Chapter 30
No more distance
Violet
The headline glares from my tablet: Harrington Doubles Down: 'Frivolous Lawsuit Won't Distract Vortex From Winning.
' I clench my jaw, scrolling through his latest interview where he somehow manages to paint himself as the victim while slinging more mud.
Despite the recording, despite the public backlash, despite his sponsors' very public "discussions" with him about conduct unbecoming of their brand, Dominic still doesn't get it.
Or worse—he does, and simply doesn't care.
"That man doesn't know when to shut his mouth, does he?" Blake leans over my shoulder, peering at the screen with thinly disguised disgust.
"Apparently not."
I flick to the next paragraph where Dominic claims our lawsuit is merely a publicity stunt to distract from Colton Racing's "mediocre performance." I snort. Mediocre. We've scored points in six races. William sits fifth in the driver standings. If that's mediocre, I'll take it.
"The world heard him admit to stalking my driver and leaking private photos," I say, unable to keep the edge from my tone. "He was recorded making sexist comments that would make the 1950s blush. People on social media are demanding he resign. And still, he acts like he's the wronged party."
Blake straightens up, adjusting his Colton Racing jacket. "That recording was the best move you've ever made. His sponsors are furious, his drivers are distancing themselves in interviews, and half the paddock won't even make eye contact with him anymore."
He's right. When the selected portions of that conversation hit the media—carefully edited by our legal team to include only Dominic's admission of leaking the photos and his tirade about women—the reaction was swift.
I know this is a risk, and I'll probably get the short end of the stick, but for now, public opinion has swung dramatically in our favor.
And we needed this. Even James Farrant, when pressed in an interview, could only muster a lukewarm "The Team Principal's views don't represent mine," before quickly changing the subject.
I close the article with a sharp tap. "Did you see Quantum Tech Ventures' stock dropped eight percent after his comments went public? Their female CEO looked ready to personally strangle him at the last race."
"Violet," Blake says gently, "you've won this round. Let it go for tonight. We've got a race tomorrow."
I sigh, shutting down the tablet. He's right as usual.
Monaco waits for no one, and certainly not for my fight back against Dominic Harrington.
The circuit requires absolute focus—from the drivers, from the engineers, from me.
William's P5 qualifying gives us our best chance at a podium here in years. I can't afford to be distracted.
"At least William's car passed inspection with flying colors," I say, standing and smoothing my black blazer.
The random FIA inspections always set my nerves on edge, but this one had been particularly anxiety-inducing given the heightened scrutiny on our team since we've been consistently scoring points.
"Johnson looked offended they even suggested checking." Blake chuckles. "You know how protective he is of those cars. They're cleaner than most operating rooms."
We exit the meeting room together, stepping into the plush corridor of this hotel.
The place reeks of old money and privilege—all marble floors, gilded mirrors, and staff so discreet, they seem to evaporate between sightings.
Outside, the Mediterranean sparkles under the setting sun, Monaco's harbor filled with yachts worth more than our entire team budget.
"Strategy meeting went well," Blake comments as we walk. "EJ's getting more confident with the circuit. His practice times were impressive, and his qualifying was strong."
"He'll need it tomorrow. That first corner is going to be chaos."
"Always is." Blake checks his watch. "I'm heading up to meet Silas, Maya and the boys. Felix promised to share some insights from his Monaco podiums that might help EJ."
I nod, grateful for Felix's continued mentorship of our younger driver. "Tell them to not stay up too late. We should all be well-rested for tomorrow."
"Will do." Blake squeezes my shoulder before turning toward the elevators. "And don't stay up analyzing those sector times again. They won't change before morning."
"No promises," I call after him, though we both know I absolutely will be reviewing them one more time.
I continue down the corridor toward my room, legs aching after a day spent standing in the garage, pacing through strategy meetings, and navigating the treacherous politics of the paddock.
Monaco always intensifies everything—the stakes, the pressure, the visibility.
Every sponsor, celebrity, and influencer with even a tangential connection to F1 descends on the principality for the weekend.
My key card slides into the door at the end of the hall when a sudden grip on my forearm startles me. Before I can react, I'm pulled sideways through another doorway, the heavy hotel door swinging shut behind me with a soft click.
"Finally..."
William.
He stands before me in the dimly lit entryway of his hotel room, his white T-shirt a stark contrast to his tight black jeans.
His face is so open, so vulnerable, it makes my chest ache.
He doesn't wait for my response before pulling me into a crushing hug, his arms wrapping around my waist, his face buried in the crook of my neck.
His heart hammers against my chest, matching the sudden acceleration of my own.
"God, I missed you," he murmurs against my skin.
I stand frozen for a moment, my body remembering before my brain does, that this—being close to him, touching him, breathing him in—is what I've been craving for weeks.
The constant need to maintain distance in public, to limit our interactions to professional contexts, to pretend there isn't an invisible thread constantly pulling us toward each other—it's been exhausting.
My arms move of their own accord, one hand clutching my tablet while the other wraps around his back, his hands shaking.
His body is warm and solid against mine, the familiar scent of his skin—mixed with clean soap—filling my lungs.
His curls tickle my cheek as he holds me tighter, like he's afraid I might disappear if he loosens his grip.
"William," I whisper, my voice catching on his name.
He pulls back just enough to look at me, his hazel eyes searching mine with an intensity that makes my breath hitch. There's longing there, naked and unfiltered, but also something else—a vulnerability I'm not used to seeing from him.
"I had to see you," he says, his voice low and slightly rough. "Properly. Just us."
He traces my cheekbone, a touch so gentle, it makes me ache. Then he takes my hand, his fingers sliding between mine, and gently pulls me deeper into his room.
The room is dark, the lights off, but I can make out enough to see it's meticulously organized—William's boots lined up near the closet, his backpack hanging on a hook, everything in its place.
The curtains are open, letting in the deep-blue glow from the Mediterranean.
Monaco at night is all sparkle and shine, but in here, with just the reflected light from the water, everything seems softer, almost underwater.
There's something melancholic in the air between us, a weight to this moment that goes beyond just missing each other.
Monaco has always been special for us—the place where, last year, everything began to change.
"I miss you—us—so much," William murmurs, nuzzling against my neck. His breath is warm against my skin, his voice vibrating through me like the lowest note on a cello.
I hug him back with one arm, the other still clutching my tablet, which I set down on the nearby table.
A long sigh escapes me—part frustration at our impossible situation, part relief at finally being in his arms again.
The contradiction of my feelings mirrors everything about us: wrong timing, right person; professional boundaries, personal desire; what we should do versus what we need.
"I miss this," he continues, his words muffled against my shoulder. "Miss being able to touch you. Miss being just us, without the whole world watching." His hands move in slow circles across my back, tracing patterns that feel both comforting and desperate. "Miss you, Violet. Want you. Need you."
He lifts his head from my shoulder, and the stripped down vulnerability in his expression catches my breath.
His eyes are liquid in the blue light, searching mine with such open yearning that it causes a knot in my stomach.
His usual confidence, the playful cockiness that defines him in the paddock, is nowhere to be seen.
This William—raw, exposed, unguarded—is for me alone.
I lean in and press my lips to his, just once, soft and sweet.
His curls are soft between my fingers, those perfect, springy locks at the crown of his head that I've been itching to touch for weeks.
I tug gently, and he makes a small sound in the back of his throat that's somewhere between a sigh and a moan.
I rest my forehead against his, our noses touching, breath mingling in the small space between us.
He smiles softly, the expression crinkling the corners of his eyes in the way that always makes my heart stutter. "I miss you," he whispers again, like a prayer, a confession.
"William..." My voice catches on his name, unable to form the full thought.
"I know," he says quickly. "But I mean it." He brushes his nose against mine in a gesture so tender, it makes my eyes sting.
I pull him closer, tightening the hug until there's no space left between us. His solid frame boasts strength beneath his T-shirt, and warmth radiates from him even through the fabric of my blazer.