"Even then." He grins. "I'll just distract you with my charm and good looks."
"So modest."
"It's one of my best qualities."
I laugh, settling deeper into his embrace. Outside, the winter sun is setting, casting golden light across his living room—our living room now. The Christmas tree in the corner sparkles with lights, a few wrapped presents underneath. Everything feels right in a way I wasn't expecting.
William shifts to look at me, suddenly serious. "This is the best Christmas ever," he says, and though the words could sound trite, the raw honesty in his voice makes them anything but. "Having you here, knowing you'll be here tomorrow and the next day and—"
I silence him with a kiss, pouring everything into it. When we break apart, I rest my forehead against his.
"Merry Christmas, William."
He smiles against my lips. "And welcome home, Violet."
I close my eyes, letting the words sink in. Home. Not just a place, but a person. Him. Us. The beginning of forever.
Epilogue 2
William
The first light of the new year sneaks through the gap in the curtains, painting a thin golden line across our bedroom floor. I blink awake, my body somehow knowing it's morning despite the silence of my alarm.
Beside me, Violet sleeps deeply, one arm flung across her face, the other curled against my side. Her breathing comes in soft, rhythmic puffs that occasionally catch on the edge of a snore. I smile. The fearsome Violet Colton, terror of the F1 paddock, snores like an angry kitten when she's truly exhausted and that melts my heart.
Last night's celebration lingers in the room—empty champagne flutes on the nightstand, Violet's dress draped across the armchair, the faint scent of her perfume mixed with the woodsy notes from the fireplace we sat beside, cuddling until midnight. The digital clock reads 6:17 AM. Old habits die hard. Even on New Year's Day, my body wakes with the sun.
I shift slightly, careful not to disturb her. The sheet slips, revealing the curve of her shoulder, the smooth expanse of her back. Her skin glows in the dim light; a beautiful contrastagainst the white bedding. The past week of waking up beside her still seems surreal. Her boxes remain half unpacked in various corners of the house—neither of us eager to spend our holiday time organizing instead of celebrating our first—perfect—Christmas together.
One week of her next to me in bed. One week of her shoes by the door, her coffee mug in the kitchen, her laptop open on the dining table. One week of this feeling—like something that was missing has finally slotted into place.
Violet stirs, mumbling something unintelligible before settling deeper into sleep. I gently pull the comforter back up, tucking it around her. She's always cold, even with the heating on. Something about circulation and her fingers being perpetually like ice cubes. She complained about it yesterday while we were walking around the property, her gloved hand in mine.
I ease myself up, wincing at the slight creak of the mattress. The floor is cold against my feet. I grab my T-shirt from where it landed last night—somewhere between passionate kisses and fumbling with buttons—and pull it over my head. Then, I put on my boxers and sweatpants. The heating panel is on the wall by the door, one of the upgrades I installed last spring. I tap it, increasing the temperature a few degrees. The quiet hum of the system kicking in fills the room.
Back in the bed, I watch Violet for a moment longer. Her beautiful dark curls spread across the pillow—her pillow now, technically, since she's fully claimed what was supposed to be her side of the bed. Her face is softer in sleep, the furrow between her brows smoothed away, her lips slightly parted. This is a version only I get to see—vulnerable, unguarded, completely at peace.
The sight hits me square in the chest.I'm the luckiest bastard alive.
I turn to my bedside table and pull open the drawer quietly. Inside is the small, leather-bound notebook Felix gave me years ago, back when I was still fighting to get a seat in F2.
"Write down what you want," he'd said. "Make it real by putting it on paper. Then chase it relentlessly." I've filled its pages with goals and dreams—some achieved, some still pending, some abandoned along the way.
I click on the small lamp, its light contained to my side of the bed. Violet doesn't stir. Taking the pen from the drawer, I flip to a fresh page and write the date: January 1st. New year, new page. That's always been my ritual.
The pen hovers over the paper. What do I want this year? The answer comes easily, has been forming in my mind since the last race of the season.
Win the World Drivers’ Championship.
I write it clearly, deliberately. Not just a hope anymore—a real possibility. Last season proved that. One win, and several close calls with the podium. The car is finally competitive, thanks to Violet's leadership, and the team she's built. We're not frontrunners yet, but we're in the fight. This year could be it.
Below that, I add:
Take Colton Racing back to the top. Win Constructors' Championship.
The team goal.Our goal. I think about the factory workers, the engineers, the mechanics who stayed with Colton Racing through the lean years. They deserve this. Violet deserves this—vindication for her vision, proof that she was right to fight for the team when everyone said it was a lost cause.
I tap the pen against the paper, thinking. Personal goals now.
