"Yes, and his legacy is dying, too. Slowly, painfully, in your incapable hands." His voice drops to a silken whisper. "Frederick Colton was a giant. You're a child playing dress-up in his clothes. He'd be ashamed to see what you've reduced his team to—backmarkers dependent on charity from a mafia thug and led by a woman who's in bed with her—"
My hand moves before my brain can stop it, slapping hard against Dominic's cheek. The crack echoes in the silent office.
Time freezes. Dominic touches his reddening face, expression shifting from shock to something darker, more satisfied. I've given him exactly what he wanted—proof that he can get under my skin, make me lose control.
"There she is," he murmurs. "Frederick's daughter after all. Same temper. Same poor judgment."
I step back, heart hammering against my ribs. My palm stings. "You don't get to speak about my father.Ever."
"I'll speak about whatever and whomever I choose." His voice hardens to steel. "AndIchoose to speak abouthowI'll dismantle Colton Racing piece by piece. Starting with your promising young driver. Then your sponsor. Then your reputation. Until there's nothing left but an empty factory and fading memories."
"You're obsessed." The realization dawns cold and clear. "This isn't strategy. It's pathological. You should seek treatment."
"Call it what you like." He straightens his suit jacket, composure fully restored. "But know this—nothing will stop me from crushing your dreams and that pitiful team. Not your threats, not your mafia investor, certainly not your second-rate drivers or your... questionable leadership methods that involve tumbles in bed."
His gaze rakes over me, the assessment calculated to make me feel small, insignificant. But something has shifted inside me. The initial shock of his personal attack has crystallized into diamond-hard resolve.
"You talk about my father," I say quietly. "But you forget his most important lesson: never underestimate an opponent who has nothing to lose."
Dominic's smile doesn't waver, but something flickers in his eyes. Doubt? Concern? It's gone too quickly to identify.
"Brave words from someone cornered." He returns to his desk, the conversation clearly over in his mind. "Do give Foster my regards. Tell him his next contract negotiation might be more complicated than he expects, because you'll be sacked soon, and he’ll be in the middle of a sex scandal—suddenly becoming damaged goods again."
The threat hangs in the air between us—explicit, unmistakable, aimed at what he now knows matters most to me.
I straighten to my full height, adjust my blazer with precise movements, and meet Dominic's gaze without flinching. The slap was a mistake—a momentary lapse in control—but I refuse to show further weakness. My voice, when it comes, carries a coldness that would make the Arctic pale in comparison.
"If you're so concerned about Vortex's standing, perhaps focus on improving your team rather than sabotaging mine. A truly exceptional Team Principal wouldn't need these games."
Dominic's face hardens, that one verbal jab finding its target with more precision than my slap. His ego has always been his vulnerability—a fact my father exploited, and now, so will I.
"Your car barely functions," I continue, gaining momentum. "Farrant's been complaining to every journalist who'll listen about understeer issues, but somehow, he still wins due to sheer talent. Kikuchi hasn't had a podium in eight races, and now you're trying to replace him. First with William, now with EJ. Instead of addressing those core problems, you're orchestrating elaborate schemes to poach my eighteen-year-old driver who just graduated from F3. When he’s visiting his family. On Christmas day." I shake my head with deliberate pity. "Desperate tactics from a desperate man."
"Careful, Violet." His voice drops to a dangerous whisper. "You're overplaying a very weak hand."
"Am I?" I cock my head, studying him like a curious specimen. "EJ won't leave Colton. You know why? Because we offer what you can't—development, mentorship, patience, a genuine chance to grow without the suffocating pressure of immediate performance. Vortex destroys young drivers. The paddock knows it. EJ knows it. Everyone knows it."
Dominic laughs, the sound hollow and forced. "Quite the speech. Practice it on the way over, did you? Perhaps Foster helped you rehearse between—"
"Our simulator data shows a three-second improvement over last season," I interrupt, refusing to let him drag the conversation back to personal territory. "New aerodynamic package, upgraded power unit. Belforte's investment has transformed our development capabilities." The lie slides from my lips with surprising ease—the improvements are closer to one-and-a-half seconds, but Dominic doesn't need to know that. "How's Vortex's development coming along? Still struggling with porpoising? Such a basic engineering challenge."
His nostrils flare slightly—confirmation I've hit another nerve. "Your little technological fairy tales don't impress me."
"They're not meant to impress you. They're meant to beat you." I move toward the door, my point made. "Next time you want to waste my time, at least have the courtesy of doing it on a workday or on track."
"Running back to your farmhouse rendezvous?" His voice drips with contempt. "Or perhaps to your mafia benefactor? Tell me, does Belforte know you're sleeping with your driver, or is he too busy laundering money through your failing team?"
I turn, one hand on the doorknob. "You're pathetic, Dominic. Truly pathetic. Resorting to playground taunts because you can't compete on merit." I shake my head. "I'm done playing nice with you. Absolutely done."
"Ooh, I'm terrified." He mimes shaking with fear, then drops the act with a sneer. "What exactly do you think you can do to me? You have no power. No influence. No respect in the paddock. Just a fading name, and a decrepit team being kept on life support by questionable financing."
"You'll find out exactly what I can do." I yank the door open with enough force to make the hinges protest. "Merry Christmas,Dominic. Enjoy it. It's the last peaceful day you'll have for a very long time."
I stride through the doorway, then slam the door behind me with a crash that reverberates down the empty corridor. My heels strike the floor like hammer blows as I march toward the elevator, back straight, chin high, fury powering every step.
His voice follows me, pitched to carry just far enough. "Your mafia friend won't save you, Violet. Quite the contrary."
I freeze, the words hitting me like ice water. Slowly, I turn back toward his office. Dominic stands in the doorway now, leaning against the frame with calculated casualness, but his eyes are deadly serious.
