it, especially with all the pressure around me in my previous job. I know how valuable it can be."
"I'm not perfect." I feel compelled to warn her, as if she might have missed this fact despite my extensive confessions.
"I don't care." She leans forward, her face inches from mine. "I don't want perfect. I want you. Flaws and all."
She kisses me then, soft and sweet, and I get the sense I’m floating. When she pulls back, there’s something new in her eyes—not just affection or desire, but understanding. Complete acceptance.
"You're stuck with me now, Foster," she says, her thumb tracing the edge of my bandage. "Concussion, PTSD, ridiculous raccoon eyes and all."
I laugh, the sound bubbling up from a place that feels lighter than it has in years. "Terrible news. How will I cope?"
"I have a few ideas," she murmurs, settling carefully beside me on the bed, placing her head in the hollow of my shoulder. "For when you’re discharged."
And for the first time since the crash—maybe for the first time in years—the voices in my head are completely, blissfully silent.
Chapter 37
Taking care of you
William
The afternoon sun filters through the floor-to-ceiling windows in my farmhouse, casting long rectangles of golden light across my living room floor. I adjust a throw pillow for what must be the tenth time in an hour, then step back to survey the room. Everything looks perfect—or as perfect as I can make it with only one fully functional hand. The other, my right one, still wrapped in a lighter cast than before, throbs dully when I move it too quickly. Three weeks since hospital discharge, and I'm counting each small victory: showering alone, buttoning my own shirts, and today, preparing my home for Violet's week-long stay.
I flex the fingers of my right hand carefully, testing their limited range. The doctors say I'm making excellent progress; the pins are holding everything in place, and the bones are knitting well. Still, it'll be another four weeks before I can move it comfortably—almost a year until I'm fully recovered. For a man whose life revolves around split-second control ofmachinery, this glacial healing pace is maddening. But I'm alive. After Monaco, that's not a small thing.
My parents flew in from Australia the day after I returned home, hovering anxiously for a week before I convinced them I wasn't about to drop dead the moment they left. My Dad helped clean the gutters while my Mom filled my freezer with enough casseroles and mangoes to survive an apocalypse. James stopped by almost daily that first week, bringing updates from the paddock that he tried—and failed—to make sound casual rather than carefully curated to avoid upsetting me. EJ and Felix visited during the break between Austria and Silverstone, their awkward concern touching in its sincerity.
But it's been Violet—coming and going between her London penthouse and my countryside home on the outskirts—who's kept me sane. And now she's staying for a full week.
My house isn't huge—a renovated farmhouse with exposed beams and wide-plank floors—but it's mine. Every corner reflects something I love: racing memorabilia alongside my trophies, a comfy couch facing the fireplace, and a TV. The small karting track out back is visible through the floor-to-ceiling windows in the kitchen and living room, currently unused but waiting for the day I can drive again.
I move to the kitchen, opening the refrigerator with my good hand. Fresh vegetables, imported cheeses, the expensive coffee Violet pretends not to prefer but always chooses when given options. I've planned meals I can prepare one-handed, simple things that won't highlight my current limitations but will still impress her. Not that she needs impressing—she's seen me at my absolute worst now, concussed and broken in a hospital bed, sobbing against her shoulder as I confessed my deepest fears.
