"Before we disperse," she says, her voice dropping slightly, forcing everyone to lean in, "there's another matter we need to address." Her eyes meet mine briefly, something unspoken passing between us. "As some of you know, we faced a significant challenge over the holiday break. Dominic Harrington attempted to poach EJ using tactics that were..." She pauses, selecting her words carefully. "Less than ethical."
The room temperature seems to drop several degrees. Everyone saw the news. EJ shifts uncomfortably in his seat beside me.
"What you may not know," Violet continues, "is that this appears to be part of a larger strategy to destabilize Colton Racing. One that may extend beyond normal paddock rivalries."
Belforte steps forward, his presence suddenly more intimidating than before. "We have reason to believe Dominic is gathering intelligence on this team—on all of us—that goes beyond professional competition."
"What Silas means," Violet translates, hands resting on the back of a chair, "is that there's evidence suggesting Dominic knows details about our operations, our plans, and even our personal lives that he shouldn't have access to. I don’t know how much, but he does."
My stomach tightens.Personal lives.The image of Violet leaving my farmhouse on Christmas morning flashes in my mind. If Dominic knows about us...
Fuck… He does, doesn’t he? Now it all makes sense.
"We're not being paranoid," Violet continues, reading the room's reaction. "Dominic made statements to me directly that indicate he's either employing surveillance, or using paparazzi to be on top of us."
Murmurs spread around the table. Johnson's crimson eyebrows draw together in concern. Blake watches Violet with the steady gaze of someone who's already been briefed.
"I'm not telling you this to alarm you," Violet says, her voice strong and reassuring. "I'm telling you because more than being fast and working as a team on track, we need to be unitedofftrack. We're a team, but also a family of sorts. We need to have each other's backs."
Belforte nods. "What happened with EJ may be just the tip of the iceberg. Dominic has already begun insinuating things about my business to regulatory bodies and the press." His cold blue eyes scan the room. "He will likely target others next."
Others.Like a Team Principal having a relationship with her driver. I tighten my grip on the armrest of my chair. My hands are sweaty.
"So what are you saying?" Johnson asks, leaning forward. "That we're all being watched? That someone here is feeding information to Vortex?"
"We're saying it's a possibility we can't ignore," Violet answers. "Last season, I suspected Nicholas, and he turned out to be in cahoots with Dominic. This year, we have a more cohesive and sound team, so I hope we don’t have anyone leaking anything to the competitors." She adjusted her leather jacket. "And if we do… I’ll ensure they’ll regret that forever. We’re building a legacy, so if you’re working against us, you don’t belong here and can leave now."
The implications sink in around the table. People shift in their seats, glancing at colleagues with new wariness. This is exactly what Dominic wants—doubt, uncertainty, paranoia.
"Remember that we're stronger united than divided," Violet finishes. Her eyes find mine again, something vulnerable flashing behind her professional mask. "Dominic thrives on creating internal conflict. We won't give him that satisfaction."
Chapter 17
Protective instincts
Violet
The leather jacket Belforte insisted would look "powerful and modern" for the photoshoot now feels constrictive, too warm, too unlike me. But perhaps that's appropriate. I don't feel like myself, either.
I flex my fingers, the weight of William's watch against my wrist familiar and calming. I shouldn't have worn it today. Too personal, too revealing. But this morning, dressing in my penthouse a couple of days after finally returning from Chicago, it mirrored anchoring myself to something real after weeks of crisis management and political chess moves.
In those most focused moments, William would intrude my thoughts. The hollow feeling in my chest when I woke each morning in Chicago instead of next to him. The phantom sensation of his arms around me. The constant impulse to call him properly—not just the brief, carefully worded updates we exchanged.
I turn the corner, heading toward my office after the meeting, the staccato of my heels echoing against the polished floor. I arrive and push away from the door, crossing to my desk where a stack of reports awaits review alongside another box of chocolates, and a cup of coffee.
William, always taking care of me.
I look around the table. Testing schedules. Component delivery timelines. Potential sponsorship updates. The mundane machinery of team management that continues regardless of personal complications.
I'm about to remove the jacket when my door opens without a knock. I spin, irritation flaring—Blake knows better, and no one else would dare.
No one except William.
He slips inside, closing the door quickly behind him. His warm hazel eyes catch mine, and everything else—Dominic, Chicago, the team, the threats—recedes into background noise. He's wearing a simple black and red team T-shirt that highlights the tattoos snaking up his arms, exposing that crane tattoo on his neck, and faded jeans that hang just right on his narrow hips. His hair is slightly longer than when I left, curling at the edges in a way that makes my fingers itch to touch it.
"You look stunning, Violet," he says, his voice low, gravelly with suppressed emotion.
A smile forms on my lips, small and genuine; the first real one in days. "Hardly. This isn't me." I gesture vaguely at my appearance, suddenly self-conscious about the photoshoot styling.
