Chapter 14
Appetite for Self-Destruction
Violet
The interior of Silas Belforte’s private jet surprises me—tasteful rather than opulent, designed for function with touches of comfort that don't scream excess.
No gold fixtures or crystal decanters; just clean lines, muted colors, and black leather seats with white stitching that face each other across a polished table.
I settle into one as Silas shrugs off his overcoat, revealing the waistcoat beneath that completes his black, tailormade, three-piece armor.
He loosens his tie but doesn't remove it—a small concession to the circumstances, perhaps.
The engines hum to life as we prepare for takeoff, the sound a steady counterpoint to the storm patterns forming in my mind.
"Drink?" Silas offers, gesturing to a discreet cabinet. "I have an excellent Brunello that might make this conversation more palatable."
I shake my head. "I need clarity. This situation is complicated enough without alcohol."
"Wise." He nods approvingly, settling into the seat opposite mine. "Then let's discuss our young driver's predicament without cushioning it. Dominic is making a power play that goes beyond simply wanting EJ's talent."
I explain everything that happened at Vortex Racing HQ—the threats, insinuations, the fact this reads more like a vendetta against me and Colton Racing than a genuine interest in EJ.
"He implied he's been watching me. Us. The team. Gathering information to use as leverage."
"Standard intimidation tactics." His tone is clinical, assessing. "What about EJ? Did Dominic mention approaching him directly?"
"Not explicitly, but he seemed confident EJ would accept the offer. Too confident." A thought clicks into place. "You think they've already been working on him? Beyond just the formal approach?"
"Not him." Silas steeples his fingers and sighs. "His manager. It's an unusual move to activate an exit clause for a driver who hasn't even competed for you yet. Most Team Principals would approach more subtly, test the waters through intermediaries."
"You think they've bribed EJ's manager?" The possibility hadn't occurred to me, but it makes perfect sense. "To pressure him into accepting?"
"It would be my first move," Silas says with the casual certainty of someone who's played similar games in different contexts.
"Find the vulnerable point in the target's circle.
Apply pressure there. The manager stands to make a percentage of any new contract, yes?
Probably twenty to twenty-five percent. Fifteen million is quite the incentive to push his client toward Vortex. "
"Shit." The word escapes before I can catch it.
Silas chuckles, the sound warm despite the circumstances.
"Indeed. It's a common tactic, even in my field.
Identify who's susceptible to bribes, pay them for information or influence.
Though in my former circles, it usually ended with someone dead or dying.
" He smiles, as if sharing a mild joke about the weather rather than murder.
"This is the worst possible timing," I say, leaning back in my seat as the plane levels off above the clouds. Sunlight streams through the windows now, a stark contrast to the stormy weather we've left behind. "EJ's barely had time to adjust to being an F1 driver, and now this circus."
"There are always vultures circling promising talent." Silas accepts a coffee from the attendant who appears silently at his side. "The question is whether there are other areas where Dominic might strike. Other vulnerabilities we should protect. We should prepare for that."
His gaze is steady, offering an opening without demanding I walk through it. I hesitate, weighing how much to share. Trust is a luxury in Formula 1, where today's ally is tomorrow's competitor. Yet something about Belforte's directness invites reciprocity.
"There is one other area," I admit, meeting his eyes. "William Foster."
"Ah." Silas nods slightly, unsurprised. "Our number one driver. Talented. Passionate. Somewhat reckless. I like him a lot." He pauses, then adds more carefully, "And let me guess… More than just a driver to you, yes?"
I don't flinch at the question. "We've been... involved. Privately. Discreetly."
"I suspected as much." He says this without judgment, merely confirmation of an observation. "Not from any obvious behavior, but there's a certain energy between you from the race broadcasts from Melbourne and Silverstone. I recognize it."
"Dominic knows," I continue, the admission still painful. "He threatened to expose the relationship. Implied it would raise questions about team dynamics, about William's position."
Belforte considers this, sipping his coffee thoughtfully.
"I'm not surprised he would use this. Any man with decent taste would look at you and be interested, Violet.
The relationship itself is not shocking.
" His casual compliment comes without a hint of flirtation, merely statement of fact.
"But the perception could be problematic if handled poorly. "
"People would assume William's position is secured through personal connection rather than talent." The words taste bitter on my tongue. "Or worse, that I'm exploiting a power imbalance."
"Have you defined the relationship between you?" Silas asks, practical as always.
I shake my head. "It's... complicated. We've been careful. Private."
"Then that is your greatest vulnerability." He leans forward slightly. "Undefined relationships leave room for others to define them for you. In the most damaging terms possible."
He's right, of course. William and I have existed in this liminal space—more than friends, less than publicly acknowledged partners—partly to protect ourselves from exactly this kind of scrutiny. And partly because committing to something or someone when my life is this messy is not an option. I want to, but I can’t offer stability.
Yet in avoiding labels, we've left ourselves exposed to whatever narrative Dominic chooses to spin.
"I don't know how to address this," I admit, the rare confession feeling strange on my lips. "In my simulations, all lead to massive scrutiny, and ninety percent of them end with me being sacked."
"I can offer options," Silas says, "but ultimately, it's not my place to dictate your personal affairs.
I invested in Colton Racing because I believe in the team's potential. In its drivers. In your leadership." He gestures between us. "This is a partnership, Violet. I advise, you decide. And I don’t care about who you’re sleeping with. That’s your life. "
His respect for boundaries—both professional and personal—surprises me and further reinforces why I’m starting to trust him like a friend.
"There's one more thing," I add, recalling Dominic's final threat. "He implied he might target you next. Investigation into Belforte Construction."
Silas's expression darkens momentarily, a glimpse of the dangerous man beneath the polished exterior. "Did he now? Mr. Harrington has quite the appetite for self-destruction."
"Why is he so obsessed with destroying Colton Racing?" I ask, frustration bubbling up. "Is it really just my father's legacy? Or is it something else? Some male ego bruised by a woman leading a team better than him? That’s ridiculous."
"Men like Dominic can't stand losing control of narratives," Silas replies, a knowing look in his eyes.
"And if there's one true drama queen in the paddock, it seems to be him. I’ve known men like him.
They won't stop until everyone is looking only at them, admiring or fearing them.
Men like that are the most dangerous—and the most predictable. "
The assessment resonates with my own experience. Dominic, for all his strategic brilliance, is ultimately driven by an insatiable need for attention and control. Understanding that doesn't solve our immediate problems, but it does provide a framework for predicting his next moves.
Chicago greets us with snow and biting wind; a stark contrast to London's dreary rain. I check my phone as we exit customs, finding EJ's message with his parents' address in the suburbs. His response was immediate, anxious—"You're really here? In Chicago?"—the relief palpable even through text.
Silas arranges a car in the blink of an eye, making calls in rapid Italian that require no translation. Money and influence speak their own language, opening doors and smoothing paths even on Christmas Day in a foreign city.
I make a quick call to reassure William that everything is okay—or I’m trying to make it all okay—and I can tell from his tone that he’s trying to mask his frustration about how everything turned out.
After apologizing again, he said "You’re not at fault—if anything, you’re an amazing Team Principal for sacrificing your Christmas to ensure one of your drivers is okay and feels safe.
You’re a wonderful person, so don’t beat yourself up for being selfless.
I’m just being my selfish, bastard self, wanting to keep you close. Stay safe, Queen."
And that still loops in my head as I join Silas and enter an unmarked car, the driver gliding through streets dusted with fresh snow, holiday decorations twinkling from houses we pass.
Families visible through windows, gathered around tables or trees, living out the Christmas I abandoned hours ago.
The suburban neighborhood where EJ's parents live appears through swirling snowflakes—modest homes with shoveled driveways and sensible cars.
A normal life, far removed from the cutthroat politics of Formula 1.
"This is it," I say as we pull up to a two-story house with blue shutters and Christmas lights outlining the roof.
The front door opens before we've fully stopped, and there's EJ, silhouetted against the warm light from inside.