Despite myself, a smile forms on my lips. "Very generous."
"I'm a giver," he says, and I can practically see the cheeky grin that accompanies the words. "Come on, Violet. Neither of us should be alone for the holidays. And I promise not to get into any more mosh pits between now and then. My face will be only slightly disfigured by Christmas. My eyes are still the same hue that I know you swoon about, so that is there, untouched."
"Such a tempting offer." My smile widens as I listen to his sales pitch.
"Plus," he adds in that intimate register that sends warmth cascading through me, "I still have that blanket you left at myplace last time. It misses you. I may have caught it trying to escape to London to find you."
"My blanket has separation anxiety?"
"Terrible case. Doctor says the only treatment is your presence."
I laugh despite myself, the sound echoing in my empty office. William has this effect on me—breaking through carefully constructed barriers with ridiculous humor and unexpected sweetness.
"I don't want you to be alone," he says, suddenly serious. "Not for Christmas. Not ever, if I can help it. For as long as I'm around, you won't be alone. That’s a promise, Violet."
His words pierce something within me—a protective shell around memories I keep carefully contained. Christmas mornings in our family home, my father's booming laugh as he distributed gifts with ceremonial flair. My mother's gentle hands guiding mine as we prepared traditional EgyptianKahkcookies with more pistachio and honey filling than we should have, the kitchen warm with the scent of cinnamon, and her stories about celebrations in Luxor. The three of us playing ridiculous board games until midnight, my father's competitive streak making us howl with laughter as he lost game after game against us.
The warmth of belonging. Of family.
After they died—first my father to cancer, then my mother to a heart attack barely a year later—the holidays became a wound I couldn't heal. Every Christmas carol, every twinkling light, every festive commercial felt like salt being ground into raw flesh. So I buried myself in work, first in my corporate job and, for the last two years, in restoring Colton Racing, in proving myself to a board that viewed me as Frederick's sentimental mistake rather than a capable leader.
I've declined countless invitations over the years—sympathetic friends offering me a place at their tables,acquaintances hosting lavish parties where I could network while pretending not to notice the pitying glances. Blake's family dinner. Johnson's New Year's Eve gathering. Even Anna's cozy expat celebration in Japan.
None felt right.
All came across like charity—poor Violet, all alone in the world, let's include her. Or worse, opportunities to schmooze and climb social ladders while Christmas music played hypocritically in the background. The artifice of it all made my skin crawl.
So I chose solitude instead.
Convinced myself it was preferable to counterfeit cheer. Or imposing myself in someone's festivities. Told myself the ache in my chest when I saw families shopping together, or couples walking hand-in-hand was just seasonal melancholy, nothing more.
William is the complete opposite. He offers something simple—companionship. The realization sits heavily in my chest, an uncomfortable heat that I recognize as longing. For connection. For companionship. For something I've been denying myself for years under the guise of professional dedication.
"Earth to Violet." William's voice cuts through my reverie, playful but with an edge of concern. "Did I lose you to some boring Team Principal thought? Let me guess—you're mentally reviewing aerodynamic specifications while I'm pouring my heart out here."
I blink, realizing I've been silent too long. "Sorry. Just... thinking." I bite into the Italian pastry whose name I don’t recall, but oh boy, it is divine.
"About how much fun we'll have during the holidays?" His hopefulness is almost childlike, impossible to resist.
"About how inappropriate it is for a Team Principal to spend Christmas with her driver," I counter, but there's no conviction behind it.
William scoffs. "We're way past inappropriate, Violet. Remember that thing we did on your kitchen counter last month?"
Heat rushes to my face. "That's not—I'm in my office, William."
"And I'm alone at my place, missing you and that little sound you make when I grind my hips against yours really slowly—"
"Will!" I hiss, glancing at my closed door despite knowing no one can hear us. This office is soundproof, but I still get paranoid about it.
His laughter fills the room, rich and unrepentant. "Fine, fine. But seriously, spend the holidays with me. I'll cook."
"I cannot imagine you cooking complex holiday food."
"Then you haven’t imagined it hard enough. I can cook. I learn fast. But if you don't want it, I can order in."
"From where? Everything's closed on Christmas Day in the countryside."
"Then I'll learn to cook something you love before Christmas," he counters. "I've got days to master it. How hard can it be? I just need to adapt it to your exquisite palate."
