More cars approach, but they're slowing. Through my banged up visor, I see Oliver's car pull up in front of me. He's jumping out, sprinting toward me.Fuck, that’s insane.He’s going to be disqualified. Why stop because of me? He's shouting something I can't make out over the ringing in my ears.
My helmet feels impossibly heavy. Oliver reaches me, flipping up my visor. His face swims in and out of focus. My breathing is weird, my heart is hammering at an impossible speed. I…
"William! Can you hear me? Don't move! Oh fuck… He’s having a panic attack…"
I try to respond but can't form words. The world spins even though I'm not moving. Oliver finds my hand with his—my uninjured one, shaking—and squeezes tight.
"Stay with me, mate. Help's coming. Take deep breaths."
Diego is running toward Kikuchi's car. The Japanese driver is climbing out on his own, shaken but alive. More people appear—marshals in orange, medical staff in blue.
The pain in my head intensifies, crashing over me in waves. Each pulse brings darkness at the edges of my vision. My breathing is erratic.
This can't be how it ends. Not when we've just begun.
Violet.
Her name echoes in my mind as consciousness starts to slip away. The cruel irony cuts deeper than any physical pain—to finally have her, to know she loves me, only to lose everything the very next day. It's so fucking unfair.
Oliver's voice grows distant. "He's losing consciousness! We need help now!"
I try to hold on, to stay present, to fight the darkness encroaching. But the lights are fading, my head hurts like hell, Ican't stop shaking—whether from shock or panic, I don't know—my grip on reality weakening with each labored breath.
My last coherent thought is of Violet's smile this morning—sleepy, perfect, mine.
Then nothing.
Blackness swallows me whole.
Chapter 33
Spiral of despair
Violet
The crash happens in real time, but my brain processes it in slow motion. William's car jerks violently on the feed, then spins. One moment, it's whole, the next—shattered. Parts flying. The monocoque—the part cradling his body—separates completely. Then the broadcast feed cuts away, refusing to show more. No movement. Nothing. My throat closes. The world around me recedes, sounds fading to a distant buzz as I stare at the blank screen, willing it to show me something—anything—that tells me he's alive.
"Stop showing us the fucking celebrities pretending they care! Show us the tunnel," I whisper, then realize I'm shouting. "SHOW US THEFUCKINGTUNNEL!"
But the broadcast director has made a decision. No footage. Too graphic. Too uncertain. They've cut to aerial shots of Monaco's harbor instead—blue water, pristine yachts, obscene luxury—while William might be dying.
I fucking hate Monaco.
The garage erupts around me. Some people frozen in shock. Others crying. Johnson sprints toward the FIA officials, demanding information. Maya collapses into a chair, hands covering her mouth. Tom hunches over the radio system, desperately calling William's name again and again.
I stay rooted, eyes locked on the monitors. I dig my fingers into the edge of the strategy table, knuckles white. The pressure in my chest builds with each passing second.
"G-forces..." I murmur, calculations spinning through my brain unbidden.
The monocoque separating is what keeps replaying in my mind. That carbon fiber cocoon is supposed to stay intact, to protect him. I've seen crashes where cars disintegrate around the driver cell, leaving the driver shaken but alive. But this—the way it tore away—this isn't normal.
No one survives that. No one.
My legs give out. I drop into the chair behind me, elbows landing hard on the table. The pain barely registers. My head falls into my hands, and suddenly, I'm sobbing—deep, guttural sounds I barely recognize as my own. My body heaves with each breath.
"No, no, no..."
I repeat it like a mantra, like if I say it enough times, I can rewind time. Stop this from happening. Keep him safe in his bed this morning instead of letting him leave for the race.
