Chapter 36
Not damaged goods
William
The sunlight filtering through my hospital room window falls across Violet's face as she frowns at her laptop.
She's been perched on the sofa for hours, legs tucked beneath her, fingers dancing across the keyboard, gliding on the pad.
Seven days since the crash, and she's barely left my side.
Seven days of concussion protocols, doctors' visits, and Violet transforming this room into Colton Racing's temporary headquarters.
I watch her from my bed, the dull throb in my head a constant reminder of how close I came to losing everything. How close I came to losing her.
Felix didn't just drive my car. He protected my legacy. My future. Seven days ago, I thought that future was over—shattered metal and broken dreams in a Monaco tunnel. Now I'm here, alive, with Violet glaring at spreadsheets, and muttering under her breath about fuel management reports.
She sighs heavily and slams her laptop shut, the sudden noise startling in the quiet room.
"You okay?" I ask, voice still rougher than normal.
Violet stretches her arms above her head, the movement lifting her blouse just enough to reveal a sliver of her warm, reddish-brown skin above her jeans. Even now, even here, the sight makes my pulse quicken. She’s perfect.
"Just tired," she says, rubbing her eyes. "Living in a hospital for a week has been... intense."
I chuckle, then wince as the movement sends a spike of pain through my temple. "I'm feeling better, though. Stopped peeing red yesterday, which the doctors say is excellent progress."
Her face softens with concern. "And the dizziness?"
"Better with direction changes. Head still hurts, but not as much." I lift my bandaged hand. "This is the worst of it now."
She crosses the room and perches on the edge of the bed, taking my uninjured hand in hers. Her fingers are cool against my skin, the contact soothing in ways medication isn't.
"You're still pale," she says, studying my face with that intense focus she usually reserves for race strategies.
I pull her toward me, ignoring the twinge in my ribs. "Come here."
She shifts closer, careful not to jostle the bed too much. I press my lips to her cheek, then the corner of her mouth, then finally her lips—feather-light kisses, gentle as whispers.
"You're working yourself to the bone," I murmur against her mouth.
She pulls back slightly, her thumb tracing circles on my palm. "I'm fine. Not traveling means I'm actually working less than usual."
"Bullshit. You've been in meetings since six this morning."
"That's normal." She shrugs one shoulder; a gesture I've come to recognize as her way of dismissing her own efforts. "It's just a side of my work you've never seen before. Ninety percent of being a Team Principal is boring meetings in odd time zones."
"And how was the board meeting? The one about—"
I stop, still unable to fully process the idea that someone deliberately sabotaged my car. That someone wanted me injured. Or worse.
"It went well, actually." Her expression brightens slightly. "Belforte was there in person. He has a way of... persuading people."
"Threatening them, you mean."
She laughs, the sound chasing away some of the darkness that's settled in my chest since the crash. "He's more subtle than that. Surprisingly."
"What did the board say about the tampering theory?"
Violet's face hardens, that familiar steel entering her eyes. "They're taking it seriously. Especially after Belforte presented his findings."
"Findings?" This is news to me.
"He has connections. People who owe him favors.
" She looks away, and I know she's choosing her words carefully. "All our electronics have a memory we can access to check data, when things are turned on and off, and indeed, there was someone who turned off and poorly reconnected some things that then led to… what happened. Still, we don’t know who. So that’s not enough for legal action yet, but enough to make the board listen, and to push the investigation further. "
"Enough to get your suspension reduced?" I ask hopefully.
She shakes her head. "No. That stands. Six races—five now—no paddock access."
I squeeze her fully recovered hand, marveling again at this fierce, brilliant woman who threw away a third of her season defending me. "You're amazing. You know that?"
"Hardly." There it is again—that dismissal of her own worth.
I pull her closer, nuzzling against the side of her neck, breathing in her scent and sigh.
"You need to value yourself more. You're managing a team remotely, and you've got awesome people making your vision happen.
Blake stepping up as acting Team Principal, Belforte handling the board, two solid drivers. .."
She sighs, her body relaxing incrementally against mine. "I'd love some peace and quiet, though."
I chuckle against her skin. "We'll have it. Come with me to my place?"
She pulls back, eyes widening slightly. "Really?"
"I'm not kidding. Once the doctors clear me, let's go home. My home. Together." The words come out in a rush, revealing a vulnerability I hadn't planned.
Her eyebrow arches. "Are you asking me to move in with you, Foster?"
"I'm asking you to stay with me while I recover," I clarify, though the idea of waking up next to her permanently sends a pleasant warmth through my chest. "Unless you're worried you can't keep your hands off me. In which case, I must warn you, the doctors said no strenuous activities."
A smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. "Define 'strenuous.'"
"Well"—I lower my voice to a whisper—"I'm told anything that elevates the heart rate is off-limits."
"Then you should probably stop looking at me like that," she retorts, a flush creeping up her neck.
I reach up, fingertips tracing the curve of her cheek. "Like what?"
"Like you're imagining me naked."
"I don't have to imagine." I wink, enjoying the way her flush deepens. "I have an excellent memory."
She swats my arm gently. "You're incorrigible."
"And you love it." I pull her for another kiss, this one less gentle than before. When we break apart, both slightly breathless, the weight of what I need to say presses against my chest. "But we first need to... I have something to tell you."
Her expression shifts, wariness replacing the playful glint in her eyes. "What is it?"
I take a deep breath, steadying myself. "In the tunnel, before the crash... I had a panic attack."
Her brow furrows. "With the car stalled? Anyone would panic in that situation."
"No, this was different." I look past her, focusing on the wall behind her head. Easier than seeing her reaction. "I've had them before. Started after a nasty accident in F4. A friend of mine stalled on track. I didn't see him until it was too late."
The words hang between us, heavy with implication. Violet's hand tightens around mine, but she doesn't speak.
"I didn’t see the yellow flags and hit him at full speed." My voice sounds distant, detached, like it belongs to someone else. "He died on impact. I walked away with a broken collarbone and… this." I tap my temple. "The panic attacks, the flashbacks. PTSD, my therapist calls it."
"You have a therapist?" Violet asks quietly.
I nod. "Since the accident. Seven years now.
It helps. Most of the time, I can manage it.
But in the tunnel, trapped in the car, knowing someone was going to hit me.
.." I swallow hard. "Everything came rushing back.
I couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. All I could see was my friend’s car, broken around him. And I had sealed his fate."
Violet shifts closer, her free hand coming to rest on my chest, right over my heart. "You were terrified."
"Beyond terrified. I was certain I was going to die there. Just like him." I force myself to meet her eyes. "The nightmares started again last week. I keep seeing the crash, but sometimes, it's not me in the car—it's you. I can't get to you in time. I can't save you."
Her expression softens with understanding. "Is that why you've been asking me to stay within sight?"
I nod, embarrassed by my neediness, but too honest to deny it. "And those underground concerts I go to, like the one late last year—"
"Where you came back looking like a raccoon?" A small smile plays at her lips, taking the sting out of the words.
I feign offense, furrowing my brow. "My eyeliner was artistic, thank you very much."
Her smile widens. "That was not eyeliner, but it was adorable."
"I was going for intimidating, but I'll take adorable from you.
" I capture her hand, bringing it to my lips.
"Those concerts, the one we went to during our road trip last year.
.. They help. Being in a crowd, surrounded by noise, by life.
.. It's a way to confront my fear of the unknown.
To be in a place that's both liberating and claustrophobic at the same time. To ground myself.”
"Music therapy," she says thoughtfully. "I've read about it."
"It quiets my brain when I start spiraling. That, and the therapy sessions." I look down at our intertwined fingers. "But in the past year, I've found something else that helps. Someone."
I reach up, tracing the delicate line of her jaw with my fingertips. "You quiet the voices in my head, Violet. You make the tremors stop. I've fallen for you not just because you're an unbelievable woman, but because my body, my soul, recognizes you as safe. As home."
I pull her closer, wrapping my uninjured arm around her waist. "Spending time alone was hurting me.
I was hot-blooded, using violence to numb this pain.
Since meeting you, things have been different.
I still feel the panic coming sometimes, especially after crashes or when I'm worried about a race, but it's... manageable. Bearable."
Violet's eyes shine with unshed tears, but her expression remains composed. Always so composed.
"I don't want you to think this means you have to babysit me," I continue hurriedly.
"That's not why I'm telling you this. I don't expect you to fix me or save me or always be around so I don't spiral.
I'm far from being okay. Yet I want you to know that my feelings for you—my obsession, my pursuit, my awkward attempts at courtship"—she chuckles softly, and some of the tension eases from my shoulders—"they weren't because my trauma told me to latch onto someone.
They're real. I've been genuinely in love with you almost from the start.
Your presence quieting the voices in my head is just an unexpected bonus. "
She's quiet for a long moment, her fingers absently tracing patterns on my chest. "I didn't know," she finally says.
"Showing weakness in F1 is a good way to get fired." I try for a smile, though it feels strained. "So I hid it. Masked it with the happy-go-lucky golden retriever act. Not that it’s fake, but… You get what I mean."
"You could have trusted me." There's a hint of hurt in her voice.
"We didn't know each other well at first. And my contract was just for one year." I remember those early days, the desperation, the knowledge that this was my one and only chance. "I'd literally begged you for a seat, Vi. Trauma-dumping didn't seem like the best way to make a good impression."
"It wouldn't have been a burden," she says firmly. "Sure, you were an ass at the start, but mental health is serious, William. I would never hold that against you."
The sincerity in her voice makes my throat tight. "I know that now. I should have trusted you sooner. I'm sorry."
She shakes her head, that familiar determination hardening her features. "Don't apologize. Just promise me you'll be honest from now on. If you feel an attack coming, if the anxiety gets bad, the nightmares take over… I want to help. I want to support you."
"Violet, I—" Tears threaten to spill out; I blink fast, but she’s staring deep at me.
"Cry it all out if you need," she interrupts gently, one hand stroking the nape of my neck. "Everything you have. Every tear, every fear, every moment of terror from that tunnel. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere.”
I collapse against her completely, sobbing with abandon. For long minutes, I sob, letting all the frustration and pain spill out. I’m baring my soul, and she’s… accepting me.
"Thank you," I whisper, overwhelmed by all of this. Then, because I can't help myself: "What happens now? With the team, I mean. Now that you know I'm damaged goods."
Violet's eyes flash dangerously. "You are not damaged goods. You're a beautiful, caring, gentle soul. And as for the team..." She pauses, considering. "I'm going to hire someone. Create a mental health department at Colton Racing HQ."
"Really?"
She nods. "Felix struggled with mild depression earlier this season—you mentioned it before I hired him as our reserve.
EJ doubted himself in the pre-season. Now you're telling me about your PTSD and anxiety.
I want my drivers—all my team members—to feel good physically and mentally.
" Her voice grows passionate, intense. "F1 is emotionally draining.
The stakes are impossibly high. Bad outcomes can include death.
I want everyone at Colton Racing to know they can seek help without shame.
They're valuable as professionals, yes, but as people first."
I stare at her, amazed. "You keep impressing me, Vi."
She shrugs, but it's obvious how much this means to her.
"It's nothing special. I just want people to feel worthy, safe, loved, seen.
" Her expression softens. "I… sought therapy myself after my parents died. Couldn’t take it, especially with all the pressure around me in my previous job. I know how valuable it can be."
"I'm not perfect." I feel compelled to warn her, as if she might have missed this fact despite my extensive confessions.
"I don't care." She leans forward, her face inches from mine. "I don't want perfect. I want you. Flaws and all."
She kisses me then, soft and sweet, and I get the sense I’m floating. When she pulls back, there’s something new in her eyes—not just affection or desire, but understanding. Complete acceptance.
"You're stuck with me now, Foster," she says, her thumb tracing the edge of my bandage. "Concussion, PTSD, ridiculous raccoon eyes and all."
I laugh, the sound bubbling up from a place that feels lighter than it has in years. "Terrible news. How will I cope?"
"I have a few ideas," she murmurs, settling carefully beside me on the bed, placing her head in the hollow of my shoulder. "For when you’re discharged."
And for the first time since the crash—maybe for the first time in years—the voices in my head are completely, blissfully silent.