I make straight for Violet, no longer caring who notices, or what they'll say. When I reach the edge of the media summoning circle, I simply slide my hand into hers, interlacing our fingers. She startles, then relaxes as she recognizes my touch.
"Excuse us," I say firmly to the journalists. "Ms. Colton is needed for team debriefing."
I don't wait for their response, just gently pull her away, creating a path through their bodies. Their questions follow us.
"William, a comment on your relationship affecting team dynamics?"
"Violet, how do you respond to critics saying romance has no place in F1?"
But I keep moving, my hand firm around hers.
Once we're clear and walking toward the motorhome, her fingers tremble in mine. Her palm is clammy with sweat, her breathing too shallow.
"You okay?" I ask quietly, pitched for her ears only.
"Fine," she says automatically, but the tightness in her voice tells me otherwise. There she goes, acting tough for all of us.
I squeeze her hand. "They're vultures. Always have been, always will be. But they'll find a new story soon enough."
We're drawing stares from everyone—mechanics pausing their work, engineers glancing up from tablets, other drivers doing double-takes at our joined hands. I couldn't care less. Let them look. Let them see.
"This weekend isn't so bad," I say as we climb the steps to the motorhome. "EJ's on pole, I'm P6, and I get to hold your hand in public without sneaking around. I'd call that a win all around."
A small smile finally breaks through her tension. "When you put it that way..."
We step inside the cool interior of the motorhome, the automatic door closing behind us, shutting out the paddock chaos. Without thinking, I lean toward her, drawn to that smile, needing to taste it.
"Control yourself, Foster," she murmurs, though her gaze drops to my lips.
A deliberate cough stops me inches from her mouth. Blake stands by the kitchenette, eyebrows raised, expression somewhere between amusement and warning.
"Perhaps not the best location," he says mildly, tilting his head toward the smart glass walls facing the paddock.
Violet steps back, professional mask sliding back into place, though her fingers squeeze mine once before letting go. "Engineering meeting up next," she says, voice steady now. "Both of you should be there."
She strides toward her office, but not before I catch the faint blush on her cheeks, the slight upward curve of her lips.
Tomorrow, we have everything to show the critics exactly what this team is made of.
Chapter 41
To whom it may concern...
William
The lights go out in Monza, and twenty cars launch forward in a synchronized dance of noise and split-second moves. I’m thankful I’m not in the midfield because, on this track, the first couple of corners can become carnage.
My start is perfect for the first time in months—hands steady on the wheel, titanium pins in my right hand silent for once, everything clicking into place as the Colton Racing car surges from P6. Still, two cars come from behind to leave me momentarily in P8. The first chicane approaches at terrifying speed; a narrowing funnel that requires absolute precision. I brake later than the two cars ahead, thread the needle between them, and emerge from the chaos in P6.
"Great start, William." Tom's voice crackles through my helmet. "P4. Clean getaway."
Wait. P4? Shouldn’t I be in P6 again?
Something's wrong. In my peripheral, there's movement where there shouldn't be—cars scattering, a flash of familiar livery spinning. I was so focused on my moves that I didn’t notice what happened in front of me. I glance at my mirrors as I accelerate down the straight towardCurva Grande.
"Tom, what did I pass by just now? I saw contact."
A beat of silence that tells me everything before Tom even speaks. "EJ got clipped by Farrant. Looks like he divebombed into Turn 1. Both EJ and Farrant have damage."
