Chapter 28
Heritage. Memories. Home.
Violet
The elevator doors slide open to reveal an entire floor of Belforte's Resort in Jeddah, transformed into our private oasis. A scent of mixed spices fills the air—cardamom, cinnamon, cumin—that remind me of childhood dinners when Mom would spend hours in the kitchen.
Blake appears at my side, his weathered face lined with satisfaction. "Decent result, all things considered."
"That safety car was brutal timing for EJ," I say, watching our youngest driver stride into the room ahead of us, already gesturing animatedly to Maya. "His pace was incredible before that."
"Still got points with William," Blake reminds me. "That's four points finishes in five races now."
I nod, allowing myself to enjoy the small victory. Consistency building. Momentum growing. Small steps that, together, create something bigger.
Belforte greets us at a massive round table in the center of the room, arms spread wide like he's welcoming us to his kingdom. Which, I suppose, he is. The hotel bears his name, after all.
"For my favorite team," he announces, "the best table in the house!"
I slide into the curved sofa that forms half the seating area, Blake settling to my left.
Felix drops into the spot beyond Blake, looking unusually relaxed in a simple linen shirt, his usually perfect blond hair slightly tousled.
Across from us, Tom, Maya, and Johnson take their seats, followed by Belforte himself and EJ, completing our circle.
Something in my chest warms and melts when William enters the room.
He's changed since the race—now wearing a loose linen shirt and shorts that show off his tanned, newly tattooed thighs.
His hair is still damp from a shower, curling slightly at the edges.
He slides into the empty space to my right, his thigh pressing against mine in a way that feels both accidental and deliberate.
"Sorry I'm late," he says to the table, but his eyes find mine. "Got caught by some fans on the way up."
EJ leans forward, elbows on the table. "Wait, is this all Arabic food?" he asks, eyeing the menus a staff member has just distributed. "I've never actually tried it."
Belforte's face lights up with mock outrage. "Never? This is a tragedy we must correct immediately!" He claps a hand on EJ's shoulder. "Tonight, we have a mix of Saudi and Egyptian dishes. You're going to love it."
"To celebrate our queen here," Belforte adds with a theatrical flourish in my direction.
Heat rises to my face. I hate blushing. How Belforte found exactly how to trigger it is still a mystery.
"Indeed," William murmurs beside me, his voice lowering to a whisper. "A queen."
I turn to give him a look—half warning, half something else—and freeze. The scent hits me first, something new and unexpected. Not his usual cologne but something sweeter, warmer, with notes of vanilla and amber. It's intoxicating. I inhale again, trying to be subtle but failing miserably.
William notices. Of course he notices. His lips curl into that infuriating smirk that makes my heart beat faster. He leans closer, his mouth near my ear.
"Do you like sweets?" he whispers, and the double meaning isn't lost on me.
I push him away playfully, hoping my burning cheeks aren't as visible as they feel. "Behave yourself," I mutter, but there's no real admonishment in my tone.
His laugh is low, shared only with me despite our public setting.
I focus intently on the menu, though the words blur before my eyes.
It takes every ounce of willpower not to lean into him, to not rest my head on his shoulder or—worse—grab his stupidly handsome face and kiss that smirk off his lips.
We're in public. With the team. With our family.
And that's what they've become, I realize, looking around the table.
Our family. Blake, with his paternal wisdom.
Belforte, the eccentric uncle no one talks about but everyone loves.
Felix, the cool older cousin. EJ, the enthusiastic younger brother.
Maya, Johnson, Tom—all essential pieces of this strange, beautiful puzzle we've assembled.
"So," Tom says, breaking into my thoughts, "that strategy we tried with the hard compounds—"
"Oh no," Maya interrupts, wagging a finger. "No race talk for at least thirty minutes. I need food and at least one drink before we dissect what went wrong."
"Nothing went wrong," Johnson corrects her. "We adapted to circumstances. The safety car was just bad timing."
"Still should've pitted EJ earlier," Tom mutters.
"Hey!" EJ protests. "I'm right here."
Their bickering continues, comfortable and familiar.
I begin to relax, the tension of the race weekend slowly uncoiling from my shoulders.
The legal and PR teams already have the recording I made of Dominic.
They're preparing a strategic release to counter the negative press surrounding William and me.
It's not over—far from it—but for the first time in months, we've regained control of the narrative.
William finds my hand under the table, his fingers hooking around mine in a gesture so simple yet so intimate, it makes my breath catch.
I should pull away. I don't.
"You good?" he asks quietly, his eyes searching mine.
I nod, not trusting myself to speak in this moment. I am good. Better than I've been in days. The team performed well despite challenges. The recording gives us leverage against Dominic. And William is here, beside me.
"Better than good," I finally say.
His answering smile is soft, genuine, lacking the teasing edge from before. For a moment, it's just us—the noise of the room fading away, the presence of others temporarily forgotten.
Then Blake nudges my other side. "You want Saudi Champagne or are you sticking with mint tea tonight?"
The moment breaks. William's fingers stay linked with mine as I turn to answer Blake, but reality reasserts itself. "I’m sticking to mint tea."
The double doors to our private dining area swing open, and the scent hits me first—rich, complex, immediately transporting.
Servers glide toward our table bearing large platters that send my heart racing with recognition.
Koshary with its layered rice, lentils, and pasta.
Molokheya, deep green and aromatic. Stuffed vine leaves glistening with olive oil.
Crisp falafel. Fluffy baladi bread. My Mom's kitchen materializes in my memory so vividly, I almost expect to see her standing there, wooden spoon in hand, shooing me away from sampling before dinner.
I blink my eyes a bit too fast to hold in the tears threatening to spill.
"Oh my god," I breathe, sitting up straighter as the servers arrange the feast before us.
Blake notices my reaction and smiles. "Someone's excited."
"Of course I'm excited!" I say, unable to contain the childlike enthusiasm bubbling up inside me. "I haven't had proper Egyptian food since..." I trail off, hit by a sudden wave of nostalgia. "Well, since my Mom passed away. She used to cook feasts like this."
The words bring a bittersweet ache. I rarely talk about my Mom—it's always easier to discuss Dad, whose legacy surrounds me daily at Colton Racing. But these dishes, these smells... They're hers. And I miss her a lot.
"This looks incredible," Felix says, leaning forward to inspect the colorful array. "When I was racing in Abu Dhabi years ago, I found this tiny restaurant off the main streets. Went back every night of the race weekend."
"Did you win that race?" EJ asks.
Felix grins. "By twelve seconds and spent the whole race thinking about their falafel."
"Food is power," Belforte declares, already reaching for the bread. "Especially food that reminds us of home."
William has been quiet beside me, but I sense his attention shift. He leans closer, his shoulder pressing against mine, bringing with it that new, sweet scent that's been driving me crazy all evening.
"What would you recommend?" he asks softly, his breath warm against my ear. "I've had Middle Eastern and North African food before but never specifically Egyptian."
I turn to answer him and find his face millimeters from mine. Our noses almost touch. His eyes, hazel flecked with gold in this light, drop briefly to my lips before returning to meet my gaze. The world narrows to just us, just this moment, just the microscopic space between our faces.
"I—" My voice catches. So close. Too close. Not close enough.
A smile plays at the corners of his mouth—that infuriating, perfect smile that says he knows exactly what he's doing to me, and what I want to do to him. He doesn't move away.
"You were saying?" he prompts, voice deliberately low.
Heat rushes to my face. I place my hand against his chest and push him back playfully, creating a safer distance between us. "You're impossible," I whisper.
His laugh is soft, intimate, with a playful edge. "Just curious about the food."
"Start with koshary," I say, gesturing to the dish nearest him. "It's our national comfort food. Rice, pasta, lentils, chickpeas, fried onions, and this spicy tomato sauce that'll knock your socks off."
"Pasta and rice together?" He raises an eyebrow. "That's carb-on-carb crime."
"Trust me," I say. "This breaks all the rules in the best possible way."
William reaches for the serving spoon, deliberately brushing his fingers against mine as I reach for the same dish. The contact sends electricity shooting up my arm.
Across the table, I catch Belforte watching us, a knowing smile playing on his lips. He leans over the table toward Blake, saying something I can't hear over EJ's enthusiastic exclamations about the food he's just tasted.
"Oh my god," William groans beside me, having taken his first bite of koshary. "This is incredible."
"Told you," I say, unable to keep the smugness from my voice. I reach for the molokheya, spooning the dark green soup over rice. "Try this next. It's made from jute leaves, but it's got this amazing consistency..."