Five meters. Dominic's office door looms ahead—solid wood in a sea of glass—because of course he needs to be different, special, closed off where everyone else is transparent. His name gleams on a plaque: DOMINIC HARRINGTON, CEO & TEAM PRINCIPAL. As if anyone could forget that sorry ass. He probably hangs photos of himself throughout the common areas so that people remember who pays their salaries.
I don't knock.
I don't pause.
I push the door open and stride in like I own the place.
Dominic sits behind his desk, silver hair immaculate, blue eyes cold as arctic ice. He's dressed in what I recognize as a bespoke Savile Row suit—on Christmas morning, because God forbid the man ever appear less than perfectly tailored. His desk is an expanse of polished ebony, with just three items precisely arranged: a laptop, a crystal tumbler containing what looks like expensive scotch, and a folder with Ethan Jordan's name visible on the tab.
"Violet." He gestures to the chair opposite his desk without rising. "Right on time. Care for a drink? It's Macallan 25. Your father's favorite, if I recall correctly."
My jaw aches from clenching so hard. "What the hell do you think you're playing at, Dominic?"
He smiles, the expression never reaching his eyes. "Business, of course. Please, sit. Standing in those heels must be exhausting, especially after such a...busy night."
The insinuation hangs in the air between us, deliberate and poisonous. And in that moment, I realize with absolute certainty that Dominic Harrington has been watching me. Watching William. Watching us.
My blood turns to ice in my veins.
I remain standing, though every muscle screams for me to lunge across that pristine desk and wipe the smile from Dominic's face. Instead, I place my palms flat on the cool wood, leaning forward just enough to establish physical dominance in the space.
"Let's be clear. Ethan Jordan has a contract with Colton Racing. An exit clause doesn't mean automatic transfer. It means permission to negotiate, which requires his consent."
Dominic leans back, one manicured finger tracing the rim of his scotch glass. "And you believe an eighteen-year-old boy will turn down fifteen million euros, and a seat with the Constructors' Champions to stay with—what was it your team achieved last season? Ah yes, P8." He chuckles. "Quite the competitive offering."
"We're building something at Colton Racing. EJ knows that. He's part of it. He’s contributing to it." I keep my voice measured, professional. "He also knows that Vortex has a history of chewing up young talent and spitting them out when they don't perform immediately. Remind me, how many drivers do you have waiting for a seat, and how many have you dropped in the last three years?"
"Is that what you tell yourself?" Dominic takes a sip of his scotch, eyes never leaving mine. "That you're providing some sort of... nurturing environment?" His mouth twists around the word like it tastes foul. "Racing isn't about coddling, Violet. It's about results. Something your father understood, even if you don't."
The mention of my Dad sends a pulse of anger through me, but I suppress it. "My father built a team that won championships through development and loyalty. Not by poaching drivers and creating media circuses on Christmas Day."
"Different times. Frederick had the luxury of patience." He sets his glass down precisely. "But then, he wasn't fighting to save a failing team while juggling... personal distractions."
The temperature in the room seems to drop ten degrees. I straighten, removing my hands from his desk. "What exactly are you implying, Dominic?"
"Nothing, nothing." His smile is all teeth, no warmth. "Though if we're speaking of distractions, that driver of yours—Foster—quite the handful, isn't he? Talented, certainly. Reckless, absolutely. Been spotted at some rather questionable venues recently. Metal concerts, I believe? Emerged with quite the shiner." He taps beneath his eye. "Not the image one associates with a professional athlete."
My skin prickles with unease. The details are too specific. "Are you having my drivers followed?"
"Information finds its way to me. The F1 community is small despite how big it can look." He shrugs, an elegant dismissal. "Though I must say, I was surprised to learn where he spent Christmas Eve. Or rather,who with."
My face flushes with heat—anger, not embarrassment. Never embarrassment. "You've crossed a line, Dominic. My private life is none of your business."
"Oh, but it ismybusiness when the Team Principal of a competitor is sleeping with her driver." The words land like precision bombs. "Quite the scandal that would make, don't you think? Your board of directors would have questions. The media would have a field day. 'Female Team Principal trades favors for performance.' Tawdry, but headline-worthy."
I curl my hands into fists at my sides. "Is that what this is about? You're threatened by Colton Racing's progress, so you resort to blackmail?"
"Blackmail?" He laughs, the sound echoing off glass and metal surfaces. "My dear, this is merely a friendly warning. What youdo in your private time is your concern—until it affects the sport. The integrity of Formula 1 must be protected."
"The integrity—" I almost choke on the words. "This from the man who's spent a decade manipulating regulations, bullying officials, and destroying young careers? From a guy who slept his way into being Team Principal of this team?"
Dominic stands now, his height allowing him to tower over the desk. "Be very careful, Violet. You're playing in a league you don't understand."
"No,yoube careful." I match his stance, refusing to be intimidated. "EJ stays with Colton Racing. Your little power play fails. And if you ever try to use my personal life as leverage again, I'll make sure every journalist in the paddock knows exactly how you operate."
He circles the desk slowly, like a predator measuring its prey. "You really don't get it, do you? This isn't just business. This is personal. Your father humiliated me. Six consecutive championships stolen from under my nose. He made Vortex look like amateurs."
"That was decades ago. My father is dead."
