Chapter 13 #2
Five meters. Dominic's office door looms ahead—solid wood in a sea of glass—because of course he needs to be different, special, closed off where everyone else is transparent.
His name gleams on a plaque: DOMINIC HARRINGTON, CEO & TEAM PRINCIPAL.
As if anyone could forget that sorry ass.
He probably hangs photos of himself throughout the common areas so that people remember who pays their salaries.
I don't knock.
I don't pause.
I push the door open and stride in like I own the place.
Dominic sits behind his desk, silver hair immaculate, blue eyes cold as arctic ice.
He's dressed in what I recognize as a bespoke Savile Row suit—on Christmas morning, because God forbid the man ever appear less than perfectly tailored.
His desk is an expanse of polished ebony, with just three items precisely arranged: a laptop, a crystal tumbler containing what looks like expensive scotch, and a folder with Ethan Jordan's name visible on the tab.
"Violet." He gestures to the chair opposite his desk without rising. "Right on time. Care for a drink? It's Macallan 25. Your father's favorite, if I recall correctly."
My jaw aches from clenching so hard. "What the hell do you think you're playing at, Dominic?"
He smiles, the expression never reaching his eyes. "Business, of course. Please, sit. Standing in those heels must be exhausting, especially after such a... busy night."
The insinuation hangs in the air between us, deliberate and poisonous. And in that moment, I realize with absolute certainty that Dominic Harrington has been watching me. Watching William. Watching us.
My blood turns to ice in my veins.
I remain standing, though every muscle screams for me to lunge across that pristine desk and wipe the smile from Dominic's face. Instead, I place my palms flat on the cool wood, leaning forward just enough to establish physical dominance in the space.
"Let's be clear. Ethan Jordan has a contract with Colton Racing. An exit clause doesn't mean automatic transfer. It means permission to negotiate, which requires his consent."
Dominic leans back, one manicured finger tracing the rim of his scotch glass.
"And you believe an eighteen-year-old boy will turn down fifteen million euros, and a seat with the Constructors' Champions to stay with—what was it your team achieved last season?
Ah yes, P8." He chuckles. "Quite the competitive offering. "
"We're building something at Colton Racing.
EJ knows that. He's part of it. He’s contributing to it.
" I keep my voice measured, professional.
"He also knows that Vortex has a history of chewing up young talent and spitting them out when they don't perform immediately.
Remind me, how many drivers do you have waiting for a seat, and how many have you dropped in the last three years? "
"Is that what you tell yourself?" Dominic takes a sip of his scotch, eyes never leaving mine.
"That you're providing some sort of... nurturing environment?
" His mouth twists around the word like it tastes foul.
"Racing isn't about coddling, Violet. It's about results.
Something your father understood, even if you don't."
The mention of my Dad sends a pulse of anger through me, but I suppress it. "My father built a team that won championships through development and loyalty. Not by poaching drivers and creating media circuses on Christmas Day."
"Different times. Frederick had the luxury of patience." He sets his glass down precisely. "But then, he wasn't fighting to save a failing team while juggling... personal distractions."
The temperature in the room seems to drop ten degrees. I straighten, removing my hands from his desk. "What exactly are you implying, Dominic?"
"Nothing, nothing." His smile is all teeth, no warmth.
"Though if we're speaking of distractions, that driver of yours—Foster—quite the handful, isn't he?
Talented, certainly. Reckless, absolutely.
Been spotted at some rather questionable venues recently.
Metal concerts, I believe? Emerged with quite the shiner.
" He taps beneath his eye. "Not the image one associates with a professional athlete. "
My skin prickles with unease. The details are too specific. "Are you having my drivers followed?"
"Information finds its way to me. The F1 community is small despite how big it can look." He shrugs, an elegant dismissal. "Though I must say, I was surprised to learn where he spent Christmas Eve. Or rather, who with."
My face flushes with heat—anger, not embarrassment. Never embarrassment. "You've crossed a line, Dominic. My private life is none of your business."
"Oh, but it is my business when the Team Principal of a competitor is sleeping with her driver.
" The words land like precision bombs. "Quite the scandal that would make, don't you think?
Your board of directors would have questions.
The media would have a field day. 'Female Team Principal trades favors for performance. ' Tawdry, but headline-worthy."
I curl my hands into fists at my sides. "Is that what this is about? You're threatened by Colton Racing's progress, so you resort to blackmail?"
"Blackmail?" He laughs, the sound echoing off glass and metal surfaces. "My dear, this is merely a friendly warning. What you do in your private time is your concern—until it affects the sport. The integrity of Formula 1 must be protected."
"The integrity—" I almost choke on the words. "This from the man who's spent a decade manipulating regulations, bullying officials, and destroying young careers? From a guy who slept his way into being Team Principal of this team?"
Dominic stands now, his height allowing him to tower over the desk. "Be very careful, Violet. You're playing in a league you don't understand."
"No, you be careful." I match his stance, refusing to be intimidated. "EJ stays with Colton Racing. Your little power play fails. And if you ever try to use my personal life as leverage again, I'll make sure every journalist in the paddock knows exactly how you operate."
He circles the desk slowly, like a predator measuring its prey. "You really don't get it, do you? This isn't just business. This is personal. Your father humiliated me. Six consecutive championships stolen from under my nose. He made Vortex look like amateurs."
"That was decades ago. My father is dead."
"Yes, and his legacy is dying, too. Slowly, painfully, in your incapable hands.
" His voice drops to a silken whisper. "Frederick Colton was a giant.
You're a child playing dress-up in his clothes.
He'd be ashamed to see what you've reduced his team to—backmarkers dependent on charity from a mafia thug and led by a woman who's in bed with her—"
My hand moves before my brain can stop it, slapping hard against Dominic's cheek. The crack echoes in the silent office.
Time freezes. Dominic touches his reddening face, expression shifting from shock to something darker, more satisfied. I've given him exactly what he wanted—proof that he can get under my skin, make me lose control.
"There she is," he murmurs. "Frederick's daughter after all. Same temper. Same poor judgment."
I step back, heart hammering against my ribs. My palm stings. "You don't get to speak about my father. Ever."
"I'll speak about whatever and whomever I choose.
" His voice hardens to steel. "And I choose to speak about how I'll dismantle Colton Racing piece by piece.
Starting with your promising young driver.
Then your sponsor. Then your reputation.
Until there's nothing left but an empty factory and fading memories. "
"You're obsessed." The realization dawns cold and clear. "This isn't strategy. It's pathological. You should seek treatment."
"Call it what you like." He straightens his suit jacket, composure fully restored.
"But know this—nothing will stop me from crushing your dreams and that pitiful team.
Not your threats, not your mafia investor, certainly not your second-rate drivers or your.
.. questionable leadership methods that involve tumbles in bed. "
His gaze rakes over me, the assessment calculated to make me feel small, insignificant. But something has shifted inside me. The initial shock of his personal attack has crystallized into diamond-hard resolve.
"You talk about my father," I say quietly. "But you forget his most important lesson: never underestimate an opponent who has nothing to lose."
Dominic's smile doesn't waver, but something flickers in his eyes. Doubt? Concern? It's gone too quickly to identify.
"Brave words from someone cornered." He returns to his desk, the conversation clearly over in his mind.
"Do give Foster my regards. Tell him his next contract negotiation might be more complicated than he expects, because you'll be sacked soon, and he’ll be in the middle of a sex scandal—suddenly becoming damaged goods again. "
The threat hangs in the air between us—explicit, unmistakable, aimed at what he now knows matters most to me.
I straighten to my full height, adjust my blazer with precise movements, and meet Dominic's gaze without flinching. The slap was a mistake—a momentary lapse in control—but I refuse to show further weakness. My voice, when it comes, carries a coldness that would make the Arctic pale in comparison.
"If you're so concerned about Vortex's standing, perhaps focus on improving your team rather than sabotaging mine. A truly exceptional Team Principal wouldn't need these games."
Dominic's face hardens, that one verbal jab finding its target with more precision than my slap. His ego has always been his vulnerability—a fact my father exploited, and now, so will I.