The man nods and drifts away, but not before giving Belforte and me an appraising look.
Dominic approaches, arms spread wide in a gesture of welcome that couldn't be more false if he tried. "Ms. Colton. What a surprise. To what do I owe this pleasure? Coming to surrender already?" His smile doesn't reach his eyes—cold, calculated pools of contempt.
"Dominic." I keep my tone pleasant, aware of the watching sponsors. "I was hoping we could have a word."
"Of course, of course." He looks at Belforte, his smile tightening. "I see you've brought... security. Expecting trouble?"
"Just a friend," I reply smoothly.
Belforte steps forward slightly. "Office," he says, the single word carrying absolute command.
Dominic scoffs, his façade cracking slightly. "You don't tell me what to do in my own motorhome, Mr. Belforte."
I step closer, lowering my voice just enough that only Dominic and Belforte can hear me clearly. "Unless you want your sponsors to know about your... extracurricular activities."
The flash of panic in his eyes is brief but unmistakable. He recovers quickly, his smile now brittle at the edges. "Let's continue this upstairs, shall we?" He turns to his team hovering nearby. "We're not to be disturbed. Private meeting."
Dominic's mobile office is predictably opulent—all dark wood and chrome, racing memorabilia displayed like trophies from conquests. Four championship models sit in glass cases behind his desk, catching light from the floor-to-ceiling windows. Everything arranged to intimidate, to remind visitors who has the power. I step inside, unmoved by the display. I've seen better. I've been raised around better.
Belforte follows, and the soft click of the door closing feels like the sealing of a tomb. He positions himself there, arms crossed, a barrier between us and anyone who might interrupt.
Dominic circles his desk, settling into his leather chair with practiced ease. "Mr. Belforte," he says, eyeing my companion, "still playing errand boy for the Sbagliares? Or have you found a new family to serve?" The words drip with condescension, and yet Belforte ignores them.
"Don't mind me," Belforte replies, his voice deceptively casual. "I'm just here to guarantee you don't lay a hand on her." He nods toward me. "She doesn’t need it, but I insisted."
I remain standing, refusing the chair Dominic half-heartedly gestures toward. "Let's not waste time, Dominic. We both know you leaked those photos of William and me."
"Photos?" His eyebrows rise in mock surprise. "Are you confirming there's something to leak, Ms. Colton? How interesting."
"Don't play dumb," I say, my voice even. "It doesn't suit a man of your... experience."
He leans back, steepling his fingers. "And you're so certain it was me? Perhaps your driver has enemies. Perhaps one of your staff wanted a pay raise. Perhaps—"
"Cut the bullshit." The words snap out before I can stop them. "You've been gunning for me since the moment I took over Colton Racing. You’ve threatened me before with leaking something. These photos appeared right when we're gaining momentum, right when sponsors are taking notice of us instead of you." I place my hands on his desk, leaning forward. "Your fingerprints are all over this, Dominic."
His eyes narrow, but his smile remains fixed. "Accusations without proof are just hot air, Ms. Colton. Something your father never understood, either."
I clench my jaw at the mention of my Dad, exactly as he intended. I straighten, breathing in slowly through my nose.
"What I don't understand," I say, reining in my temper, "is why you bother with these mind games. They make no sense. I'm not a threat to you. Colton Racing isn't challenging Vortex Racing for the championship this season."
"Yet," Belforte adds from the door.
Dominic's gaze flicks between us. "Mr. Belforte, perhaps this conversation would be more productive if it were just between Ms. Colton and myself."
Belforte doesn't move, but something in his posture changes—becomes more predatory, more alert. "Whatever you have to say, say it," he replies, voice dangerously low. "At Colton Racing, we don't hide anything."
A mirthless laugh escapes Dominic. "You don't hide anything? I beg to differ." He rises from his chair, circling the desk until he stands directly in front of me.
Too close.
His expensive cologne is a little too strong, the faint lines around his eyes standing out that his cosmetic procedures haven't quite erased, especially his nose.
"This is happening," he hisses, "because you're whoring yourself out. Fucking your F1 driver and hiding it from thepaddock like some dirty little secret." His lips curl into a sneer. "Did he earn his seat on his back or his knees?"
A flash of anger quickly takes over. Before I can respond, Belforte moves—two swift steps bringing him between Dominic and me, towering over the Vortex Team Principal.
"Say that again," Belforte growls, his accent thickening with anger.
