Last night floods back—his voice, his touch, his promises. His smile when he called me his girlfriend. The way he'd looked at me this morning, so full of life, of excitement. All of it potentially gone in one horrible, violent instant.
"William," I whisper his name through trembling lips. "Please."
A strong hand lands on my shoulder. Belforte. His face is ashen beneath his tan, eyes dark with concern.
"Violet," he says gently.
"He's dead." The words tear from my throat. "He has to be. You saw it. The cockpit—it—"
"We don't know that." His voice is steady, an anchor I desperately need. "These cars are designed to take impacts that would've been fatal ten years ago."
"Not like that." I shake my head violently. "Not when the monocoque gets thrown like a fucking toy. He's gone. He's—"
My voice breaks completely. I cover my face, ashamed of my weakness, of breaking down in front of the team. But I can't stop. Can't breathe. Can't think past the image of William's shattered car.
Across the garage, Blake approaches Tom, his movements stiff with tension. "Any response on the radio?"
Tom shakes his head, removing his headset with shaky hands. "Nothing. All electronics stopped working the moment he reported the failure in the tunnel. It was like the entire system just... died."
Electronics failure. The words penetrate my fog of grief. Something about that sticks—wrong and discordant. We'd checked everything. Multiple times. After the FIA's random inspection yesterday, Johnson had gone over William's car with obsessive attention to detail—without touching anything, because we'd get in trouble.
"That can't be right," I mumble, more to myself than anyone else.
Belforte crouches beside me, his imposing frame somehow gentle now. "Violet, listen to me. Racing has risks, we all know that. But F1 has come so far with safety. The halo, the survival cell design, the—"
"This is different," I interrupt, sudden anger flaring through my grief. "Did you see that impact? The way his car just... came apart? That's not normal, Silas. Something's very wrong."
"I understand you're scared—"
"Scared?" I laugh, the sound broken and wild. "I'm fucking terrified. He's everything to me, and I just watched him..." I can't finish.
Belforte takes my hand, his massive palm dwarfing mine. "He's a fighter, Violet. Let's stay positive until we know anything, okay? Don't count him out."
I want to believe him. Want to grab onto that hope with both hands.
"They wouldn't cut the feed if it wasn't bad," I whisper.
"They always cut away during serious incidents. It's protocol." But doubt shadows his eyes. He saw what I saw.
Blake approaches, his face drawn with tension. "Medical team is at the scene. That's all we know for now. The race is red-flagged."
I nod mechanically, my body moving on autopilot while my mind remains trapped in that tunnel with William. I should be doing something—coordinating with medical staff, speaking to FIA officials, checking on EJ, who's still out there, waiting for the restart signal. I'm the Team Principal. I have responsibilities.
But I can't move. Can't think past the crushing fear that the man I love is gone.
The tears won't stop. My chest heaves with sobs I can't control. This is unprofessional, inappropriate, beneath the standards I've set for myself. But I don't care. Nothing matters except William's safety.
"I need to know if he's alive," I choke out.
"We're trying to get information," Blake assures me, his voice gentle. "The medical team is with him now."
"And if he's..." I can't say the word.
Belforte squeezes my shoulder. "Don't go there. Not yet. Have more faith in him."
But I'm already there—picturing a world without William's smile, his laughter, his unwavering support. A world where I finally allowed myself to love someone completely, only to lose him the very next day. The cruelty of it is breathtaking. Why does it seem like every time I have something special, that is taken away from me? First my Dad, then my Mom, now…
"I can't do this," I whisper, hands trembling violently. "I can't lose him."
