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, many faults.
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 at night, 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.
The Kahk cookie sits forgotten beside my coffee. I should eat, because the pistachio filling smells divine.
Should start working through the mountain of emails awaiting my attention.
Should prepare my presentation for the board.
Should do anything except fixate on William's injury, and the two words tacked onto his message like an afterthought.
Miss you.
Two simple words that shouldn't carry so much weight.
We've gone longer without seeing each other during the season.
This off-season separation was practical; I had meetings in Italy, he had training and apparently underground metal shows to attend, even if we did attend one soon after returning from Abu Dhabi.
But I miss him, too. A lot.
Miss his warm, deep laugh echoing through my penthouse. The way he absentmindedly traces the cherry blossom tattoos on his upper arms when he's thinking. How he always knows when to push and when to simply sit with me in comfortable silence.
Rain continues to batter the windows, the sound punctuating my thoughts like impatient fingers drumming on a table.
Get it together, Violet. He's your driver. An asset. One with a tremendous black eye that the media will notice instantly when testing begins.
I draw a deep breath and straighten my spine. Response options scroll through my mind: professional concern, feigned indifference, gentle teasing. None feel right. None capture the collision of emotions his injured face has triggered in me.
In the end, honesty wins—the raw, unfiltered reaction I'd give him if he were standing before me instead of pixelated on my screen.
My thumbs fly across the screen, emotion overriding diplomacy.
Are you fucking crazy? What have you done to your face?
I hit send before I can second-guess the tone. Professional distance be damned—he looks like he went three rounds with a heavyweight and lost spectacularly.
Three dots appear immediately. He's been waiting for my response.
Got caught by an elbow in the pit. You should see the other guy. Actually no, I have no idea who he was. Just some dude over two meters tall and built like a brick.
A frustrated sigh escapes my lips.
You realize testing starts in three weeks?
Don't worry, I can still see fine out of the other eye. Monocular vision might even help me focus better on the racing line.
That's not funny.
A little funny. You're smiling right now, aren't you?
I'm not.
Or I wasn't until he called me out. Now my lips betray me with the slightest upward curve.
Knew it. You can't resist my charm, even when I look like a raccoon.
A very unattractive raccoon.
Ouch. Now that hurts more than the eye. At least tell me I look cute or adorable or something.
You’d look more adorable without it.
Violet Colton… Did you just say I’m a bit adorable?
I didn’t.
More as opposed to less. So I am adorable, even if just a bit.
William…
I crave hearing you say my name. It doesn’t hit that well as a message, ya know?
You’re infuriating.
You love it :)
The banter feels easy, familiar. This is the rhythm we've fallen into—him pushing, me pretending to resist, both of us enjoying the dance.
But beneath my composed replies, an uncomfortable truth surfaces: I had genuinely been worried about him.
Not just as my driver, but as my... William.
The lack of label makes my brain stutter even in internal monologue.
My phone buzzes again.
I'll make sure it's healed enough by testing that the makeup team can cover it. You won't have to explain to the board why your driver looks like a Fight Club extra.
Or you could just avoid getting hit in the face in the first place?
Where's the fun in that? Besides, Felix says it gives me character.
I feel for him, having to deal with you for so many years.
Maybe you’re just jealous you haven’t known me for that long. But we can make up for it ;)
The mention of Felix Becker surprises me. Last I heard, there were rumors Baretta Racing was not going to renew with him. William doesn't talk about it much, but he worries about his friend, because he can yap about Felix at times. The fact that they went out together is a good sign.
How was Italy? Belforte behave himself?
As much as a suspected mafia consigliere can behave.
Oh come on, I bet that guy's a teddy bear underneath. In a very expensive, possibly bulletproof suit. Still looks like he can break someone's shins pretty easily though.
Italy was productive. I wasn't checking if our new investor is sweet or not. The deal's finalized. But I could have done without the rain welcoming me back to London.
Ah, you miss the Mediterranean sunshine. You should have stayed longer. But then I would have missed you more, so selfish me is glad you're back in our miserable weather.
My chest tightens at his candor. William never hides what he wants, how he feels.
It's refreshing and terrifying all at once.
And here I am, a coward and overthinker, pondering the pros and cons of saying "I miss you" and quickly wondering when he’ll get fed up with me because of my awkwardness when things get… serious.
A knock at my door yanks me back to reality. Blake peers in, points at his watch, and mouths "Aero meeting in fifteen." I nod, and he disappears.
I glance at the pile of documents on my desk, the emails multiplying on my screen, the cookie and pastry I still haven't touched taunting me with their heavenly smell.
Trying to carry on this conversation while juggling work is impossible.
Each message from William pulls me further from the professional mindset I need to maintain.
I shake it off as I reply to him.
Have to run. Meeting in fifteen.
Too important to text with a mere driver, I see how it is.
A driver with a ridiculous black eye, yes.
It's healing already. Will be beautiful for you to gaze at in three weeks. Probably all purple and yellow. Very artistic.
His playfulness is infectious, but I'm almost out of time. I start to type a quick goodbye when another thought strikes me. Before I can overthink it, I close my office door, return to my desk, and hit the call button on his contact.
He answers on the first ring, his voice warm and sounding surprised. "Well, this is an unexpected pleasure."
"It's faster than texting," I say, putting the phone on speaker and setting it on my desk as I take a bite of the Kahk cookie. Damn, it is delicious. Haven’t had these cookies since… my mother passed. "And I'm already running late."
"Multitasking? Very efficient, Ms. Colton."
"One of my many talents, Mr. Foster."
His laugh rumbles through the speaker, deep and genuine. "I've missed that."
"Missed what?" I ask, sorting through papers while we talk.
"Your voice. The way you say my name when you're trying not to smile."
I pause, caught off-guard by his honesty. "I've been gone a week, William. And we've been calling each other occasionally."
"Sixteen days. And we only called each other four times. But who's counting?"
"Apparently, you are," I say, warmth spreading through my chest despite my efforts to remain professional.
"How are you really doing?" he asks, his tone shifting to something more serious. "And don't say 'busy'—that's not an answer. You're always busy."