Chapter 35
Always together
Violet
I've showered, changed into fresh clothes Belforte had delivered to the hotel—black slacks, a simple blouse, a cardigan against the hospital chill. Washed away the blood, both Dominic’s and mine. Fixed my makeup to hide the exhaustion.
Earlier, when I first arrived at the hospital, wild-eyed and demanding answers, a doctor had intercepted me in the emergency department.
"Are you family?" he'd asked, clipboard in hand, expression neutral but eyes kind.
I didn't hesitate. "I'm his girlfriend." The words came easily, naturally—a truth I'd been denying for too long.
The doctor—Dr. Laurent, according to his badge—nodded once, accepting my claim without question. "Mr. Foster sustained a significant impact. Approximately 67 Gs, according to the data from his car. To put that in perspective, that's more than most fighter pilots experience in extreme maneuvers."
My stomach had turned at the number. The human body isn't designed to withstand such forces.
"The good news," Dr. Laurent continued, "is that the safety systems worked as intended. His helmet and HANS device protected his neck and spine. The impact was primarily absorbed by the right side of the car, which is why his right hand sustained fractures."
"His hand," I echoed, thinking of William's hands on the steering wheel, on my skin, in my hair. "How bad?"
"Two fractures in the metacarpals—here and here." He indicated spots on his own hand. "We've stabilized them surgically with pins. With proper rehabilitation, he should regain full function, though the full recovery will take time."
"His head? The crash looked..." I couldn't finish.
"Concussion, yes. Significant but not severe enough to cause lasting damage, based on our initial assessments.
He has a laceration above his right eyebrow that required stitches and another across his forehead where his helmet struck the halo.
We've induced sedation to give his brain time to recover from the trauma, but we expect to bring him out of it within the next few hours. "
My legs had nearly given out with relief. Not critical. Not permanent. Recoverable.
"When can I see him?" The question came out more desperate than I intended.
"He's being settled in his room now. You can go up shortly."
Now, standing before Room 312, I take a deep breath. Prepare myself. Open the door.
The room is dim, lit only by the glow of monitors, and a small lamp in the corner.
The steady beep of the heart monitor greets me first—a mechanical confirmation that his heart continues to beat, that he's alive.
William lies motionless on the bed, the white sheets pulled to his chest, his tanned skin and tattoos stark against the hospital linens.
My breath catches in my throat. Even prepared, the sight of him shakes me to my core.
A white bandage wraps around his forehead, partially obscuring his curls.
Six neat stitches close the gash above his right eyebrow, the skin around it angry and swollen.
Purple bruising spreads across his temple and down his cheek.
His right hand rests on a pillow beside him, encased in a complex arrangement of metal pins and bandages—the product of surgery to repair his shattered bones.
But it's his stillness that terrifies me most. William is never still—always in motion, always animated, always full of life. This unnatural quiet seems wrong; a violation of who he is.
I cross the room silently and lower myself into the chair by his left side. For a long moment, I just watch his chest rise and fall, finding comfort in this simple, essential movement. Then, carefully, I slip my hand into his undamaged one.
His skin is warm. Alive, and I let out a sigh of relief. I run my thumb across his knuckles, these hands that control machines worth millions at speeds most people can't comprehend. These hands that hold me like I'm precious.
"I'm here, Will," I whisper, the words barely audible over the steady beeping of the monitors. "I'm here."
I press my lips together, fighting the tears that threaten. I won't cry. Not now. Not when he needs me to be strong.
"The race restarted," I tell him, though he can't hear me. "EJ finished P9. Points for the team." I lean closer, resting my forehead against his bicep. "Everyone's worried about you. The whole team."
His face remains peaceful, unresponsive. The sedatives keep him under, giving his brain the rest it needs. I understand this intellectually. Emotionally, I just want him to open his eyes, smirk at me, call me "queen" or "goddess" or any of the dozen nicknames he's given me over time.
"You scared me," I confess to his sleeping form. "Don't ever do that again, okay? I can't... I can't lose you."
The admission costs me, even knowing he can't hear it. I've spent so long guarding my heart, protecting myself from exactly this kind of vulnerability. Falling for William wasn't part of any plan. Neither is losing him.
Hours pass. Nurses come and go, checking vitals, adjusting medication. They offer me coffee, suggest I get some rest. I decline both. I won't leave him. Not now.
The night deepens outside the window. Monaco's glittering lights shine in the distance, the race and its aftermath now old news, the world moving on while we remain suspended in this quiet room.
At some point, I check my watch—no, his watch—the vintage Omega I have with me since Melbourne last year. Three in the morning. My body aches from the uncomfortable chair, from the tension, from the fight with Dominic that feels like it happened years ago instead of hours.
I adjust my grip on William's hand, careful not to disturb the IV line attached to the back of it. The steady beep of his heart monitor continues; a metronomic reminder that he's still here, still with me.
"I love you," I whisper against his skin. "You're not allowed to leave me. That's an order, Foster."
I don't remember falling asleep. One moment, I'm watching the rise and fall of William's chest, counting each breath like a prayer, and the next, I'm drifting in darkness. Years of international travel have trained me to sleep anywhere and in any conditions.
The sensation of something warm and soft against the crown of my head pulls me back—gentle pressure, the faintest brush of breath. Lips. A kiss. My eyes snap open, body jerking upright in the uncomfortable hospital chair, every muscle protesting the awkward position I've been in for hours.
William looks back at me, his eyes half-lidded but open, a lopsided smile on his bruised face. His left hand—the one not immobilized by surgical pins and bandages—reaches for mine.
"Hey," he says, voice raspy from disuse. Just one word, barely audible over the steady beeping of the monitors, but it's enough to shatter what remains of my composure.
I'm on my feet instantly, cradling his face between my palms, mindful of his injuries but desperate for contact. "You're awake," I whisper, then press my lips to his—gentle, careful, but filled with all the fear and relief coursing through me. "Thank fucking god."
He smiles against my lips, his left hand finding my cheek. "You came to see me." He traces my jawline with feather-light touches, as if reassuring himself that I'm real.
"Of course I came," I say, pulling back just enough to see his face properly. "Nothing could have kept me away."
William's smile widens slightly, then he winces.
"Everything hurts," he admits. "My head feels like it's in a vice.
And there's this weird thing where the room spins if I move too fast." He blinks slowly.
"A couple of minutes ago, while you were sleeping, the doctor said that's normal with concussions.
That, and the nausea. And sensitivity to light. Fun stuff."
I smooth my thumb across his cheekbone, careful to avoid the bruising. "You're lucky to be alive. The doctor said the impact was 67 Gs." My voice breaks slightly on the number. "Do you remember what happened?"
He closes his eyes briefly. "Not all of it.
I remember the tunnel. The car dying. Then being terrified I was about to get hit, and.
.." He shakes his head slightly, then immediately regrets it, judging by his grimace.
"Next thing I knew, Oliver was there. He'd stopped his car.
Can you believe that? He gave up his race to check on me. "
I make a mental note to send Oliver something—a gift, a thank-you note, whatever is appropriate for potentially saving William's life. Then William's gaze catches on my right hand as I reach to adjust his pillow.
"What the hell happened to your hand?" His tone sharpens with alarm, eyes widening as he takes in the bandages covering my knuckles. "Violet, what—"
"Dominic had it coming," I say simply.
William's expression shifts from confusion to dawning comprehension to horror. "You didn't."
"I did."
"Tell me you didn't attack Dominic Harrington in the middle of the paddock."
I shrug one shoulder, a gesture that feels both defiant and slightly embarrassed. "He was watching your crash. Replaying and laughing about it."
William's face pales beneath his bruises. "Violet..."
"He's fine. Unfortunately. Split lip, bloody nose, bruised ego. Nothing permanent." I flex my fingers, wincing slightly at the pull of scabbed skin beneath the bandages. "Though not for lack of trying on my part."
"Jesus Christ," William whispers, brows furrowed with concern. "The FIA will—"
"Suspend me? Already done." I meet his gaze steadily. "I'm banned from the paddock, effective immediately. Six races."
"Six?" He looks stricken. "That's almost half of the rest of this season! What about the team? What about—"
"Blake will handle things trackside. I can still run operations remotely." I take his hand again, squeezing gently. "And right now, the only thing we should worry about is you. I want you better, William. I need you to heal."
"And I need my girlfriend not in jail for assault," he counters, but there's no real heat in his words. Just worry.
"I’ll be fine. The team will be fine." I bring his hand to my lips, pressing a kiss against his knuckles. "But I'm not going home without you. I'm staying here until they discharge you, and then we're going back to the UK together."
He studies my face, something soft and wondering in his expression. "You know, I never imagined my badass Team Principal would be throwing punches to defend my honor. It's kind of hot, in a terrifying way."
A laugh escapes me despite everything. "Shut up."
"Make me," he challenges, echoing our words from two nights ago—a lifetime ago, it feels like now.
I lean in and kiss him again, careful of the IV line attached to his arm, and the bandages across his forehead. When I pull back, a sudden realization hits me.
"Fuck," I mutter. "I was going to come clean about our relationship after this race."
William caresses my face, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw. "Your thoughts are too loud right now." He chuckles softly, though it turns into a wince. "The relationship reveal can wait. We have bigger problems at the moment."
I let out a long breath. "You're right. First, you heal. Then we figure out how to prove what Dominic did. Then we can worry about telling the world we're together."
William frowns. "Wait, what do you mean 'prove what Dominic did'? You think Dominic… did something to my car?"
"Yes and no." I lower my voice, though we're alone in the room.
"No way that asshole knows what to do with an F1 car.
But I think he paid someone—someone with access and knowledge, maybe a corrupt official or someone who worked before for Vortex—to sabotage you.
The timing is too perfect. Random inspection the day before, then total electronics failure in the most dangerous part of the track? "
William's expression turns serious. "That's a dangerous train of thought, Violet."
"Dangerous would be losing you." The words come out raw, unfiltered. "This is the kind of shit Dominic would pull off. The laughing was enough to know that he’s happy about the outcome. I care about you, so I’m going to find the truth."
His eyes widen slightly, a flush spreading across his cheeks. "Wow. I didn't know you could be this... protective."
"I am," I admit, surprised by the fierceness I feel. "I was not aware I could become violent, too. That was an unexpected development."
William chuckles, then winces again at the movement.
"Remember when you told me in Barcelona last year that you'd thought about hitting me if I laid a hand on you when we first met?
" He runs his fingers along the line of my jaw, eyes warm with affection despite the pain he's in. "My wildcat. You're adorable."
"I don't feel adorable," I mutter. "I feel like I could kill Dominic or ask one of Belforte's 'friends' to get rid of him or something."
The laugh that escapes him is genuine despite his injuries, and he pulls me closer with his good arm, drawing me into a one-armed hug.
"Come here," he whispers, shifting slightly to make room for me on the edge of the hospital bed. "Careful of the wires, it looks like I’m in one of EJ’s sci-fi novels."
I ease myself down beside him, my head finding the hollow of his shoulder, mindful of his injuries. His arm wraps around me, holding me close.
"When you're cleared," I say, my voice muffled against his hospital gown, "we're going back home together. And then we're going to figure this out—all of it."
"Together," William agrees, his lips pressing against my hair. "Always together."