My heart performs a familiar stutter-step.Mine.The thought rises unbidden, a possessive pride I have no right to broadcast but can't help feeling. That brilliant, beautiful woman—who commands rooms full of powerful men, who's rebuilding this team from the ground up—has chosen me in her private moments. She's a paradox in motion—all business and power on the outside, yet I know how she melts when I kiss that sensitive spot behind her ear. I know the sounds she makes when we're alone. I know how her nails dig into my shoulders when she—
I shake the thought away.Not the time. Not the place.
Fuck, this new distance is frustrating. Last night in my hotel room, I laid awake staring at my phone, wanting nothing more than to text her, to ask her to come to me. I ended up taking matters into my own hands, so to speak, but it wasn't the same. Nothing compares to her.
I'm completely whipped.My body physically aches when she's not around, even when she's standing right there across thepaddock. It's embarrassing how much I miss her when we're apart for just a day.
I skip across the paddock, hands shoved in my pockets to appear casual. Just a driver heading back to his team. Nothing to see here. Definitely not a man desperate to touch the woman who's technically his boss.
As I approach, I notice something odd. There's an unusual number of media personnel hovering near our motorhome. Not just the regular F1 journalists, but the tabloid types. The ones who care more about gossip than gear ratios.
My stomach drops. Something's up. A cold knot forms in my stomach. Has Dominic tipped them off? Created some rumor that needs confirming? Set some trap we're about to walk into?
I scan the paddock and find the source of my unease. Across the way, standing in front of the gleaming Vortex Racing motorhome, Dominic Harrington watches us. Not casually, not accidentally. His gaze is calculated intent. His usual entourage surrounds him, but his attention is fixed on our motorhome—on Violet specifically.
My skin prickles with unease, blood rushing in my ears. There's something fundamentally wrong about how he tracks Violet's movements, how his eyes narrow when he notices me approaching her. This isn't normal competitive behavior. This is obsession, vindictiveness elevated to an art form.Can’t this guy move on?Her father kicked his ass, and he’s dragging that grudge for almost three decades?
Our eyes meet briefly across the distance. His lips curl into what might be called a smile if it held any warmth. It doesn't. It's the expression of a man who enjoys watching others squirm.
I break eye contact first, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of seeing my concern. I clench my jaw as stress coils in my chest. I force myself to breathe evenly. This is exactly whathe wants—to throw us off balance before the race weekend even properly begins.
Not today, you manipulative bastard.
I straighten my shoulders and push politely through the media scrum, ignoring their questions and photos as I head into the motorhome. Whatever Dominic is planning, we'll handle it. We always do.
The problem is, I don’t know what to prepare for.
The door swings shut behind me, and I can finally breathe properly. Violet stands just inside the motorhome, already greeting other team members, her professional mask firmly in place. When she turns and sees me, something shifts in her eyes—subtle, a softening only I would notice. I respond with a smile that probably reveals too much, but I can't help it. Three weeks of seeing her only in professional settings hasn't diminished the effect she has on me.
"William," she says, professional and composed. But her eyes linger on mine a half-second longer than necessary, saying everything her words can't.
"Morning, boss." My voice comes out steady despite the riot inside me. "Quite the welcome committee outside."
Her expression doesn't change, but I catch the slight tightening around her eyes. She knows. Of course she knows.
"I noticed," she says simply, turning to accept a tablet from a passing engineer, scanning it briefly before handing it back with a nod. "We're drawing more attention this season. Expected, given our progress."
But it's not just progress drawing those cameras. Dominic's out there, pulling strings, whispering suggestions, creating smoke where there isn't fire.Yet.
The motorhome bustles around us—engineers reviewing data, catering staff refreshing the breakfast spread, mechanics discussing last-minute adjustments. A bubble of normalcy in the abnormal scrutiny outside. Violet takes a sip from her coffee mug, the redCRlogo of Colton Racing facing outward, her lipstick leaving a perfect imprint on the rim.
I want to kiss her.
"Did the media session go well?" she asks, skillfully redirecting our conversation to safer territory.
I want to hug her.
I lean against the nearest counter, careful to maintain a professional distance. "The usual mixed bag. Some still think last year was a fluke. Others are starting to believe we might actually know what we're doing."
Her lips curve slightly. "Their opinion matters less than our results."
"Absolutely." I match her professional tone while holding her gaze. "Though I had to defend EJ from suggestions he's too inexperienced. And you from the usual sexist remarks."
Something flashes in her eyes—gratitude, perhaps, or surprise that I'd noticed the sexist undertones. "You didn't need to do that."
"I know you can fight your own battles," I say, lowering my voice slightly. "But some battles shouldn't need fighting in the first place."
A passing team member glances our way, and Violet smoothly shifts gears. "Are you feeling prepared for the weekend? The weather forecast suggests possible rain on Sunday."
