I scan the barriers, searching for the one face that matters most right now. And there she is—Violet, standing slightly apart from the others, her professional composure fighting a losing battle against raw emotion. Our eyes lock across the distance, and something electric passes between us. This victory isn't just mine. It's ours. The culmination of her vision, her leadership, her unwavering belief in me a year ago when everyone else had written me off. I need to reach her. Now.
The barriers separating us suddenly seem offensive—an artificial divide between Team Principal and driver that no longer makes sense in our world. Without conscious thought, my legs propel me toward her. The decision forms in an instant, bypassing all rational thought: I'm going to cross that line, literally and figuratively.
I leap over the barriers in a single, fluid motion, ignoring the startled gasps from officials and camera operators. Rules and protocol be damned. This moment belongs to us, and I won't let anything—not barriers, not paddock politics, not even F1's rigid structures—keep me from sharing it with her—the architect of our success.
Violet's eyes widen as she realizes what I'm doing. For once, I've managed to truly surprise her. Her hands unclasp from their tight position against her chest, dropping to her sides in shock. I close the distance between us in three quick strides, momentum carrying me forward until I'm standing right in front of her, breathing her air, seeing the individual flecks of gold in her brown eyes.
"William, what are you—" she starts, but I don't let her finish.
I cup her face, thumbs brushing her cheeks with a gentleness that contrasts with the urgency of the moment. I pull her toward me and capture her lips with mine, pouring everything I can't say right now into the kiss—the gratitude, the love, the triumph, the vindication. Her body tenses for just a fraction of a second before melting against mine, her hands finding their way to my shoulders, then my neck.
The world around us fades to background noise. I'm vaguely aware of cheers, whistles, cameras clicking, but they're distant, unimportant. What matters is the softness of her lips, the faint taste of coffee and mint, the small sound she makes in the back of her throat as I deepen the kiss.
When we finally break apart, Violet's cheeks are flushed, her red lipstick slightly smudged. A slow smile spreads across her face, equal parts embarrassment and exhilaration.Damn, this woman is pure perfection.
Movement at the edge of my vision reminds me that we're not alone, that the FIA officials are waiting to escort me to the podium preparations. I squeeze Violet's hands once more before releasing them.
"See you on the podium," I tell her, backing away reluctantly. "Watch me closely."
"I always do," she replies, the double meaning clear in her eyes.
The next ten minutes pass in a blur of scales, cooldown room talk and then meeting some FIA members. I barely register the officials' instructions, nodding automatically as they explain the podium procedure I've watched a thousand times but never experienced.
When I step onto the podium, the roar of the crowd makes me emotional. Oliver Lenox and Karl Roth flank me, Oliver giving me a proud look whereas Roth gives me his congratulations,genuine despite his disappointment at being beaten. The weight of the first-place trophy in my hands feels both perfect and foreign—a metal symbol that can't possibly contain the magnitude of this achievement.
The British anthem begins, and as I stand with my hand over my heart, my eyes search the crowd below. It takes only seconds to find her. Violet stands at the front, pride radiating from her like heat. I hold her gaze as the familiar notes wash over us, a silent communication more powerful than words:We did this.Together. Despite everything. Despite everyone.
The champagne bottles appear, and the expected ritual of spraying and celebration begins. I go through the motions, laughing as Oliver and Roth soak me in return. On this perfect Italian afternoon, with champagne dripping from my hair, and Violet's lipstick still faintly marking my lips, a sense of completion blooms in my chest.
We've silenced the doubters. And we did it the only way that truly matters in this world: by winning.
Chapter 42
It's not that kind of box
William
My footsteps echo against marble floors as I navigate the labyrinth of Belforte's newest luxury resort. Singapore's skyline glitters through floor-to-ceiling windows, the city already coming alive at dusk with neon and luxury. Two days before we're due at the circuit, yet here I am, trussed up in my mother's hand-knitted jacket over a white tee, playing corporate mascot for the team's biggest sponsor. But after Monza's win, I'd probably agree to race in a tutu if Violet asked. That's what victory does—makes everything else feel like a victory lap.
I check my watch—still fifteen minutes before I need to be in the ballroom where Belforte's opening event awaits.
"William!"
I turn to find Oliver striding toward me, his tall frame making me feel positively childlike in comparison. He's wearing a perfectly tailored marsala suit, stylized beard, and golden hair perfectly combed to one side, making him look like he camestraight from a magazine. His championship-winning smile is firmly in place.
"Fancy meeting you here," I joke as he falls into step beside me.
He wasn't part of the official sponsor lineup, but after bumping into him at Changi Airport earlier, I'd impulsively invited him along. To my surprise, he accepted.
"Couldn't miss the chance to see you playing dress-up," he teases, eyeing my mother's handiwork. "The jacket's quite... homey."
"Fuck off." I laugh, smoothing down the black knit. "My Mom made it for my F1 debut. Consider it my good luck charm now."
Oliver's expression shifts subtly, humor giving way to something more serious. He slows his pace, forcing me to match him.
"Did you see the mess outside? Police in the parking lot, and I think I saw Farrant there, too."
"First time I heard it. Didn’t see a thing."
