I hope you enjoy them.
Miss you.
William.
A small smile takes over my face, but that fades quickly when my phone vibrates in my pocket. Probably Blake with some forgotten detail, or the board with yet another demand for reassurance. I pull it out, swiping without looking, reaching for my coffee with my free hand.
The notification isn't from Blake.
Chapter 4
Kings and Queens
Violet
William's face fills my screen—or rather, what's left of it. His left eye is swollen nearly shut, the skin around it blooming in shades of purple and black that no filter could disguise. He's smiling that crooked half-smile of his, the one that usually makes my stomach flip, but now it just makes the injury look more grotesque.
The text beneath reads:
So my underground metal show got a little intense last night. Worth it though. Hope the Belforte meetings are going well. Miss you.
And a raccoon emoji at the end.
Now I know why you're not here,I think to myself.
My coffee cup freezes halfway to my lips.
"Jesus Christ," I whisper to the empty office.
I zoom in on the image, as if proximity might somehow reveal a different truth.
It doesn't.
If anything, the damage looks worse up close—the swelling extends from his eyebrow down to his eye, and a bit to his ear, angry and raw. The kind of injury that takes weeks to heal completely.
Weeks we don't have.
A hot surge of anger rises in my chest. Pre-season testing starts in three weeks. What was he thinking? The memory of his contract flashes through my mind—page 17, clause 42:
Driver agrees to avoid activities that pose substantial risk of physical injury.
Mosh pits aren't specifically mentioned, but they should be.
Beneath the anger runs a current of something else. Concern. Worry. My fingers hover over the screen, tracing the outline of his injury without touching it, as if he might feel the pressure through the digital distance between us.
This is William Foster being William Foster—the same reckless impulse that had him punching Dominic Harrington last season. The stubborn determination that makes him push a car beyond its limits, find milliseconds where none exist, and refuse to back down even when the odds are stacked against him.
It's what makes him brilliant on track.
It's what makes him infuriatingly irresistible off it.
I slump back in my chair, the phone still clutched in my hand. What if it had been worse? A broken orbital bone. A concussion. A career-ending injury in some grimy basement concert venue, because he couldn't resist the pull of chaos and adrenaline. The thought makes my throat tighten.
When did William's safety start mattering so much to me?
I've always cared about my drivers—Nicholas included, despite his many,manyfaults. But this is different. This lurching sensation in my stomach isn't professional concern. It's personal. Intimate. The kind of worry that keeps you awake atnight, checking your phone, waiting for a message that says they got home safe.
And here I am, staring at his battered face with more emotion than I should allow myself to feel.
