"Seriously? After everything he's done?" My blood pressure spikes at the sheer audacity. "What did he want?"
Violet slips out of her blazer, draping it carefully over the back of a nearby chair before answering. "A public apology, which I gracefully refused." The defiant tilt of her chin tells me exactly how that conversation went. "And then, when that didn't work, he rather furiously demanded money."
"How much?" I ask, already dreading the answer.
"Half a million euros."
"Jesus Christ." I rake my hand through my hair, frustration bubbling up. "Please tell me you told him where to shove that demand."
"I was tempted." Violet's expression turns rueful. "But my lawyer advised settling. The evidence against me is... Well, let's just say there were about fifty witnesses and multiple videos of me barreling into him and throwing the first punch. If it went to court, I'd likely pay more in the end, plus legal fees."
I pull her into a gentle hug, mindful of my injured hand. "So, not a free beating after all."
"No," she agrees, resting her forehead against my shoulder. "Turns out, it was quite expensive."
"Are you okay?" I ask, suddenly concerned about the financial impact. "I mean, that's a lot of money."
She pulls back, meeting my eyes directly. "I'll be fine. I've been careful with money since I started my career. Made investments, saved. It'll take about a year to recover the amount, with luck, but it won't break me."
The relief is immediate. Not that I wouldn't offer to help—I would, in a heartbeat—but Violet's independence is fundamental to who she is. Her handling this on her own terms matters.
"Besides," she adds with a small smirk, "it was worth every penny to see that smug smile wiped off his face."
I laugh, pressing a kiss to her cheek. "My girlfriend, the badass."
"Your girlfriend, theverytiredbadass," she corrects, stifling a yawn. "It's been a long day of legal proceedings and driving."
"Go take a shower," I suggest, releasing her with a final squeeze. "Get comfortable. I'll sort out something to eat."
"You're cooking?" She raises an eyebrow, glancing pointedly at my injured hand.
"Nothing complicated," I assure her. "Just using what few skills I have left with this thing." I wiggle the fingers protruding from my metal brace to demonstrate their limited mobility.
Violet's expression softens. She steps forward, places her hands on either side of my face, and pulls me in for a proper kiss—deep, thorough, and full of promise. When she finally breaks away, we're both a little breathless.
"Thank you," she says simply.
"For what?" I ask, slightly dazed from the kiss.
"For being here. For making me feel like I’m at..." She pauses, searching for the right word.
"Home?" I suggest, hope rising in my chest.
Her smile is answer enough. "I'll be quick," she promises, picking up her overnight bag and heading toward the bathroom.
In the kitchen, I line up ingredients on the counter, working methodically with my left hand. Tuna from the can, mayonnaise, boiled eggs I prepared earlier, a touch of salt and pepper. The rain has started outside, a gentle patter against the windows that creates a cocoon around the house. I glance up as a flash of lightning illuminates the darkening evening sky, counting seconds until the thunder follows. Three. The storm is close but not threatening—just enough to make the house feel like a sanctuary, isolated from the world beyond. I hope Violet doesn’t get scared.
I mix the filling one-handed, slower than before the accident but not helplessly so. Adaptation is what we racing drivers do best, after all. The bread—freshly baked sourdough from the village bakery—slices easily under my knife. I'm focused on mytask, enjoying the simple domesticity of it, when I sense her presence before I hear her.
Turning, my prepared greeting dies on my lips. Violet stands in the doorway, hair still damp from the shower, a tinge of copper dusting her cheeks, wearing something I recognize immediately—the F1 car pajamas, soft and worn. My heart stutters at the sight, memory and present colliding.
"You kept them," I say, my voice rougher than intended.
She smiles, something shy in it despite everything we've shared. "They're comfortable." Honestly, she probably bought two or three of those, just as she does with everything she loves.
The pajamas hang loose on her frame, revealing nothing explicitly, and yet somehow, more intimate than her naked body. Her hair curls naturally as it dries, framing her face in a way rarely seen by anyone outside her private circle. This version of Violet—soft, unguarded—is mine alone.
My body responds immediately, arousal heavy and insistent. I shift, trying to hide my erection, and gesture to the plates on the counter. "Sandwich?"
