The guard's expression doesn't change. "Still need to see ID, sir."
"You're not on our approved visitor list," I explain to Felix with an exaggerated eye roll. "Very exclusive club. We only let in the truly important people. Drivers, engineers, the occasional pizza delivery guy..."
Felix pulls out his driver's license, handing it over with practiced ease. "Always nice to be reminded you're yesterday's news," he says lightly, but I catch the slight tightening around his eyes.
"Says the man whose face is on half the racing merchandise in Europe," I counter.
The guard studies the ID carefully, comparing the photo to Felix's face with exaggerated scrutiny. I drum my fingers on the reception desk, impatience building.
"For God's sake, Craig, he's with me. If he steals anything, take it out of my paycheck."
"Not on the list, not cleared to enter," the guard says firmly. "Need proper authorization." This is Violet’s thing, to avoid corporate espionage or something like that.
Felix just smiles, unfazed. "Rules are rules. I respect that."
I pull out my phone, ready to text Violet, when the receptionist intervenes.
"I can add Mr. Becker to the visitor log if you're vouching for him, William."
"Yes! Thank you, Sarah. I am definitely vouching for him." I lean closer to her desk, lowering my voice conspiratorially. "He's here to meet with Violet. Business meeting."
Her eyebrows lift slightly as she types into her computer. A moment later, a visitor badge prints out, which she hands to Felix.
"Welcome to Colton Racing, Mr. Becker."
The guard reluctantly steps aside, and I clap Felix on the shoulder, steering him toward the inner doors.
"See? I have influence around here."
"Clearly," Felix deadpans. "They're practically rolling out the red carpet."
As we walk through the corridors, Felix takes in everything with those observant blue eyes of his. The freshly paintedwalls in Colton Racing's signature black, white and red. The trophy case—sparse in recent years but still proudly displaying the team's glory days. The busy design office where engineers huddle over computer models of what I now know will be a proper midfield challenger.
"So," Felix says quietly as we round a corner. "You really think this is a good idea? You didn't exactly give me time to prepare a pitch."
"That's because you don't need one," I reply confidently. "Violet's extremely smart. She knows talent when she sees it."
"And you didn't think to mention this to her beforehand?"
I shrug, grinning. "Where's the fun in that?"
"William..." There's that big-brother tone I've known since I was eight. "This isn't how professional negotiations usually work."
"When have I ever done anything the usual way? I groveled for my seat after all."
He sighs, but there's fondness in it. "Fair point."
We stop outside Violet's office door. The frosted glass bears her name and title: VIOLET COLTON, CHIEF EXECUTIVE OFFICER & TEAM PRINCIPAL. Even seeing it written out like that still gives me a little thrill. She's rebuilt this place from the ground up, fighting every step of the way.
"She's amazing," I say quietly, almost to myself. "What she's done with this team in a year... Felix, the car feels like a proper racing machine now. Not the deathtrap it was when I started."
Felix studies my face with sudden interest. "You really believe in her, don't you?"
Heat creeps into my cheeks. "I believe in what she's building here," I correct quickly, then knock on the door before he can read more into my expression.
"Come in," Violet's voice calls from inside.
I push open the door, poking my head in first. She's at her desk, dark curls falling across her forehead as she studies something on her computer while sampling the box of chocolates I left on her desk last week. The light catches on her dreamy russet skin, highlighting those perfect cheekbones. My heart does that stupid skip-a-beat thing it's been doing lately whenever I see her.
