Heaven isn't what it seems
Violet
A couple of hours later, I wake to the sound of rain against unfamiliar windows, the weight of William's arm draped possessively across my waist. William stirs beside me, his breath warm against my shoulder. I turn my head carefully, studying his sleeping face. The bruise around his eye has faded to a sickly yellow-green, but still marks him as mine to worry about. His curls on top of his head are mussed, falling across his forehead in a way that makes my fingers itch to brush them back. In sleep, the constant motion that defines him—the restless energy, the quick smiles, the ready retorts—settles into something softer. Something vulnerable. I wonder how many people have seen him like this—unguarded and still.
Not many, I'd wager. Perhaps just me.
The thought brings a flush of warmth to my chest, a possessiveness I shouldn't indulge. This thing between us—this undefined, carefully contained relationship—exists in a precarious balance. One wrong move, one public slip, and theboard would have the excuse they've been waiting for to replace me. "Female Team Principal in secret relationship with younger driver"—I can already see the headlines, hear the whispers in the paddock.
And yet.
My hand moves of its own accord, tracing the tattoos on his arm—intricate lines and shapes that tell a story I've only begun to learn. The phoenix on his right bicep that he got tattooed during F4 after a nasty crash as he once told me. The cherry blossoms on both shoulders that he once whispered to me about how he doesn’t want to forget to treasure the beautiful, unique yet fleeting moments in his life.
My fingers memorize the texture of his skin, the solid weight of bone and muscle beneath. Racing has sculpted his body into a weapon—compact, efficient, powerful. But there's tenderness in him, too, revealed in the way he held me afterward, his heartbeat slowing against my chest as he murmured drowsy endearments into my hair.
Outside, the rain intensifies, drumming against the roof of the farmhouse. The world beyond these walls feels distant, unreal. No board meetings. No sponsor negotiations. No careful performance of authority and competence. Here, I'm just Violet, wrapped in warmth and the simple pleasure of skin against skin.
William shifts again, his arm tightening around my waist. Even asleep, he seeks me out, pulls me closer. My body responds without conscious thought, curving into his warmth. We fit together with a rightness that sometimes frightens me—like puzzle pieces designed for each other, despite all logic suggesting we should clash.
"I can hear you thinking," he murmurs, voice rough with sleep. His eyes remain closed, but his lips curve into that familiar half-smile. "It's loud."
I press a kiss to his shoulder, inhaling his comforting scent. "Sorry. Professional hazard."
"Mmm." He burrows closer, his stubble scratching pleasantly against my collarbone. "No Team Principals allowed on Christmas morning. Just Violet."
Just Violet.As if it were that simple. As if I could separate the parts of myself so neatly.
But I want to try. For him. For us. For these precious days we've carved out from the relentless march of the F1 calendar.
"I'll work on that," I promise, running my fingers through his hair.
He makes a sound of contentment, somewhere between a purr and a sigh. "Good. Because I have plans for you today, Violet. Very unprofessional plans."
"Do tell." My voice drops lower, anticipation warming my blood.
William's eyes open at last, hazel and still hazy with sleep but dancing with that mischief I've come to crave. "First, breakfast. Then presents. Then"—his hand slides up my side, fingertips skimming the curve of my breast—"back to bed. Unless you object?"
"No objections here."
I let myself smile, let the warmth I feel for him show on my face. Here, in the privacy of his house, I can be honest. I can be vulnerable. I can be just me.Just Violet.
For now, that feels like enough. For now, with rain outside and William warm beside me, I'll set aside tomorrow's problems and simply exist in this moment we've created.
Then, a notification ping shatters the moment.
William draws lazy patterns on my hip, his touch warm and possessive against my skin. "Stay," he murmurs, eyes still closed, voice thick with sleep and satisfaction. "Phone can wait."
I trail my lips from his temple, to the curve of his cheekbone, to the stubbled line of his jaw. I could lose myself in him again—it would be so easy. But the persistent buzz of notifications can’t be ignored, a mechanical mosquito invading our sanctuary and pissing me off.
Twelve messages. No one sends twelve messages on Christmas morning unless something is terribly wrong.
"Just a second," I whisper, trying to extricate myself from his embrace.
William's arm tightens around my waist. "It's Christmas," he protests, eyes opening now, playful and pleading all at once. "World's closed for business. Team Principal gets the day off."
His lips find the sensitive spot behind my ear, and I nearly surrender. But almost twenty-five years around motorsports has conditioned me to recognize emergencies by their electronic signatures—the rhythm of urgent messages arriving in quick succession, the distinct cadence of crisis.
"One minute," I promise, reluctantly pulling away from his warmth. "Let me just check what happened."
