I place a hand on Belforte's arm, pulling him back gently. "It's fine." My voice comes out steadier than I feel. "He wants a reaction. Don't give it to him."
Dominic steps back, adjusting his tie. His momentary flash of fear at Belforte's approach is quickly masked behind arrogance.
I meet his gaze directly. "I don't understand why you care so much about my private life, Dominic. You're not my family to pass judgment on me." I take a step closer. "And even if you were my family, they wouldn't do something like this."
His mouth twitches.
"You're not my friend, either. You're just a man who happens to lead a championship-winning team that's currently struggling with... What is it again? Driver conflicts? Engineering departures? Declining performance?"
Something dark flashes in his eyes.
"I understand you held a grudge against my father," I continue, finding my rhythm now. "What I don't understand is why that carried over to me. Why you feel so threatened by me."
"Threatened?" he sputters, color rising in his cheeks. "By you? A little girl playing at running a team her daddy built?"
"If you're not threatened, why go to such lengths to undermine me?"
"Because you don't belong here!" The words explode from him, his control slipping. "Women like you come into this sport thinking you can change everything, thinking your pretty faces and university degrees make you special." He jabs a finger inmy direction. "In my day, women held umbrellas for drivers and looked pretty for the cameras. That's it! That was their place!"
This fucker lives in the Stone Age. I don't flinch, even as his voice rises. I’ve been on the receiving end of this kind of criticism multiple times. Of being asked "Where is the boss?" when I'm… the boss. Have men making jokes about how I should be fetching coffee for them. They always use the same excuses to say women don’t belong.
Bottom line: they feel threatened.
Top line: they’re privileged, sexist assholes who need to be taught a lesson.
"You will never be respected," he continues, pointing a finger at me. "You're a slut for sleeping with your driver. Your team is an embarrassment to the sport. Your father would be ashamed of what you've done to his legacy!"
"Is that why you leaked the photos?" I ask quietly. "To shame me?"
"What? No. I leaked the goddamn photos, because you don't deserve your place," he shouts, spittle flying from his mouth. "I had someone following Foster since Melbourne last year. The moment you two slipped up, I had what I needed. And I'll do it again and again until you're forced out of this paddock where you don't belong!"
The admission hangs in the air between us. His eyes widen slightly as he realizes what he's just admitted.
I can't help it—I smile.
My smile only infuriates him more. He takes a final step toward me, face contorted with rage. "You think this is funny? You think—"
Belforte moves faster than I would have thought possible for a man his size, placing himself firmly between us again. I hadn't noticed my hand balling into a fist until Belforte's larger hand wraps around it, squeezing gently.
I look past Belforte's arm at Dominic—this pathetic, angry man who's been haunting me for months. All his power, all his wealth, and yet here he stands, undone by his own hatred.
"Thank you, Dominic," I say, my voice clear and calm. "I didn't know you could be this useful."
Chapter 27
Dangerous and Powerful
Violet
We leave Dominic standing in his office, confusion replacing his rage. I maintain my composure until we're out the door, but inside, I'm electric with vindication. Belforte follows close behind, his hand briefly touching my shoulder as we descend the stairs—a silent "well done." The main area of the motorhome falls quiet as we appear, sponsors and staff watching our exit with undisguised curiosity. I keep my expression neutral, my stride purposeful.Show no weakness.My Mom taught me that.
The moment we step outside, it begins. Journalists surge forward like a breaking wave, microphones thrust toward my face, questions flying faster than I can process them.
The questions about the nature of my relationship with William, the board potentially sacking me, or why I was at Vortex Racing's motorhome blur together, invasive and relentless. I spot several familiar faces from the paddock press corps mixed with tabloid vultures who normally wouldn't becaught dead at an F1 event. The photos have attracted a different breed of media attention.
"Of course that asshole would give us a parting gift," Belforte mutters under his breath, positioning himself slightly ahead of me to create a path through the crowd.
I take a deep breath. While I'd prefer to ignore them completely, strategic engagement can sometimes be more effective than silence. I raise a hand, and surprisingly, the shouting quiets slightly.
