The word hangs between us, new and shining and real. Violet's eyes soften, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth.
"My boyfriend is adorable," she says.
"This is new territory for me," I admit, sitting beside her on the bed. "I've thought about calling you that for so long, that now, it doesn't feel real." I take her hand, lacing our fingers together. "So forgive me if I'm a bit... I just want my girlfriend to give me a proper good morning and good luck kiss before I go face this impossibly narrow track."
She laughs at my melodrama, then pulls me toward her with surprising strength. Her lips find mine, and the kiss is neither gentle nor brief. It's deep and thorough and leaves me dizzy when she finally pulls away.
"That's not fair," I say, breathless and grinning. "How am I supposed to focus on racing now?"
"Well, you will, or I’ll kick your ass." She’s smirking.MyViolet is smirking.
I cup her face in my hands, mesmerized by the woman before me. "You are so beautiful. Inside and out."
"You're staring," she says, but there's no bite to it. Just warm affection.
"I'm not staring enough," I counter. "But okay, we can find a middle ground." I nuzzle against her neck, inhaling her scent. "After the race."
That reminds me. "Speaking of after... want to fly back to the UK together? After you come clean about us to the media?"
She nods. "I have an extra business class ticket. Blake's staying here with Belforte for a few days to work on some sponsorship details." Goosebumps appear as her hand caresses the nape of my neck.
I press my face into the curve of her shoulder, dropping a kiss there. "It's a deal. After the race, we'll meet. When's the flight?"
"11:15 PM."
"Perfect." I kiss her softly, then stand, absurdly proud and happy. My backpack is already packed, driver pass hangingready by the door. "See you by the end of the day. I might even bring you a trophy."
I wink at her as I sling the backpack over my shoulder, credential around my neck. The door closes behind me, and I head toward the elevators with a spring in my step that has nothing to do with the race ahead and everything to do with the woman I've left in my bed.
Today already feels like a victory, and I haven't even started the engine.
The lights go out, and I'm all instinct. Muscle memory.
My car lurches forward, tires biting into Monaco's slick surface as I defend my position intoSainte Devote. The track here is a living, breathing entity—narrow and unforgiving, with barriers close enough to reach out and touch. One mistake means game over. I take a breath, hyperfocused on the car ahead, looking for any opening, any weakness. P5 is just my starting position. Not my finishing one.
"Good start, Will." Tom's voice crackles in my ear. "Bertrand's pushing from behind, but you've got this. Focus forward."
I don't respond. Can't. Every cell in my body is locked onto the exit of the corner—calculating grip, trajectory, opportunity. Monaco isn't about raw power—it's chess at 280 kilometers per hour. And I'm about to make my move.
Coming out ofCasino Square, I spot it—Oliver's front right drifting wide. I dive inside, inches between us, threading the needle with surgical precision. His car falls behind in my mirrors. P4.
Two laps later, I catch Kikuchi sleeping at the hairpin. His defensive line comes too late. P3.
"Beautiful, Will!" Tom sounds genuinely excited now. "Diego's three seconds ahead, but he's struggling with his rears."
The car feels alive beneath me, an extension of my body rather than a machine I’m commanding. Every vibration through the steering wheel speaks to me. Every shift in weight tells a story. This is where I belong. This is what I was born to do.
By lap 7, I'm hunting Diego down through theswimming poolsection. He defends once, twice, but on the exit to the tunnel, I time it perfectly. Outside, inside, alongside, past. P2.
"Fantastic overtake!" Tom shouts. "Farrant's twelve seconds up the road. We're looking at strategy options now."
Fuck, he’s far. Is that guy on a mission or…?
Lap after lap, I push to my limit, dancing on the knife's edge between control and chaos. The pit stop goes flawlessly—2.2 seconds and I'm back out, still in P2, the gap to Farrant stabilized but not closing.
"Update on EJ?" I ask during a relatively straightforward section.
"Running P7, solid pace. Good points day for the team if we hold position."
