Chapter 19
This distance is killing me
William
The media pen resembles a boxing ring where the punches come as questions. I stand in position, microphones thrust toward my face while cameras click in rapid succession.
"William, can you comment on the rumors that Vortex Racing tried to poach Ethan Jordan during the off-season? There's been speculation about contract interference."
Are we still covering this?
"Those rumors were addressed by the team officially," I say, my voice neutral. "EJ is contracted to Colton Racing and excited to start his F1 career with us. That's all that matters now."
The reporter isn't satisfied. "But sources suggest there was legal action threatened against Vortex. Would you say the relationship between the teams is hostile?"
"I'd say we're focused on racing, not paddock politics." I maintain eye contact, refusing to blink first. "My job is to drive the car as fast as possible and bring points to the team. The rest is noise."
Finally, the journalist returns with a question I actually enjoy. "Violet Colton has been credited with turning this team around. What's it like working under her leadership?"
Heat rises to my cheeks at the phrasing—working under her—but I keep my expression professional.
"Violet has transformed every aspect of Colton Racing.
Her vision, her determination... She's the real engine driving our progress.
" I choose my words carefully, aware of the line between honest praise and revealing too much.
"The entire team believes in what she's building. "
"But there were those who questioned putting a woman in charge of an F1 team, especially one with limited racing experience." The same journalist strikes again, his tone setting my nerves on edge.
"Anyone still questioning that decision hasn't been paying attention to our results," I reply, sharper than intended.
"Violet knows more about racing and team management than most people who've spent their entire careers in the paddock. She raced in karting championships when she was younger and has always been around Formula 1 thanks to her late father, so I wouldn’t ever question her experience. "
"Last question," the media handler announces.
A journalist from a tabloid-adjacent outlet steps forward. My guard immediately goes up.
"William, there's been speculation about the nature of your relationship with—"
"I appreciate everyone's time," I interrupt, stepping back. "Looking forward to a great weekend of racing."
With a final nod to the assembled media, I extract myself from the pen, exhaling slowly as I walk away.
The condescension in some of those questions leaves a bitter taste.
The focus on the drama, the veiled sexism toward Violet, the assumption that Colton Racing is still the same struggling team from years past. We proved them wrong last year. We'll do it again.
The autumn sun beats down as I cross the paddock, nodding to familiar faces. My mind drifts from the interviews to more pleasant thoughts—Violet. Last night, I dreamt about her and woke up reaching across an empty hotel bed.
And then—as if my thoughts summoned her—I spot her approaching the Colton Racing motorhome. My mouth immediately goes dry.
She's wearing a midnight-blue suit with thin white pinstripes that trace the curves of her body in a way that's simultaneously professional and devastating.
Her curls bounce with each step, catching sunlight, making my fingers itch to touch them.
The tailored jacket nips at her waist, and even from this distance, I can see she's wearing those killer heels that put her slightly above my eye level.
My heart performs a familiar stutter-step.
Mine. The thought rises unbidden, a possessive pride I have no right to broadcast but can't help feeling.
That brilliant, beautiful woman—who commands rooms full of powerful men, who's rebuilding this team from the ground up—has chosen me in her private moments.
She's a paradox in motion—all business and power on the outside, yet I know how she melts when I kiss that sensitive spot behind her ear.
I know the sounds she makes when we're alone.
I know how her nails dig into my shoulders when she—
I shake the thought away. Not the time. Not the place.
Fuck, this new distance is frustrating. Last night in my hotel room, I laid awake staring at my phone, wanting nothing more than to text her, to ask her to come to me. I ended up taking matters into my own hands, so to speak, but it wasn't the same. Nothing compares to her.
I'm completely whipped. My body physically aches when she's not around, even when she's standing right there across the paddock. It's embarrassing how much I miss her when we're apart for just a day.
I skip across the paddock, hands shoved in my pockets to appear casual. Just a driver heading back to his team. Nothing to see here. Definitely not a man desperate to touch the woman who's technically his boss.
As I approach, I notice something odd. There's an unusual number of media personnel hovering near our motorhome. Not just the regular F1 journalists, but the tabloid types. The ones who care more about gossip than gear ratios.
My stomach drops. Something's up. A cold knot forms in my stomach. Has Dominic tipped them off? Created some rumor that needs confirming? Set some trap we're about to walk into?
I scan the paddock and find the source of my unease.
Across the way, standing in front of the gleaming Vortex Racing motorhome, Dominic Harrington watches us.
Not casually, not accidentally. His gaze is calculated intent.
His usual entourage surrounds him, but his attention is fixed on our motorhome—on Violet specifically.
My skin prickles with unease, blood rushing in my ears.
There's something fundamentally wrong about how he tracks Violet's movements, how his eyes narrow when he notices me approaching her. This isn't normal competitive behavior. This is obsession, vindictiveness elevated to an art form. Can’t this guy move on? Her father kicked his ass, and he’s dragging that grudge for almost three decades?
Our eyes meet briefly across the distance. His lips curl into what might be called a smile if it held any warmth. It doesn't. It's the expression of a man who enjoys watching others squirm.
I break eye contact first, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of seeing my concern. I clench my jaw as stress coils in my chest. I force myself to breathe evenly. This is exactly what he wants—to throw us off balance before the race weekend even properly begins.
Not today, you manipulative bastard.
I straighten my shoulders and push politely through the media scrum, ignoring their questions and photos as I head into the motorhome. Whatever Dominic is planning, we'll handle it. We always do.
The problem is, I don’t know what to prepare for.
The door swings shut behind me, and I can finally breathe properly.
Violet stands just inside the motorhome, already greeting other team members, her professional mask firmly in place.
When she turns and sees me, something shifts in her eyes—subtle, a softening only I would notice.
I respond with a smile that probably reveals too much, but I can't help it.
Three weeks of seeing her only in professional settings hasn't diminished the effect she has on me.
"William," she says, professional and composed. But her eyes linger on mine a half-second longer than necessary, saying everything her words can't.
"Morning, boss." My voice comes out steady despite the riot inside me. "Quite the welcome committee outside."
Her expression doesn't change, but I catch the slight tightening around her eyes. She knows. Of course she knows.
"I noticed," she says simply, turning to accept a tablet from a passing engineer, scanning it briefly before handing it back with a nod. "We're drawing more attention this season. Expected, given our progress."
But it's not just progress drawing those cameras. Dominic's out there, pulling strings, whispering suggestions, creating smoke where there isn't fire. Yet.
The motorhome bustles around us—engineers reviewing data, catering staff refreshing the breakfast spread, mechanics discussing last-minute adjustments.
A bubble of normalcy in the abnormal scrutiny outside.
Violet takes a sip from her coffee mug, the red CR logo of Colton Racing facing outward, her lipstick leaving a perfect imprint on the rim.
I want to kiss her.
"Did the media session go well?" she asks, skillfully redirecting our conversation to safer territory.
I want to hug her.
I lean against the nearest counter, careful to maintain a professional distance. "The usual mixed bag. Some still think last year was a fluke. Others are starting to believe we might actually know what we're doing."
Her lips curve slightly. "Their opinion matters less than our results."
"Absolutely." I match her professional tone while holding her gaze. "Though I had to defend EJ from suggestions he's too inexperienced. And you from the usual sexist remarks."
Something flashes in her eyes—gratitude, perhaps, or surprise that I'd noticed the sexist undertones. "You didn't need to do that."
"I know you can fight your own battles," I say, lowering my voice slightly. "But some battles shouldn't need fighting in the first place."
A passing team member glances our way, and Violet smoothly shifts gears. "Are you feeling prepared for the weekend? The weather forecast suggests possible rain on Sunday."
I recognize the pivot for what it is—a return to entirely professional conversation. "I like this track," I tell her, unable to keep a hint of suggestion from my voice. "Melbourne's been good to me."
The double meaning hangs between us. My P5 finish last year, yes—my first points in Formula 1, a result that silenced many critics.
But also what came after. The team celebration leading to drinks at the hotel bar.
The electric tension as we found ourselves next to each other during dinner.
The first time I fully experienced what Violet Colton looked like without her professional armor—her hair wild across hotel pillows, her voice breathless as she gasped my name.
I want her.
Her eyes darken slightly, reading my thoughts with uncanny precision. "Indeed," she says, her tone neutral, though her gaze anything but. "Let's hope for a repeat performance." A pause, so brief others would miss it. "On track, of course."
"Of course," I agree, not bothering to hide my smile. "Though sometimes, the off-track celebrations are just as memorable."
"Don't be cheeky, Foster," she warns, but her eyes soften. In fact, there's a warmth in her voice that contradicts her professional demeanor. "Save that energy for qualifying."