Chapter 5
What is happiness?
Violet
After the meetings are over and done, I slouch in my plush office chair. Eyes closed. It's been a while since I've experienced a relentless streak of meetings. Thankfully, all went well, board of directors included, even if they keep pressing the Belforte situation.
Then, the door opens. Blake enters with his usual efficiency, tablet tucked under one arm, eyes already seeking mine for confirmation. I allow myself a small, satisfied smile.
"Violet, did everything go well?" he asks.
I tap the portfolio. "Thankfully, yes. Come here, see what I've brought home."
Blake closes the door behind him, his tall frame folding into the chair opposite my desk with familiar ease. I slide the leather portfolio toward him, unable to fully suppress the triumph in my gesture.
"So," he begins, accepting the portfolio with careful hands, "how was Italy? Beyond the obvious success." He gestures at the contract.
"Beautiful. Productive." I lean back in my chair, allowing my professional posture to relax incrementally. "I know you didn't want to come with me because of that, but believe me, Silas was accommodating." I tap the contract. "Open it. See for yourself."
He complies, scanning the document efficiently. His eyes widen slightly at the figures, then again at the signatures. Satisfaction spreads across his features—subtle, but unmistakable in the slight upturn of his mouth, the easing of tension around his eyes.
"Fifty-five million euros," he says quietly. "Plus—"
"—an additional eighteen million for majority investor status," I finish for him, unable to keep pride from coloring my tone. "That wasn't part of our original negotiations. He offered it on the final day, over breakfast. Said he'd been thinking about it all night."
Blake lets out a low whistle. "Seventy-three million total. That's..."
"Game-changing," I supply. "The board's already received confirmation. Part of the money was already invested in the first upgrades we made to the factory. But the second transfer cleared yesterday."
"And the stipulations? There must be some."
I shake my head. "Surprisingly few. He wants visibility, of course. Branding on the car, the driver’s suits, the usual hospitality requirements.
" I reach for my refilled cup of coffee, letting the warmth seep into my fingers.
"But his main request was personal involvement. He wants to attend races—not all of them, but the European circuit, definitely. Monaco, Imola, Barcelona, Monza. Also Singapore, because he’ll be opening a new resort there later this year. "
"Understandable for an Italian investor."
"And factory visits. Quarterly, at minimum.
He wants to be involved." I remember Belforte's unexpected enthusiasm when he'd made the request. "He actually seemed genuinely interested in the technical side, Blake.
Asked intelligent questions about the chassis development, the new regulations.
This isn't just a vanity project for him. "
Blake's brow furrows slightly. "Most financial backers prefer to remain at arm's length. Enjoy the glamor without the grease."
"I think that's what makes this different." I gesture toward the factory floor visible through my windows. "He understands we're building something here. Not just cars—a resurrection."
"His word or yours?"
"Mine. He preferred 'new beginning.' Said I was more dramatic." The memory brings an unbidden smile to my lips.
Blake studies my expression with the careful attention he's always shown—the same perceptiveness that made him invaluable to my dad. "You like him."
It's not a question, but I answer anyway. "I respect his directness. And yes, I appreciate his enthusiasm. The offer to increase his investment came out of nowhere, but it felt..." I search for the right word. "Genuine. Like he was caught up in the vision."
"The Violet Colton effect," Blake remarks with a small smile. "You've always had that quality. Your father had it, too—made people believe in impossible things."
His mention of my Dad settles warm and heavy in my chest. "This isn't impossible anymore," I say quietly, tracing a finger over the contract. "This makes it probable."
Blake nods, turning to the final page where the signatures stand in stark black ink. "Majority investor. The board must have had opinions about that."
"The board has opinions about everything I do," I counter dryly. "But even they can't argue with seventy-three million euros of clean money. They approved the transaction and his status in the team. They had to if they wanted to remain on the board receiving their salaries."
"And we're one hundred percent sure it's clean, right?" Blake's voice drops slightly, the question hanging between us with all its implications.
I meet his gaze directly. "Vetted by three separate firms. His construction empire is legitimate, Blake. Luxury hotels, commercial developments across Italy, and expanding into Dubai—and now Hong Kong and Singapore. Whatever rumors surround him personally, his business finances are impeccable."
Relief softens his expression. "Then I'd say congratulations are in order." He closes the portfolio carefully. "This is exactly what we needed, Violet. What you've accomplished in a year—bringing in William, replacing Nicholas with EJ, and now securing Belforte—it's remarkable."
A flush of satisfaction warms my cheeks, unexpected and almost uncomfortable.
Praise has always seemed dangerous—a luxury I can't afford when there's still so much work ahead.
Still, my heart tells me I have not done enough for this team.
We need more sponsors. I want to give even better salaries to our team members, from factory workers to engineers.
.. Everyone. I want to rework contracts to avoid other teams poaching our talent for free.
But in this moment, with the rain drumming against the windows, and tangible evidence of success between us, I allow it to wash over me. I'm not a failure as a businesswoman, it seems. That's something.
"Another obstacle overcome," I say quietly, a smile spreading across my face. "We're actually doing this, Blake. Bringing Colton Racing back."
"Never doubted you would," he replies, and his sincerity makes my throat tighten unexpectedly.
"With this investment, and the team we're building, Blake, I think we might surprise everyone this coming season."
Blake leans forward, his lanky frame casting a long shadow across my desk.
The enthusiasm in his eyes dims slightly, replaced by the cautious calculation I've come to rely on over the years.
"I'm thrilled about the investment, Violet.
But Belforte as a majority investor..." He taps his fingers against the portfolio.
"That gives him significant power within the team structure. Are you comfortable with that?"
I consider the question carefully, appreciating his directness. This concern had occupied most of my return flight from Italy—the implications of Belforte's expanded role balancing precariously against our desperate need for his resources.
"From a purely business perspective," I begin, choosing my words with precision, "it's an acceptable risk.
The contract includes specific limitations on operational interference.
He can't dictate driver choices, technical direction, or staff appointments.
" I trace the embossed Colton Racing logo on the portfolio.
"What he gains is influence, not control.
A seat at the table, not the head of it. "
"And that distinction matters to him?"
"Surprisingly, yes." I stand, moving to the window that overlooks the testing track. "He was explicit about maintaining the team's identity. Said investing in Colton Racing meant investing in its legacy and leadership—specifically mine."
Belforte genuinely refused to add his name to the team like title sponsors for other teams do. We're not Belforte Construction Colton Racing.
We're Colton Racing.
Blake joins me at the window, his reflection appearing beside mine in the glass. "And you believe him?"
The question hangs between us, laden with years of shared experience—programs promised then abandoned, sponsors whose checks bounced, partners whose loyalties shifted with the standings. Formula 1 is littered with the corpses of teams who trusted the wrong backers.
"I do," I say finally, surprising myself with the certainty in my voice. "Not blindly, of course. The legal safeguards are extensive. But there's something about him, Blake. Beneath the intimidating exterior and the rumors..."
"A heart of gold?" Blake's skepticism is gentle but unmistakable.
"Hardly." I smile despite myself. "But passion, yes.
Genuine enthusiasm for what we're building.
He understands racing in a way most investors don't. He sees beyond the marketing potential to the engineering challenge, the human element.
" I turn to face Blake directly. "Personally, I don't dislike the energy he brings.
It's... refreshing. And he’s becoming a… friend. As weird as it seems."
Blake studies me with the careful attention he's always shown—the same gaze that picked up on my teenage crushes and knew when I was hiding disappointment behind bravado.
"Well, for what it’s worth, your father would have liked him," he says finally.
A lump forms in my throat. "You think so?"
"Frederick appreciated straightforward people with genuine passion. Even those with rough edges." Blake's smile turns wistful. "Especially those with rough edges. He always said the polished ones were hiding something."
The memory of my dad—his booming laugh, his intuitive understanding of people—fills the space between us, warm and painful all at once. Blake is right; Dad would have appreciated Belforte's directness, his refusal to pretend to be anything other than what he is.