Chapter 4 #2
"What do you want me to say? That I've been in back-to-back meetings with Belforte and his team, negotiating terms that could make or break our season?
That the board is too excited that it's breathing down my neck for more results before we've even hit the track?
That I've barely slept, because my brain won't shut off long enough to let me rest?
" The words spill out, more honest than I intended.
"Yes," he says simply. "That's exactly what I want you to say. The real stuff, my goddess. Not the picture perfect version ready for a press release."
His use of that nickname—something he does sparingly, often saving it for our most intimate moments—makes my breath catch.
"I miss you," he continues into my silence. "Not just Team Principal Colton. You, Violet."
I close my eyes briefly, allowing myself one moment of vulnerability in the privacy of my office. "I miss you, too."
"So when do I get to see you outside of work? I mean, apart from you yelling at me for my face during testing in a couple of weeks."
"I'm not going to yell at you," I counter. "Much."
He chuckles, then his voice softens. "Seriously, though. Christmas is this week. New Year's the week after. Got any plans?"
The question hangs in the air, deceptively simple yet loaded with implications.
Christmas plans. As if the holidays were ever simple for me—just another day to mark on the calendar, another reminder of what I've lost. My fingers hover over a contract revision, suddenly forgetting what I was looking for.
"Violet?" William prompts through the speaker.
"Nothing special," I finally answer, aiming for casual but landing somewhere near dismissive. "Just the usual."
"Which is...?" He's not letting this go.
I sigh, leaning back in my chair. The truth is embarrassingly mundane.
Christmas Day in my penthouse, surrounded by technical specifications rather than wrapped gifts and loving laughs.
Maybe a glass of my father's favorite scotch while I read a romance novel I have in my to-be-read pile.
Takeout from my favorite Chinese restaurant that stays open through the holidays.
And New Year's Eve? More work, some wine, possibly falling asleep before midnight while pretending that solitude is a choice rather than a condition.
"I usually catch up on work," I admit. "It's quiet. No interruptions."
"That's not a plan, that's a punishment," William responds, his voice softening with something that sounds dangerously like concern. "You’re not your job, Violet."
"What about you?" I deflect, not ready to explore the raw edges of my holiday solitude. "Heading back to the USA? Maybe Australia?"
"Actually, no. My parents are flying to Michigan to see my grandparents. I'm staying put." There's a brief pause before he continues, his voice taking on that tone he gets when an idea strikes him. "You know what? We should spend the holidays together."
My heart stutters in my chest. "That's not necessary. You should—"
"What? Sit alone in my farmhouse watching Die Hard for the fortieth time?" He laughs. "I mean, that's not the worst way to spend Christmas, but I'd rather spend it with you."
"William..."
"Think about it," he continues, enthusiasm building. "No pressure. No schedules. No need to pretend we're just Team Principal and driver. Just us, good food, warm cocoa, maybe some terrible Christmas movies. I'll even let you pick."
Despite myself, a smile forms on my lips. "Very generous."
"I'm a giver," he says, and I can practically see the cheeky grin that accompanies the words.
"Come on, Violet. Neither of us should be alone for the holidays.
And I promise not to get into any more mosh pits between now and then.
My face will be only slightly disfigured by Christmas.
My eyes are still the same hue that I know you swoon about, so that is there, untouched. "
"Such a tempting offer." My smile widens as I listen to his sales pitch.
"Plus," he adds in that intimate register that sends warmth cascading through me, "I still have that blanket you left at my place last time. It misses you. I may have caught it trying to escape to London to find you."
"My blanket has separation anxiety?"
"Terrible case. Doctor says the only treatment is your presence."
I laugh despite myself, the sound echoing in my empty office. William has this effect on me—breaking through carefully constructed barriers with ridiculous humor and unexpected sweetness.
"I don't want you to be alone," he says, suddenly serious. "Not for Christmas. Not ever, if I can help it. For as long as I'm around, you won't be alone. That’s a promise, Violet."
His words pierce something within me—a protective shell around memories I keep carefully contained.
Christmas mornings in our family home, my father's booming laugh as he distributed gifts with ceremonial flair.
My mother's gentle hands guiding mine as we prepared traditional Egyptian Kahk cookies with more pistachio and honey filling than we should have, the kitchen warm with the scent of cinnamon, and her stories about celebrations in Luxor.
The three of us playing ridiculous board games until midnight, my father's competitive streak making us howl with laughter as he lost game after game against us.
The warmth of belonging. Of family.
After they died—first my father to cancer, then my mother to a heart attack barely a year later—the holidays became a wound I couldn't heal.
Every Christmas carol, every twinkling light, every festive commercial felt like salt being ground into raw flesh.
So I buried myself in work, first in my corporate job and, for the last two years, in restoring Colton Racing, in proving myself to a board that viewed me as Frederick's sentimental mistake rather than a capable leader.
I've declined countless invitations over the years—sympathetic friends offering me a place at their tables, acquaintances hosting lavish parties where I could network while pretending not to notice the pitying glances.
Blake's family dinner. Johnson's New Year's Eve gathering.
Even Anna's cozy expat celebration in Japan.
None felt right.
All came across like charity—poor Violet, all alone in the world, let's include her. Or worse, opportunities to schmooze and climb social ladders while Christmas music played hypocritically in the background. The artifice of it all made my skin crawl.
So I chose solitude instead.
Convinced myself it was preferable to counterfeit cheer. Or imposing myself in someone's festivities. Told myself the ache in my chest when I saw families shopping together, or couples walking hand-in-hand was just seasonal melancholy, nothing more.
William is the complete opposite. He offers something simple—companionship. The realization sits heavily in my chest, an uncomfortable heat that I recognize as longing. For connection. For companionship. For something I've been denying myself for years under the guise of professional dedication.
"Earth to Violet." William's voice cuts through my reverie, playful but with an edge of concern. "Did I lose you to some boring Team Principal thought? Let me guess—you're mentally reviewing aerodynamic specifications while I'm pouring my heart out here."
I blink, realizing I've been silent too long. "Sorry. Just... thinking." I bite into the Italian pastry whose name I don’t recall, but oh boy, it is divine.
"About how much fun we'll have during the holidays?" His hopefulness is almost childlike, impossible to resist.
"About how inappropriate it is for a Team Principal to spend Christmas with her driver," I counter, but there's no conviction behind it.
William scoffs. "We're way past inappropriate, Violet. Remember that thing we did on your kitchen counter last month?"
Heat rushes to my face. "That's not—I'm in my office, William."
"And I'm alone at my place, missing you and that little sound you make when I grind my hips against yours really slowly—"
"Will!" I hiss, glancing at my closed door despite knowing no one can hear us. This office is soundproof, but I still get paranoid about it.
His laughter fills the room, rich and unrepentant. "Fine, fine. But seriously, spend the holidays with me. I'll cook."
"I cannot imagine you cooking complex holiday food."
"Then you haven’t imagined it hard enough. I can cook. I learn fast. But if you don't want it, I can order in."
"From where? Everything's closed on Christmas Day in the countryside."
"Then I'll learn to cook something you love before Christmas," he counters. "I've got days to master it. How hard can it be? I just need to adapt it to your exquisite palate."
I picture him in his kitchen, tattooed arms dusted with flour, brow furrowed and a tiny bit of his tongue sticking out in concentration as he follows a recipe with the same intensity he studies track maps. The image is endearingly absurd. And adorable. He is adorable.
"And," he continues, warming to his sales pitch, "I’m still holding your blanket hostage, remember?"
I bite my lip to keep from laughing. "You're ridiculous."
"Part of my charm," he agrees readily. "Along with my current technicolor face. But seriously, Violet. Let me make Christmas good for you. Us."
The sincerity in his voice catches me off-guard. This isn't just playful banter anymore. It's William offering something I've denied myself for too long—genuine connection during a time when loneliness cuts deepest.
"There will be sweets," he continues, coaxing. "And by sweets, I mean both actual desserts and myself. Double the temptation."
"Your modesty is overwhelming."
"Never been my strong suit," he admits cheerfully. "But making you smile is. And I bet I can make you smile more times during Christmas than you can count. That's a scientific fact, I have data to prove it."
I realize with a start that I'm already smiling, have been for a few minutes. My shoulders have dropped from their perpetual tension, my posture softened from board-meeting rigid to something approaching relaxed. Even the rain seems less oppressive now, more soothing backdrop than dreary obstacle.
"And of course," William adds, using that deep tone that sends shivers across my skin, "there are other ways I plan to make the holiday memorable. Ways that definitely don't involve ugly Christmas sweaters. Unless you're into that sort of thing, in which case I'm willing to negotiate."
"Will," I interrupt his rambling, decision crystallizing with surprising clarity.
"Yes?"
"I'll come."
A beat of silence. "Really?"
"Yes. But I can only stay for the week. Christmas through New Year's. I have obligations after that."
His whoop of delight is so loud, I have to move the phone away from me on the table. "This is going to be the best Christmas ever. I promise. You won't regret it. Ahh fuck, I’m so happy!"
Something soft unfurls in my chest—tentative hope, perhaps. Or simply the relief of choosing connection over isolation. "I'll need to move some meetings. Clear my schedule."
"The team can survive without you for a week," William says firmly. "They deserve a break, too."
"Says the driver who doesn't have to manage them."
"Says the driver who wants his Team Principal well-rested and happy for the new season."
The casual possessiveness in his voice—"his" Team Principal—sends a flutter through my stomach that I choose not to examine too closely.
"You need to buy me a present," he declares suddenly.
"What?"
"A Christmas present. I've already got yours, so it's only fair."
"You've already—" I stop, caught off-guard. "You got me a Christmas present?"
"Of course I did," William says, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Been planning it for weeks. So you'd better get me something good. I have high expectations."
I laugh, genuinely surprised. "I'll see what I can do."
"Nothing team-related," he warns. "No signed merchandise or team kit. I have tons of that, I've been giving some out to my neighbors. I mean a real present."
"Understood. No Colton Racing coffee mugs."
"Perfect." He sounds so pleased with himself that I can't help but smile again. "I should let you get back to your meeting. They're probably wondering where you are."
"Probably," I agree, though I'm reluctant to end the call.
"I'll text you later about arrangements. When you can come over, what to pack. Hint—not much."
"Will…"
"Kidding. Mostly." Then softly, "Thank you for saying yes, Violet. It means more than you know."
"I should be thanking you for the invitation."
"No thanks needed. Just bring yourself and that gorgeous smile." He pauses, then adds in a voice gentle as a caress, "Take care, Queen. See you soon."
The call ends before I can respond, leaving me staring at my phone, lips parted in surprise.
Queen.
I chuckle at how ridiculous it sounds. But somehow, in the back of my head, I can only think that a Queen needs her King.
And I think I’ve found mine.