Chapter 42
It's not that kind of box
William
My footsteps echo against marble floors as I navigate the labyrinth of Belforte's newest luxury resort.
Singapore's skyline glitters through floor-to-ceiling windows, the city already coming alive at dusk with neon and luxury.
Two days before we're due at the circuit, yet here I am, trussed up in my mother's hand-knitted jacket over a white tee, playing corporate mascot for the team's biggest sponsor.
But after Monza's win, I'd probably agree to race in a tutu if Violet asked.
That's what victory does—makes everything else feel like a victory lap.
I check my watch—still fifteen minutes before I need to be in the ballroom where Belforte's opening event awaits.
"William!"
I turn to find Oliver striding toward me, his tall frame making me feel positively childlike in comparison.
He's wearing a perfectly tailored marsala suit, stylized beard, and golden hair perfectly combed to one side, making him look like he came straight from a magazine.
His championship-winning smile is firmly in place.
"Fancy meeting you here," I joke as he falls into step beside me.
He wasn't part of the official sponsor lineup, but after bumping into him at Changi Airport earlier, I'd impulsively invited him along. To my surprise, he accepted.
"Couldn't miss the chance to see you playing dress-up," he teases, eyeing my mother's handiwork. "The jacket's quite... homey."
"Fuck off." I laugh, smoothing down the black knit. "My Mom made it for my F1 debut. Consider it my good luck charm now."
Oliver's expression shifts subtly, humor giving way to something more serious. He slows his pace, forcing me to match him.
"Did you see the mess outside? Police in the parking lot, and I think I saw Farrant there, too."
"First time I heard it. Didn’t see a thing."
"Farrant is only lucky on track, it seems. That dude is always mixed up in some scandal or hilarious news because of how gullible he is. Asshole on track, but an odd dude outside of it." He chuckles.
"Speaking of luck," he says, voice dropping. "How are you really doing? You know..." He doesn't finish the sentence. Doesn't need to.
My hand instinctively flexes, the ghost of pain from healed bones a faint memory now. But he's not asking about my physical injuries.
"You saw it, didn't you?" I ask quietly. "The panic attack in the car."
He nods once, eyes scanning the empty hallway to ensure our privacy.
"Moment I found you out, I recognized it. Had them myself after... In the past." His admission surprises me. Oliver Lenox, the Ice King, vulnerable?
I take a deep breath, considering my answer. With most people, I'd deflect. With him, somehow, I don't need to.
"I'm better," I say honestly. "Happier. More relaxed. It feels like things are finally in tune, you know? Where they should be."
"The win helped, I imagine." His smile returns.
"Hey, speaking of wins—congrats on number five, by the way," I say, nudging him with my elbow. "Sealing the championship with seven races to spare? That's just showing off, Ollie."
He's already mathematically secured his fifth World Driver's Championship; an achievement that would normally dominate headlines if not for Colton Racing's dramatic resurgence. The paddock's talking about both—the established champion, and the underdog team climbing back from obscurity.
Oliver's cheeks color slightly. "Had strong motivation this time around," he says cryptically.
"Care to share with the class?"
He shakes his head, a small smile playing at his lips. "Maybe someday. Not yet." Then, with a mischievous glint: "Besides, Farrant was nowhere to be found this season, so..."
I burst out laughing. "True! That pompous ass has been missing from the podium for what, six races now?"
"Ten," Oliver corrects with satisfaction. "Ever since Monaco."
The mention of Monaco should sting, should bring back the darkness and fear. But standing here with Oliver, not just my idol or my savior, but now my friend, it seems like a chapter already closed.
"Karmic justice," I say. "Dominic's golden boy dethroned while Colton Racing rises. You couldn't script it better. The good guys are winning."
We approach the ballroom doors, the muffled sounds of conversation and clinking glasses growing louder.
"Ready for this?" Oliver asks, straightening his already impeccable tie.
"Born ready," I reply with more confidence than I feel. These sponsor events still make me itchy, but I'm getting better at them. "Though I'm surprised you agreed to come. Not exactly your scene."
He shrugs, his expression softening. "Consider it a thank-you."
"For what? You saved my life, remember?"
"For showing me it's okay to let people in sometimes," he says quietly. "Watching you and Violet... It's been eye-opening."
Before I can respond to this uncharacteristically personal admission, the doors swing wider, and Belforte himself emerges, his imposing frame breaking into a broad smile at the sight of us.
The ballroom that opens before us isn't just large—it's enormous, a cathedral to luxury that makes me momentarily forget how to breathe. Crystal chandeliers hang like frozen waterfalls from ceilings so high, they should have their own weather system.
Everywhere I look: marble, gold, glass, and Singapore's elite dressed in outfits that cost more than they should.
I've been in nice places before—F1 takes you to the world's poshest locations—but Belforte Construction clearly didn't get the memo about restraint.
And from the collective gasps around me, that's exactly the reaction they wanted.
"Impressed?" Belforte asks, clocking my wide eyes with satisfaction.
His massive hand claps my shoulder with enough force to make me grateful for my training regimen.
"This is nothing. Wait until you see the infinity pool on floor sixty-six.
It has a glass bottom. You can swim while looking down at the city. "
"I'll pass on that particular heart attack, thanks," I mutter, imagining the vertigo.
Belforte laughs, then turns to Oliver with genuine warmth. "Mr. Lenox! What a surprise to see you here. Not part of sponsorship, but always welcome."
"Thank you for having me," Oliver politely replies. "William invited me. I hope that's not an imposition."
"Nonsense!" Belforte booms, waving away the concern. "Five-time World Drivers’ Champion at my opening? It’s an honor.
" He leans closer to Oliver, lowering his voice to what he probably thinks is a whisper but could still be heard in neighboring postal codes.
"Your last overtake in Baku? Magnificent! Everyone I know was impressed."
Oliver's eyes widen slightly, but his smile never falters. "High praise indeed."
I catch sight of EJ across the room, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else.
He's dressed in a sleek charcoal suit that's clearly been selected for him by someone with taste, but he wears it like medieval armor rather than clothing.
His fingers keep drifting to his collar, adjusting it for what must be the thousandth time.
When he spots us looking, he offers a tight smile and a wave that's more plea for rescue than greeting.
I weave through the crowd toward EJ, stopping twice for selfies with guests who recognize me.
Last year, these interruptions would have irritated me—just another demand on my time, another performance required.
Now, with Monza's win under my belt, and a sense of belonging I've never had before, I find I don't mind.
These people aren't just using me; they're celebrating what our team has accomplished.
"You look like you're being slowly strangled," I tell EJ when I reach him.
He tugs at his tie again. "I think I am. Who designed these torture devices?" Despite the complaint, he stands a little straighter. "This is... a lot."
"Just wait until they call us up on stage," I say, enjoying the flash of panic across his face. "Relax. Smile. Pretend you're comfortable, and eventually, you might be."
"That your secret?" he asks with surprising perception.
"That and whiskey," I admit, snagging two glasses from a passing server and handing him one.
Across the room, Felix holds court with at least a dozen women in a semicircle around him, hanging on his every word.
He's wearing a cream knitted shirt and perfectly tailored suit trousers, looking like he stepped directly from a fashion magazine.
His blond hair is artfully tousled, his laugh perfectly calibrated between genuine and mysterious.
Even from here, I can practically see the heart-eyes emojis floating above the women's heads. He and Oliver are bona fide heartthrobs to the point that it’s unfair.
"How does he do that?" EJ asks, following my gaze.
"Be born looking like an Adonis, I guess." I shrug, glancing down at my own simple outfit—Mom's hand-knitted jacket, white tee, and black suit pants. Basic. Functional. Comfortable. "Good thing I'm not trying to impress anyone here."
"Except Violet," EJ says with newfound boldness. Cheeky bastard.
I grin, taking a sip of whiskey. "Except Violet," I agree.
A chime rings through the ballroom, and Belforte's PR director steps to the microphone at the front of the room. "Ladies and gentlemen, if I could have your attention. We'd like to invite our special guests to the stage for the official ribbon cutting of the Belforte Resort Singapore."
EJ's face pales. "That's us, isn't it?"
"Afraid so, star rookie," I confirm, downing the rest of my drink and setting the glass aside. "Just follow my lead and try not to trip. We don’t want any photos of your handsome face meeting the marbled floor."
Felix joins us as we make our way to the stage, somehow looking even more perfect up close.
"Having fun?" I ask him.