Chapter 3
Welcome Back
Violet
The rain has transformed into a proper deluge by the time I reach headquarters, my windshield wipers fighting a losing battle against the downpour.
"Morning, Ms. Colton." The security guard nods, his eyes flicking briefly to my dampened appearance before returning to his screens. "Proper English welcome after Italy, eh?"
"Nothing says 'welcome home' like horizontal rain," I reply, offering a tight smile as I badge through the turnstile.
The factory pulses with energy I haven't felt in years, even at 6 AM.
Sleep evaded me, so work it is. As I walk by, engineers huddle over carbon fiber components, conversations punctuated by excited gestures.
The floor gleams under new lighting—one of the first upgrades from Belforte's initial investment.
I allow myself a small smile as I move through the workspace, nodding acknowledgments to staff who straighten at my approach.
A couple of days in Italy have yielded more than I dared hope, and the evidence surrounds me in top-of-the-line equipment and determined expressions among our staff.
"Ms. Colton! Welcome back," calls one of the aerodynamics specialists, her hands gloved in carbon dust. "The wind tunnel calibrations are showing promising results".
"Excellent. I'll expect a full report by tomorrow."
My voice remains even, professional, betraying none of the satisfaction bubbling beneath the surface.
I continue my path through the factory floor, cataloging changes visible after just a week away.
The composite department works with materials we couldn't afford three months ago. We've hired twenty new staff for the car development alone. Five more for marketing and PR. We are starting to look like a real F1 team. We're getting closer to Colton Racing's original shape.
Progress. Tangible, measurable progress.
Determination has made an appearance. Hope, even. It's a fragile thing, hope. One poor race, one failed upgrade, and it could shatter.
"Mornin’, Violet. The numbers from the wind tunnel look promising.
" Blake falls into step beside me, tablet in hand, apparently materialized from thin air as he always seems to do.
For a man that tall, he sure walks silently.
"EJ's feedback on the seat fitting was positive, too—kid's practically vibrating with excitement. "
"And William?"
The question slips out before I can frame it more professionally.
Blake's eyes narrow slightly, too observant by half. "Scheduled for simulator work later this week. Said he’s recovering from a concert."
Of course he is. That explains the radio silence.
"I need more caffeine before dealing with any driver drama," I mutter.
Blake diverts our path toward the newly renovated break room—another Belforte improvement. The espresso machine gleams like something from a spacecraft, replacing the ancient drip contraption that produced liquid more akin to motor oil than coffee.
"Two meetings with the aerodynamics team this morning, design review at eleven, and the marketing department wants to discuss EJ's media training before lunch," Blake recites as the machine hisses and steams. "Oh, and the board's requested your Belforte presentation by end of day."
"Of course they have." I take the cup, inhaling the rich aroma. "Anything else?"
"The catering company delivered pastries. Apparently, Belforte called ahead." Blake's smile is knowing as he hands me a paper bag. "Said the team deserved some 'proper Italian sweetness' and some 'Egyptian treats for its resident queen' after all their hard work."
Despite my exhaustion, my lips quirk upward. Silas Belforte might look like a dangerous mobster straight out of the movies, but the man has an unexpected thoughtfulness about him.
We part ways at the corridor leading to my office, Blake heading to wrangle the PR team while I continue alone, the rain lashing against the windows with renewed fury.
I push open the door to my office, stepping into the one space in this building that's entirely mine.
The room still carries echoes of my father's tenure—the vintage racing posters I couldn't bear to remove, the championship trophy from '92 that I keep polished to a shine—but I've made it my own.
Clean lines. Strategic organization. Soundproofing.
A desk positioned to see anyone entering before they see me.
I set down the coffee and pastry bag, shrugging off my damp blazer to hang it on the back of my chair. The rain sounds different in here, muffled by infrastructure but somehow more ominous.
On top of the desk is a box of Belgian chocolates, and a note. I grab and read it.
Because I know you like to start the day with some sweetness.
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.