Epilogue 2
William
The first light of the new year sneaks through the gap in the curtains, painting a thin golden line across our bedroom floor. I blink awake, my body somehow knowing it's morning despite the silence of my alarm.
I shift slightly, careful not to disturb her.
The sheet slips, revealing the curve of her shoulder, the smooth expanse of her back.
Her skin glows in the dim light; a beautiful contrast against the white bedding.
The past week of waking up beside her still seems surreal.
Her boxes remain half unpacked in various corners of the house—neither of us eager to spend our holiday time organizing instead of celebrating our first—perfect—Christmas together.
One week of her next to me in bed. One week of her shoes by the door, her coffee mug in the kitchen, her laptop open on the dining table. One week of this feeling—like something that was missing has finally slotted into place.
Violet stirs, mumbling something unintelligible before settling deeper into sleep.
I gently pull the comforter back up, tucking it around her.
She's always cold, even with the heating on.
Something about circulation and her fingers being perpetually like ice cubes.
She complained about it yesterday while we were walking around the property, her gloved hand in mine.
I ease myself up, wincing at the slight creak of the mattress.
The floor is cold against my feet. I grab my T-shirt from where it landed last night—somewhere between passionate kisses and fumbling with buttons—and pull it over my head.
Then, I put on my boxers and sweatpants.
The heating panel is on the wall by the door, one of the upgrades I installed last spring.
I tap it, increasing the temperature a few degrees.
The quiet hum of the system kicking in fills the room.
Back in the bed, I watch Violet for a moment longer.
Her beautiful dark curls spread across the pillow—her pillow now, technically, since she's fully claimed what was supposed to be her side of the bed.
Her face is softer in sleep, the furrow between her brows smoothed away, her lips slightly parted.
This is a version only I get to see—vulnerable, unguarded, completely at peace.
The sight hits me square in the chest. I'm the luckiest bastard alive.
I turn to my bedside table and pull open the drawer quietly. Inside is the small, leather-bound notebook Felix gave me years ago, back when I was still fighting to get a seat in F2.
"Write down what you want," he'd said. "Make it real by putting it on paper. Then chase it relentlessly." I've filled its pages with goals and dreams—some achieved, some still pending, some abandoned along the way.
I click on the small lamp, its light contained to my side of the bed. Violet doesn't stir. Taking the pen from the drawer, I flip to a fresh page and write the date: January 1st. New year, new page. That's always been my ritual.
The pen hovers over the paper. What do I want this year? The answer comes easily, has been forming in my mind since the last race of the season.
Win the World Drivers’ Championship.
I write it clearly, deliberately. Not just a hope anymore—a real possibility.
Last season proved that. One win, and several close calls with the podium.
The car is finally competitive, thanks to Violet's leadership, and the team she's built.
We're not frontrunners yet, but we're in the fight. This year could be it.
Below that, I add:
Take Colton Racing back to the top. Win Constructors' Championship.
The team goal. Our goal. I think about the factory workers, the engineers, the mechanics who stayed with Colton Racing through the lean years. They deserve this. Violet deserves this—vindication for her vision, proof that she was right to fight for the team when everyone said it was a lost cause.
I tap the pen against the paper, thinking. Personal goals now.
Convert Felix to rock music.
I grin as I write it. He's been stubbornly devoted to his electronic dance music for years, claiming it has the "perfect beats per minute for rhythm training.
" I've been slowly introducing him to my playlists whenever we're at the gym together. Last month, I caught him humming Ember’s Edge's new song under his breath. Progress.
Bring EJ and Oliver to rock concerts.
Our youngest driver could use some cultural education beyond whatever Gen Z considers music these days.
And Oliver—despite his Ice King reputation—actually has decent taste.
He recognized an Emporium of Souls riff playing in my headphones once.
He wears Diamond Wrath’s t-shirts from time to time. There's potential there.
I add the next item with a grimace:
Train neck muscles more intensively (even though it hurts like hell).
The G-forces in the new car are brutal. Every driver feels it, but at my height, the leverage is worse. Felix and I compared bruises after Silverstone testing last year—our necks looked like they had been mauled by a bear. The price we pay for speed.
My pen stills as I look back at Violet. She's shifted again, her face now turned fully toward me, one hand tucked under her cheek. The soft morning light catches on her eyelashes, impossibly long against her skin. The sight of her in my bed—our bed—still takes my breath away.
Our journey flashes through my mind—from her skeptical expression when I first begged for a seat at Colton Racing, to the reluctant respect that grew between us during those early races. Melbourne. Monaco. Tokyo. Singapore. This summer.
I remember our first kiss, our first night together, the surprising softness of her beneath all that professional armor. The way she says my name when we're alone. The look on her face when I'm pushing the car to its limits on track—proud and terrified at the same time.
I think about our countless hotel rooms across the globe, stolen moments between races. Her hand finding mine under tables during tense meetings. The determined set of her jaw when she's defending me to the press, to the board, to anyone who doubts.
And now, she's here. Permanently. Her clothes hanging beside mine. Her books on the shelves. Her scent embedded in the sheets. Her future entwined with mine.
An idea flashes through my mind. I know exactly what I want more than anything this year.
I put pen to paper and write:
Marry the love of my life.
The words stare back at me, both terrifying and exhilarating.
I've never even thought about marriage before Violet.
It wasn't on my radar, wasn't part of the plan.
But looking at those words, I know they're right.
I want her—not just for now, but for all the days that come after. I want to call her my wife.
I want forever with her.
I close the notebook and tuck it back into the drawer, switching off the lamp. My heart pounds against my ribs. Not now, not yet—but soon. When the moment is right. I need to find a ring. Plan something special, something worthy of her.
The bed dips as I slide back under the covers. Violet immediately gravitates toward my warmth, her naked body finding mine even in sleep. I wrap my arm around her, pulling her close, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead.
Her eyelids flutter, not quite opening. "Mmm, time is it?" she mumbles, the words slurred with sleep.
"Early," I whisper. "Go back to sleep, gorgeous."
"What're you doing up?"
"Just thinking."
"'Bout what?" Her fingers curl against my chest, seeking warmth.
I smile against her hair. "The new year. Goals. The future."
"Hmm. Good thoughts?" She snuggles closer, eyes still closed.
"The best." I brush my lips against her cheek. "Happy New Year, Vi."
She smiles, that soft, unguarded smile I never saw before we were together. "Happy New Year, Will," she whispers, already drifting back to sleep.
My heart feels too big for my chest, expanding with everything I feel for her.
One day, I'll ask her. One day, I'll tell her that in all my years of chasing dreams—from karting championships to F1 glory—she's the most incredible thing I've ever fought for.
But for now, I'm content to hold her in our bed, in our home, on the first morning of what promises to be the most important year of my life.