Chapter 26
The stage is set
Violet
The Vortex Racing motorhome looms ahead like a fortress—gleaming, imposing, enemy territory.
Belforte walks beside me, his silence more comforting than words could be.
His footsteps match mine perfectly as we cross the paddock, ignoring the clicking cameras and murmuring voices that follow us like persistent shadows.
I keep my chin high, my expression neutral.
Let them stare.
Let them whisper.
We're not here for them.
My phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out, spotting Amir's name on the screen.
Contracts to be drafted soon.
My team is excited about the partnership.
P.S. Your driver's speech was quite moving. Loyalty is a rare commodity these days.
A smile tugs at my lips. William helping close that deal was so perfectly him—all heart, no calculation. I type a quick thank you to him, turn off notifications, then slip the phone into my blazer pocket.
"Good news?" Belforte asks, breaking our companionable silence.
"Very."
As we approach the Vortex motorhome, I take in the scene.
Their territory is always a spectacle—sleek, sophisticated, designed to intimidate.
Today, it's particularly crowded. Men in tailored suits with expensive watches exchange business cards.
Women with perfect blowouts laugh at jokes that probably aren't funny.
I recognize several high-profile investors hovering near the entrance like bees around honey.
Then my eyes catch on someone unexpected—Sebastian Kent, the former frontman of Ember's Edge turned Hollywood action star.
He stands out even in this crowd with his height, short, dark hair, his tattooed arms visible beneath his rolled-up sleeves, and that famous smile directed at whoever he's talking to.
I follow his gaze and spot James Farrant and Yuki Kikuchi engaged in what appears to be a chummy conversation with him.
Farrant notices us approaching. Something flickers across his face—not the hostility I'd expect, but something closer to... relief? He says something to Kent and Kikuchi before striding toward us with purpose.
"Not this now..." I mutter under my breath, steeling myself for whatever barbed comment he's about to deliver.
"Colton." Farrant nods, surprisingly civil. "Looking for Dom? He's upstairs."
I blink, thrown by his helpfulness. Why would Vortex's star driver direct us straight to his Team Principal? Especially when we haven't announced our intentions to anyone.
"I don't recall broadcasting our destination," I reply carefully.
Farrant's mouth quirks in what might almost be a smile. "You didn't have to. You've got that look about you." He glances between Belforte and me. "I'm kind of sick of him, so... whatever you're gonna do, you're doing us a favor."
"I'm not doing your dirty work," I say with more sharpness than I wanted.
"I wasn't thinking you would. Let's just say you're the only person who gets under his skin, so…"
Belforte's expression darkens, his eyes narrowing at Farrant. The driver doesn't miss it.
"Good idea bringing some muscle," Farrant adds with a smirk that doesn't reach his eyes. He steps closer, lowering his voice. "Good luck. You'll need it."
He walks away before I can respond, leaving me thoroughly confused.
The rumors about internal strife at Vortex have been circulating for weeks since Dominic tried to poach EJ—Farrant clashing with Dominic over strategy, Kikuchi unhappy with car development priorities and his role in the team, and engineers jumping ship to other teams. But I'd assumed it was just standard paddock gossip, maybe even deliberately planted misinformation.
Maybe there's more truth to it than I thought. Vortex Racing is having its worst season start in years. Farrant, despite being the reigning World Driver’s Champion, is trailing both William and EJ in the standings. That's got to sting.
"I don't like him," Belforte mutters as we watch Farrant rejoin Kent and Kikuchi.
"No one does."
"No, I mean I really don't like him. But"—Belforte frowns, clearly processing the same puzzle I am—"it's strange he'd tell us where to find his boss."
"There’s something else behind it." I refuse to dwell on that, because that's their internal problem.
We enter the motorhome, and the atmosphere shifts immediately.
Conversations pause. Heads turn. Eyes assess.
I recognize several representatives from Vortex's major sponsors—the CEO of Quantum Tech Ventures, and a vice president from Global Energy stand by the coffee bar, their expressions curious as they track our entrance.
Perfect. Our audience is in place.
Movement on the staircase draws my attention.
Dominic is descending, deep in conversation with a silver-haired man whose bespoke suit screams 'magnate ready to launder his money.
' When Dominic spots me, his expression theatrically transforms—from serious business discussion to patronizing amusement.
"Excuse me, Charles," he says to his companion. "It seems I have unexpected visitors."
The man nods and drifts away, but not before giving Belforte and me an appraising look.
Dominic approaches, arms spread wide in a gesture of welcome that couldn't be more false if he tried. "Ms. Colton. What a surprise. To what do I owe this pleasure? Coming to surrender already?" His smile doesn't reach his eyes—cold, calculated pools of contempt.
"Dominic." I keep my tone pleasant, aware of the watching sponsors. "I was hoping we could have a word."
"Of course, of course." He looks at Belforte, his smile tightening. "I see you've brought... security. Expecting trouble?"
"Just a friend," I reply smoothly.
Belforte steps forward slightly. "Office," he says, the single word carrying absolute command.
Dominic scoffs, his facade cracking slightly. "You don't tell me what to do in my own motorhome, Mr. Belforte."
I step closer, lowering my voice just enough that only Dominic and Belforte can hear me clearly. "Unless you want your sponsors to know about your... extracurricular activities."
The flash of panic in his eyes is brief but unmistakable. He recovers quickly, his smile now brittle at the edges. "Let's continue this upstairs, shall we?" He turns to his team hovering nearby. "We're not to be disturbed. Private meeting."
Dominic's mobile office is predictably opulent—all dark wood and chrome, racing memorabilia displayed like trophies from conquests.
Four championship models sit in glass cases behind his desk, catching light from the floor-to-ceiling windows.
Everything arranged to intimidate, to remind visitors who has the power.
I step inside, unmoved by the display. I've seen better. I've been raised around better.
Belforte follows, and the soft click of the door closing feels like the sealing of a tomb. He positions himself there, arms crossed, a barrier between us and anyone who might interrupt.
Dominic circles his desk, settling into his leather chair with practiced ease. "Mr. Belforte," he says, eyeing my companion, "still playing errand boy for the Sbagliares? Or have you found a new family to serve?" The words drip with condescension, and yet Belforte ignores them.
"Don't mind me," Belforte replies, his voice deceptively casual. "I'm just here to guarantee you don't lay a hand on her." He nods toward me. "She doesn’t need it, but I insisted."
I remain standing, refusing the chair Dominic half-heartedly gestures toward. "Let's not waste time, Dominic. We both know you leaked those photos of William and me."
"Photos?" His eyebrows rise in mock surprise. "Are you confirming there's something to leak, Ms. Colton? How interesting."
"Don't play dumb," I say, my voice even. "It doesn't suit a man of your... experience."
He leans back, steepling his fingers. "And you're so certain it was me? Perhaps your driver has enemies. Perhaps one of your staff wanted a pay raise. Perhaps—"
"Cut the bullshit." The words snap out before I can stop them.
"You've been gunning for me since the moment I took over Colton Racing. You’ve threatened me before with leaking something.
These photos appeared right when we're gaining momentum, right when sponsors are taking notice of us instead of you.
" I place my hands on his desk, leaning forward.
"Your fingerprints are all over this, Dominic. "
His eyes narrow, but his smile remains fixed. "Accusations without proof are just hot air, Ms. Colton. Something your father never understood, either."
I clench my jaw at the mention of my Dad, exactly as he intended. I straighten, breathing in slowly through my nose.
"What I don't understand," I say, reining in my temper, "is why you bother with these mind games. They make no sense. I'm not a threat to you. Colton Racing isn't challenging Vortex Racing for the championship this season."
"Yet," Belforte adds from the door.
Dominic's gaze flicks between us. "Mr. Belforte, perhaps this conversation would be more productive if it were just between Ms. Colton and myself."
Belforte doesn't move, but something in his posture changes—becomes more predatory, more alert. "Whatever you have to say, say it," he replies, voice dangerously low. "At Colton Racing, we don't hide anything."
A mirthless laugh escapes Dominic. "You don't hide anything? I beg to differ." He rises from his chair, circling the desk until he stands directly in front of me.
Too close.
His expensive cologne is a little too strong, the faint lines around his eyes standing out that his cosmetic procedures haven't quite erased, especially his nose.
"This is happening," he hisses, "because you're whoring yourself out. Fucking your F1 driver and hiding it from the paddock like some dirty little secret." His lips curl into a sneer. "Did he earn his seat on his back or his knees?"
A flash of anger quickly takes over. Before I can respond, Belforte moves—two swift steps bringing him between Dominic and me, towering over the Vortex Team Principal.
"Say that again," Belforte growls, his accent thickening with anger.
I place a hand on Belforte's arm, pulling him back gently. "It's fine." My voice comes out steadier than I feel. "He wants a reaction. Don't give it to him."
Dominic steps back, adjusting his tie. His momentary flash of fear at Belforte's approach is quickly masked behind arrogance.
I meet his gaze directly. "I don't understand why you care so much about my private life, Dominic. You're not my family to pass judgment on me." I take a step closer. "And even if you were my family, they wouldn't do something like this."
His mouth twitches.
"You're not my friend, either. You're just a man who happens to lead a championship-winning team that's currently struggling with... What is it again? Driver conflicts? Engineering departures? Declining performance?"
Something dark flashes in his eyes.
"I understand you held a grudge against my father," I continue, finding my rhythm now. "What I don't understand is why that carried over to me. Why you feel so threatened by me."
"Threatened?" he sputters, color rising in his cheeks. "By you? A little girl playing at running a team her daddy built?"
"If you're not threatened, why go to such lengths to undermine me?"
"Because you don't belong here!" The words explode from him, his control slipping.
"Women like you come into this sport thinking you can change everything, thinking your pretty faces and university degrees make you special.
" He jabs a finger in my direction. "In my day, women held umbrellas for drivers and looked pretty for the cameras. That's it! That was their place!"
This fucker lives in the Stone Age. I don't flinch, even as his voice rises. I’ve been on the receiving end of this kind of criticism multiple times.
Of being asked "Where is the boss?" when I'm… the boss. Have men making jokes about how I should be fetching coffee for them. They always use the same excuses to say women don’t belong.
Bottom line: they feel threatened.
Top line: they’re privileged, sexist assholes who need to be taught a lesson.
"You will never be respected," he continues, pointing a finger at me. "You're a slut for sleeping with your driver. Your team is an embarrassment to the sport. Your father would be ashamed of what you've done to his legacy!"
"Is that why you leaked the photos?" I ask quietly. "To shame me?"
"What? No. I leaked the goddamn photos, because you don't deserve your place," he shouts, spittle flying from his mouth.
"I had someone following Foster since Melbourne last year.
The moment you two slipped up, I had what I needed.
And I'll do it again and again until you're forced out of this paddock where you don't belong! "
The admission hangs in the air between us. His eyes widen slightly as he realizes what he's just admitted.
I can't help it—I smile.
My smile only infuriates him more. He takes a final step toward me, face contorted with rage. "You think this is funny? You think—"
Belforte moves faster than I would have thought possible for a man his size, placing himself firmly between us again. I hadn't noticed my hand balling into a fist until Belforte's larger hand wraps around it, squeezing gently.
I look past Belforte's arm at Dominic—this pathetic, angry man who's been haunting me for months. All his power, all his wealth, and yet here he stands, undone by his own hatred.
"Thank you, Dominic," I say, my voice clear and calm. "I didn't know you could be this useful."