Chapter 23
Mobbing and planning
William
The sliding doors at Jeddah International part with a soft hiss.
The last couple of days have been crazy.
After a good result in Suzuka and some time in karaoke, we’re now in Saudi Arabia.
I step through the doors, rolling neck muscles tight from the flight, and freeze.
A wall of bodies blocks the exit—phones raised, cameras flashing, voices merging into a single, hungry roar.
James bumps into me from behind, his hand immediately finding my shoulder.
"What the—" he starts, but his words vanish beneath the surge as the crowd recognizes me. They rush forward like a wave breaking against rock, and suddenly, I'm drowning in questions, accusations, and demands.
This isn't normal.
This isn't right.
Something's happened.
"William! Are you sleeping with your boss?"
"Foster! How long have you and Violet Colton been involved?"
The words come out of nowhere. My stomach sinks on the spot.
I blink against the camera flashes, trying to process what's happening.
I tighten my grip around the handle of my carry-on.
I've never been mobbed at an airport before—not once in my career. Some attention, sure. A few selfies, an occasional autograph. Not this frenzy. I’m not famous. Hardly in the spotlight as a driver.
A girl with purple hair pushes to the front, her face contorted in rage. "How could you sleep with the devil? She's manipulating you!"
The devil? That's a new one. My internal response is immediate: Violet's not the devil. But even if she were, I'd follow her to hell and back. I bet the music there is amazing, too. The thought flares hot and protective in my chest.
James steps closer, a solid presence at my back. "Keep moving," he mutters, his hand still on my shoulder. "Don't stop."
I nod, forcing my legs to carry me forward. The crowd parts reluctantly, phones still thrust in my face. I catch fragments of their comments, each one more invasive than the last.
"William, we love you! You deserve better than her—"
"Did she threaten your contract if you didn't—"
"My brother says you're just using her to secure—"
These people don't know me. They don't know Violet. Yet they speak with the casual confidence of old friends, as if they have any right to an opinion about my life, my choices, my heart. It makes my skin crawl.
James walks slightly ahead now, creating a narrow path. His attention splits between clearing our way and scrolling frantically through his phone. His expression darkens with each swipe. People keep bumping into me, pushing and pulling.
"James," I mutter, dodging another microphone thrust at my face. "What the hell is happening?"
He shoots me a grim look. "Photos leaked. You and Violet arriving at your place."
My heart drops. Before Christmas. When we drove together to my place, it was supposed to be the best week ever. Ruined by a certain asshole.
"How bad?" I ask, though I already know the answer from the chaos surrounding us.
"Bad," James confirms, turning his phone so I can glimpse the screen. I catch a flash of another photo—Violet and me, standing close together at my front door, her hand on my chest, my arm around her waist. It looks intimate, because it was intimate. Private. Sacred. Ours.
"Goddamn it." The words escape through clenched teeth.
A journalist I vaguely recognize from the paddock materializes in front of me. "William, care to comment on the nature of your relationship with Ms. Colton? Is this why Colton Racing has shown such rapid improvement this season?"
The insinuation sends a flash of anger through me. I stop walking, James's warning hand be damned.
"Colton Racing is improving because we have an exceptional team of engineers, mechanics, and strategists who work their asses off," I say, my voice sharper than intended. "And a Team Principal with the vision to lead them properly. That's the story you should be covering."
He doesn't back down. "And your personal relationship with Ms. Colton?"
I force my face into something resembling neutral. "Ms. Colton is an excellent Team Principal who's transformed Colton Racing. I respect her enormously. Now, if you'll excuse me—"
"But these photos—"
"Show two colleagues spending a holiday together." I cut him off, aware that every word is being recorded, will be dissected. "Since when is that headline news?"
James tugs my sleeve, a silent reminder to keep moving. I follow, but the questions continue.
"William, fans are saying Violet's using you as a PR stunt to bring attention to the team—"
"Is it true she threatened to replace you unless—"
"What’s it like working with mobsters?"
That last one nearly makes me laugh despite everything.
If only they knew how terrified I was when I met Silas.
How I nearly pissed myself until I realized the guy was basically a teddy bear with an intimidating exterior.
Also, the guy is a former mobster. I don’t see them questioning teams that are in line with arms dealers and criminals of other natures.
My thoughts skitter to Violet. If they're ambushing me here, what is she facing?
She's always on top of everything, prepared for every contingency, but this.
.. this feels different. Personal. And she's already carrying so much—the team, the board's expectations, Dominic's threats. She arrived first at the hotel, coming straight from China with Blake. Belforte is also meeting us there because… Well, that’s his hotel we’re staying at.
"No comment," I repeat mechanically, moving forward.
A young woman clutching a homemade sign with my face on it—and it’s not even a good photo!—breaks through the press line. "William, you can tell us the truth! We're on your side! She's manipulating you—"
"You don't know her," I snap before I can stop myself. "You don't know either of us!"
James's grip on my arm tightens. "Easy," he murmurs.
I swallow hard, forcing my expression back to neutral. We push through to the exit, but the crowd follows, phones still recording every expression, every movement.
"If Violet and I are friends, what difference does it make?" I ask one particularly persistent reporter. "We're professionals. The results speak for themselves."
"But the timing of your relationship—"
"My relationship with every member of Colton Racing is professional and respectful," I say, the words bitter on my tongue, because they're both true and a lie.
What Violet and I have is so much more than they're implying, but also nothing they could understand.
"That's all I have to say on the matter. "
James maintains a buffer zone as best he can while scrolling through his phone, his expression growing grimmer by the second.
"It's all over every platform," he says quietly as we push toward the exit. "The photos, speculation, comments... It's ugly, Will."
"God fucking damnit."
"There are sexist comments about Violet's management.
Questioning how you got your seat. Discrediting the entire team's progress.
Some racist garbage thrown in for good measure just because of her Egyptian heritage, and not being the cliché, perfect, white, blonde British woman they like to revere or fantasize about in the paddock.
" His mouth twists. "The usual toxic cocktail. "
I exhale slowly, forcing air through lungs that feel too tight. "Fuck."
"Yeah."
We break free into the humid Jeddah air, headed toward the taxi stand. The crowd thins slightly, but several persistent journalists and fans continue following. James flags down a cab while I try to ignore the continued questions being shouted at my back.
"We need to coordinate with Colton PR," I say quietly.
"Already texted them," James confirms. "They're monitoring and preparing a statement."
He reaches for my backpack to load it into the cab, then pauses, his expression sharpening. He turns the bag in his hands, examining something.
"What?" Without a word, he peels something small and round from the side pocket. "What the hell is that?" I lean closer.
James holds it up—a small disk, innocuous-looking. "AirTag," he says, his voice tight. "Someone's tracking you."
Realization hits like ice water. "Are you fucking serious?"
"Dead serious." His eyes meet mine. "Probably a fan. Or the media."
The absolute violation of it—someone planning to follow my movements, to track me to my hotel, to wherever I go—sends a wave of fury through me so intense, my vision blurs for a second.
I snatch the device from his hand, drop it to the pavement, and bring my heel down hard.
The satisfying crunch of plastic and circuitry beneath my Dr. Martens boots does little to calm the rage pulsing through me.
I grind it once more for good measure before picking up the pieces and dumping them in a nearby trash bin.
"Thanks for catching that," I say to James, my voice shaking with adrenaline and anger. "This is getting completely out of hand."
We climb into the taxi, James giving the driver directions to the Belforte Resort. As we pull away from the curb, several people are still filming us from the airport entrance. My skin crawls yet again.
"They ruined my Christmas," I say quietly, watching the airport recede.
"And now they're bringing that pain back. First, they tried to destabilize EJ with those contract rumors, then Dominic threatened Violet, and now this... The fucker leaked the photos when we’re on a good moment as a team?
" I rake a hand through my hair. "It's fucking ridiculous.
I'm a driver, not a celebrity. I don't want any of this shit.
I just want to race and—" I stop, not finishing the thought: and be with her. "And now the fucking fans…"
James is quiet for a moment, watching the Jeddah skyline emerge ahead of us. "It's the parasocial thing," he says finally. "They think they know you, because they watch you race. They create this perfect image in their heads of what you are, and when reality doesn't match it, they feel betrayed."
"It's bullshit," I say flatly. "They care more about who I'm sleeping with than my driving. What the fuck is my work? Driving or being tabloid fodder? Last time I checked, I signed up to race cars, not have my personal life dissected by strangers."
"I know," James sighs. "But this comes with the territory now.
The sport's bigger than ever. More eyes, more attention, more responsibility.
" He turns to look at me, his expression serious.
"This isn't what you directly signed up for, but Will, it comes with the job, unfortunately.
The best we can do is quiet things down, manage the narrative.
" A wry smile touches his lips. "And thank god you don't have social media. That's one less problem to deal with."
"Small mercies," I mutter.
We lapse into silence as the taxi navigates through Jeddah's busy streets. Outside, the city glitters in the late afternoon sun, all gleaming towers and pristine streets. Inside our cab, the atmosphere feels heavy with concern.
"The team..." I begin.
James glances over. "What about them?"
"You think they'll... I don't know. Treat me differently now?" It’s a vulnerable question, exposing a fear I hadn't fully acknowledged until now. "Or Violet?"
"The core team knows you both. They won't buy into this garbage."
"But the board might. Or sponsors." I stare out the window. "I can handle whatever shit they throw at me, even if it frustrates the hell outta me. But Violet..." I shake my head. "She's already fighting an uphill battle. She doesn't deserve this."
James lands a hand on my shoulder, a solid weight. "She's tougher than you think."
"I know exactly how tough she is," I say softly. "That's not the point. We’re already doing our best to avoid attention by staying away from each other. She shouldn't have to be tough about this. About us."
The word hangs there—us. There's an "us" now, even if it's complicated, even if we're still figuring it out. And I'll be damned if I let these vultures destroy it before it has a chance to become what it’s meant to be.
"I need to talk to the team," I say, decision forming. "Blake, Violet, Silas... Figure out how to address this head-on."
The Belforte Resort comes into view—a gleaming structure of glass and steel that somehow manages to look both ultramodern and respectful of traditional architecture.
As the taxi pulls to a stop, James gives me a long look. "You ready for this?"
"I'm ready," I say, and I mean it. Let them come. I've faced worse odds. We both have.