Chapter 32
Tunnel vision
William
Morning light filters through a gap in the curtains, painting a golden stripe across Violet's sleeping face.
I prop myself up on one elbow, drinking in the sight of her—hair splayed across the pillow, lips slightly parted, completely at peace.
No furrowed brow of concern, no tense shoulders carrying the weight of an entire racing team.
Just Violet. My Violet. The thought hits me square in the chest with a force that leaves me breathless.
She's mine now. My girlfriend. The word seems foreign yet perfect on my tongue, like a password to something precious I've been chasing my whole life.
She snores softly—a delicate, barely-there sound that makes my heart swell.
Who would believe that Violet Colton, the terrifying force that makes grown men in the paddock quiver in their boots, makes this adorable little noise when she sleeps?
It's a secret I get to keep. A privilege I've earned. I thought it was adorable during our roadtrip last year but this close? This perfect? I’m melting.
I reach out, my fingers hovering just above her cheek before gently brushing a stray curl away from her face. Her skin is warm, soft. Without all her armor—the tailored suits, the perfect posture, the unflappable professional mask—she's somehow both smaller and infinitely more magnificent.
The digital clock on the nightstand reads 7:15 AM.
Driver's meeting at 9:00. Monaco Grand Prix today.
I should be focused on that—on the impossible turns, the unforgiving barriers, the razor-thin margins between glory and disaster.
But all I can think about is how I don't want to leave this bed, this moment, this woman.
I slide out carefully, trying not to disturb her.
The floor is cool beneath my feet as I pad to the bathroom.
Under the shower's spray, I let yesterday's qualifying and last night's confessions wash over me.
Fifth on the grid. Not ideal for most circuits, but Monaco is different.
Strategy matters here more than raw speed.
And then Violet—finally saying she loves me, finally stepping into what we both knew was inevitable.
Water runs down my face, and I'm grinning like an idiot at the shower wall.
I dress quickly—black and red Colton Racing T-shirt, black jeans, my lucky socks hidden under everything else. The paddock awaits, and with it, the circus of pre-race activities. Media, strategy sessions, strategists making final adjustments to the race plan. The familiar rhythm of race day.
I'm sitting on the edge of the bed lacing up my Dr. Martens when the sheets rustle.
Violet shifts, her eyes fluttering open, still cloudy with sleep.
She stretches with feline grace, unself-conscious in her nakedness, and my heart does a backflip.
How is it possible to want someone again so badly when you've just had them hours before?
"Morning, beautiful," I murmur, abandoning my half-tied boot to move toward her. My lips find her cheek, warm and smooth. She smells like sleep and sex and herself—a scent I could recognize blindfolded in a crowd of thousands.
Her eyes focus on me, soft and unguarded in a way they rarely are. It's like being granted access to a secret version of Violet that exists only in these private moments. I want to bottle this look and keep it with me always.
"What time is it?" she asks, voice husky with sleep.
"Eight. I'm heading out to meet Tom, EJ, and Maya for the driver's meeting." I brush my thumb over her cheek, unable to stop touching her now that I'm allowed to.
She sits up, the sheet falling away to reveal all of her. The sunlight catches on her skin, illuminating every curve, every plane, every perfect inch. I gasp dramatically, clapping a hand over my eyes.
"Good heavens, madam! Your breasts are showing! The scandal!" I peek through my fingers, feigning Victorian shock at her nakedness while forcing a super posh accent I clearly don’t have, even after years living in the UK. "What would the neighbors think?"
A pillow hits me square in the face, followed by Violet's laughter—bright and uninhibited. I catch it with the reflexes that have saved me on many a hairpin turn, tossing it aside with a flourish.
"Your aim is improving," I tell her, grinning. "Maybe we should get you back in a car."
I move closer, suddenly shy despite everything we've shared. "Before I go... can I get a kiss from my..." Heat creeps up my neck, into my cheeks. "My girlfriend?"
The word hangs between us, new and shining and real. Violet's eyes soften, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth.
"My boyfriend is adorable," she says.
"This is new territory for me," I admit, sitting beside her on the bed.
"I've thought about calling you that for so long, that now, it doesn't feel real.
" I take her hand, lacing our fingers together.
"So forgive me if I'm a bit... I just want my girlfriend to give me a proper good morning and good luck kiss before I go face this impossibly narrow track. "
She laughs at my melodrama, then pulls me toward her with surprising strength. Her lips find mine, and the kiss is neither gentle nor brief. It's deep and thorough and leaves me dizzy when she finally pulls away.
"That's not fair," I say, breathless and grinning. "How am I supposed to focus on racing now?"
"Well, you will, or I’ll kick your ass." She’s smirking. My Violet is smirking.
I cup her face in my hands, mesmerized by the woman before me. "You are so beautiful. Inside and out."
"You're staring," she says, but there's no bite to it. Just warm affection.
"I'm not staring enough," I counter. "But okay, we can find a middle ground." I nuzzle against her neck, inhaling her scent. "After the race."
That reminds me. "Speaking of after... want to fly back to the UK together? After you come clean about us to the media?"
She nods. "I have an extra business class ticket. Blake's staying here with Belforte for a few days to work on some sponsorship details." Goosebumps appear as her hand caresses the nape of my neck.
I press my face into the curve of her shoulder, dropping a kiss there. "It's a deal. After the race, we'll meet. When's the flight?"
"11:15 PM."
"Perfect." I kiss her softly, then stand, absurdly proud and happy. My backpack is already packed, driver pass hanging ready by the door. "See you by the end of the day. I might even bring you a trophy."
I wink at her as I sling the backpack over my shoulder, credential around my neck. The door closes behind me, and I head toward the elevators with a spring in my step that has nothing to do with the race ahead and everything to do with the woman I've left in my bed.
Today already feels like a victory, and I haven't even started the engine.
The lights go out, and I'm all instinct. Muscle memory.
My car lurches forward, tires biting into Monaco's slick surface as I defend my position into Sainte Devote.
The track here is a living, breathing entity—narrow and unforgiving, with barriers close enough to reach out and touch.
One mistake means game over. I take a breath, hyperfocused on the car ahead, looking for any opening, any weakness.
P5 is just my starting position. Not my finishing one.
"Good start, Will." Tom's voice crackles in my ear. "Bertrand's pushing from behind, but you've got this. Focus forward."
I don't respond. Can't. Every cell in my body is locked onto the exit of the corner—calculating grip, trajectory, opportunity. Monaco isn't about raw power—it's chess at 280 kilometers per hour. And I'm about to make my move.
Coming out of Casino Square, I spot it—Oliver's front right drifting wide. I dive inside, inches between us, threading the needle with surgical precision. His car falls behind in my mirrors. P4.
Two laps later, I catch Kikuchi sleeping at the hairpin. His defensive line comes too late. P3.
"Beautiful, Will!" Tom sounds genuinely excited now. "Diego's three seconds ahead, but he's struggling with his rears."
The car feels alive beneath me, an extension of my body rather than a machine I’m commanding. Every vibration through the steering wheel speaks to me. Every shift in weight tells a story. This is where I belong. This is what I was born to do.
By lap 7, I'm hunting Diego down through the swimming pool section. He defends once, twice, but on the exit to the tunnel, I time it perfectly. Outside, inside, alongside, past. P2.
"Fantastic overtake!" Tom shouts. "Farrant's twelve seconds up the road. We're looking at strategy options now."
Fuck, he’s far. Is that guy on a mission or…?
Lap after lap, I push to my limit, dancing on the knife's edge between control and chaos. The pit stop goes flawlessly—2.2 seconds and I'm back out, still in P2, the gap to Farrant stabilized but not closing.
"Update on EJ?" I ask during a relatively straightforward section.
"Running P7, solid pace. Good points day for the team if we hold position."
Hesitation colors Tom's voice. "What aren't you telling me?"
A pause. "We're seeing some anomalies in the electrical systems. Nothing critical yet, but we're monitoring. Just drive your race."
Just drive. As if this circuit allows for anything else. Monaco demands everything—concentration, precision, endurance. One momentary lapse, and the barriers will claim you without mercy.
I focus on building the gap to the trio behind me—Oliver, Kikuchi, and Diego now in a train about fifteen seconds back. Farrant is too far ahead, driving one of those perfect races that even I have to admire. But second place in Monaco? That's a victory in itself.
Lap 45. The tunnel approaches; the fastest section of the track, a dark blur where the car comes alive with speed. I turn in, and suddenly, everything changes.
The steering dies in my hands.
Power cuts.
Then returns.
Then vanishes completely.
Then returns.
"Tom! I'm losing—"
The car jerks violently, slewing sideways.
I catch it through pure reflex before hitting the railings, but I'm slowing rapidly.
Alarms flash across my dash—red, urgent, screaming warnings I can't process fast enough.
The car limps forward another hundred meters before dying completely, stranded in the middle of the racing line in the turn's exit blind spot.
"I'm stopped in the tunnel! Repeat, stopped in tunnel!"
"Yellow flags are out." Tom's voice is tense but controlled. "Stay in the car. They're showing warnings to the cars behind."
My heart slams against my ribcage. The tunnel. The worst possible place. Blind entry. Fastest section. Narrow. I'm a sitting duck.
"They can't see me coming out of the corner! Tom—"
"They're getting the message, Will. Safety car is being deployed."
But I know how this works. There's a delay between something happening and everyone reacting. The three cars chasing me were fifteen seconds back. At Monaco speeds, that's no time at all.
My breathing accelerates, yet time seems to slow down.
Sweat pours down my face inside the helmet.
I try to restart the car—nothing. Dead. I'm stuck here, strapped into a carbon fiber coffin in the middle of a racetrack.
Can't exit the car because it's too dangerous.
Don't want to stay in the car because it's too dangerous.
An image flashes through my mind—another race, another stalled car. Seven years ago. F4 championship. A friend of mine stranded on track after an electrical failure. The car behind didn't see the yellow flags in time. The impact—metal tearing, carbon fiber shattering.
He never had a chance.
And I was the car behind.
"Get me out of here," I whisper, then realize I'm saying it out loud. "Tom, they need to red flag this now. I'm in a dangerous position. No way they’ll see me and move away on time, especially if they’re keeping their delta!"
"Will, stay calm. They're handling it. Everyone knows you're there."
But my body won't listen to reason. My chest constricts painfully. Each breath comes shorter than the last. My vision tunnels—ironic in this concrete tube where I'm trapped. I recognize what's happening but knowing doesn't help me stop it.
"I don't want to die here." The words tumble out between gasps. "Not now. Not like this." Tears leak from my eyes, blurring my vision. "Tom, please—"
The impact comes without warning.
A deafening crash. Blinding pain. My world becomes violent motion—spinning, flying, breaking like a pinball hitting the walls in the tunnel.
The front of the car separates from the back, my monocoque torn away like paper on impact.
My hand twists unnaturally against the steering wheel, something snapping with white-hot agony.
Then stillness. A moment of perfect, terrible silence.
My ears start ringing. Something wet trickles down my face. Blood or sweat, I can't tell. My hand throbs with each heartbeat. The cars—Kikuchi hit me from behind. I think. A fire flickers in my mirrors. Small now, but growing.
More cars approach, but they're slowing. Through my banged up visor, I see Oliver's car pull up in front of me. He's jumping out, sprinting toward me. Fuck, that’s insane. He’s going to be disqualified. Why stop because of me? He's shouting something I can't make out over the ringing in my ears.
My helmet feels impossibly heavy. Oliver reaches me, flipping up my visor. His face swims in and out of focus. My breathing is weird, my heart is hammering at an impossible speed. I…
"William! Can you hear me? Don't move! Oh fuck… He’s having a panic attack…"
I try to respond but can't form words. The world spins even though I'm not moving. Oliver finds my hand with his—my uninjured one, shaking—and squeezes tight.
"Stay with me, mate. Help's coming. Take deep breaths."
Diego is running toward Kikuchi's car. The Japanese driver is climbing out on his own, shaken but alive. More people appear—marshals in orange, medical staff in blue.
The pain in my head intensifies, crashing over me in waves. Each pulse brings darkness at the edges of my vision. My breathing is erratic.
This can't be how it ends. Not when we've just begun.
Violet.
Her name echoes in my mind as consciousness starts to slip away. The cruel irony cuts deeper than any physical pain—to finally have her, to know she loves me, only to lose everything the very next day. It's so fucking unfair.
Oliver's voice grows distant. "He's losing consciousness! We need help now!"
I try to hold on, to stay present, to fight the darkness encroaching. But the lights are fading, my head hurts like hell, I can't stop shaking—whether from shock or panic, I don't know—my grip on reality weakening with each labored breath.
My last coherent thought is of Violet's smile this morning—sleepy, perfect, mine.
Then nothing.
Blackness swallows me whole.