We both chuckle, the shared history momentarily bridging the vast gulf between our current lives—him a multiple World Champion, me a Team Principal fighting to rebuild my father's legacy.
William watches our exchange with something akin to wonder in his eyes. It's the look of someone witnessing two separate parts of their life unexpectedly intersect.
"I didn't know this," Belforte says, his eyebrows raised high. "Quite the piece of information." He turns to Oliver, extending a hand. "Thank you for what you did for our William in Monaco. Not many would risk disqualification to help a competitor."
Oliver accepts the handshake awkwardly, a flush creeping up his neck. "It's okay," he says, shrugging off the praise. "The bare minimum a human should do is help another."
"Still," I press, touched by his modesty, "we owe you. Come have dinner with us after the race."
"That would be nice, but I already have a flight to Germany right after," Oliver says, then turns to William. "Actually, I wanted to ask if it'd be a problem... if we exchanged contacts? To stay in touch, maybe hang out sometime?"
William's face transforms, pure joy replacing his earlier emotional vulnerability. It's like watching a child being offered their dream gift. "Seriously? That would be amazing!"
"Exchange numbers, plan your playdates," Felix interjects with a grin. "You two look like schoolgirls who just discovered they have the same favorite boy band."
The room erupts in laughter, William's indignant "Hey!" barely audible over the noise. Even Oliver joins in, his usually stoic demeanor cracking to reveal genuine amusement.
This was not on my bingo card for this season.
Chapter 39
Are you into me?
William
The Italian sun beats down on my neck as I weave through the Monza paddock, fresh from an hour of media questions that ranged from predictable to absurd. My P10 finish at Zandvoort still stings—not awful, but nowhere near what I'm capable of, especially watching EJ snag P6 in the same machinery. The reporters smelled blood, circling with thinly disguised questions about my recovery, about whether my hand still affects my driving, about my "relationship distraction."
I gave them nothing.
But as I round the corner toward our motorhome, I spot a familiar figure outside Vortex Racing's sleek gold setup. Dominic Harrington. That cockroach is back after undergoing another surgery to his nose. My fingers curl instinctively into a fist, then relax. I'm not that guy anymore. But I'm not walking the long way around, either.
The decision forms in an instant: walk past him, head high. Show no fear. No deviation. I belong in this paddock, too.
Dominic stands with his back to me, barking orders at some poor engineer whose shoulders hunch further with each syllable. His perfectly tailored suit looks almost comical against the backdrop of working mechanics and practical team gear. The man has always been more businessman than racer, more politician than sportsman, more villain than human.
The memory of my car disintegrating around me in Monaco flashes unbidden—the steering going dead, the helpless terror, the impact. I push it down. Not now. Not here. I won't give him the satisfaction of seeing me rattled.
I'm ten steps away when Dominic turns, sensing my approach like some predatory animal. His eyes narrow, lips curling into a smile that doesn't reach those cold eyes. He dismisses the engineer with a flick of his wrist and turns to face me fully, straightening his tie in a gesture that screams insecurity disguised as confidence.
"Foster," he says, voice dripping with false cordiality. "Recovered from your little accident, I see."
I could walk by. Should walk by. But something in me refuses to let him have the last word ever again.
"Harrington," I reply, matching his tone as I slow my pace. "How are the new settings on that nose? The reconstruction looks almost natural."
His smile freezes, a muscle twitching in his cheek. Direct hit. I keep my own expression pleasantly neutral, like I've merely commented on the weather.
"I see you still lack the maturity expected of a Formula 1 driver," he says, voice tight. "Though I suppose when one sleeps with the boss, professional standards become...flexible."
There it is. The bait. The trap I've fallen into before, rushing in with fists instead of words. Heat rises in my neck, but Ikeep my face composed. I've learned from last year's mistakes. I've learned from watching Violet handle these situations with cutting precision.
"Funny," I say, stopping completely now and turning to face him. "Speaking of flexible standards, I couldn't help but notice Farrant's only made the podium twice this season. Quite the decline for your golden boy. Is the pressure getting to him, or is the car just not what it used to be?"
Dominic's fake smile vanishes entirely. Around us, mechanics and team personnel slow their work, pretending not to listen while obviously drinking in every word. This is how the paddock operates—public confrontations become currency, traded and dissected for days.
"A temporary setback," Dominic says dismissively. "Unlike Colton Racing, which has been a backmarker for what, a decade now? Though I must applaud your team's desperate attempt to shift the narrative. Going public with your little romance was quite the PR stunt."
I tighten my jaw but maintain my smile. "Is that what you think our relationship is?A PR stunt?That's rich coming from the man who leaked private photos to discredit us, who manipulates the media like puppets." I step closer, lowering my voice. "Whopotentiallysabotaged my car in Monaco."
