Chapter 39
Are you into me?
William
I gave them nothing.
But as I round the corner toward our motorhome, I spot a familiar figure outside Vortex Racing's sleek gold setup.
Dominic Harrington. That cockroach is back after undergoing another surgery to his nose.
My fingers curl instinctively into a fist, then relax.
I'm not that guy anymore. But I'm not walking the long way around, either.
The decision forms in an instant: walk past him, head high. Show no fear. No deviation. I belong in this paddock, too.
Dominic stands with his back to me, barking orders at some poor engineer whose shoulders hunch further with each syllable.
His perfectly tailored suit looks almost comical against the backdrop of working mechanics and practical team gear.
The man has always been more businessman than racer, more politician than sportsman, more villain than human.
The memory of my car disintegrating around me in Monaco flashes unbidden—the steering going dead, the helpless terror, the impact. I push it down. Not now. Not here. I won't give him the satisfaction of seeing me rattled.
I'm ten steps away when Dominic turns, sensing my approach like some predatory animal.
His eyes narrow, lips curling into a smile that doesn't reach those cold eyes.
He dismisses the engineer with a flick of his wrist and turns to face me fully, straightening his tie in a gesture that screams insecurity disguised as confidence.
"Foster," he says, voice dripping with false cordiality. "Recovered from your little accident, I see."
I could walk by. Should walk by. But something in me refuses to let him have the last word ever again.
"Harrington," I reply, matching his tone as I slow my pace. "How are the new settings on that nose? The reconstruction looks almost natural."
His smile freezes, a muscle twitching in his cheek. Direct hit. I keep my own expression pleasantly neutral, like I've merely commented on the weather.
"I see you still lack the maturity expected of a Formula 1 driver," he says, voice tight. "Though I suppose when one sleeps with the boss, professional standards become... flexible."
There it is. The bait. The trap I've fallen into before, rushing in with fists instead of words. Heat rises in my neck, but I keep my face composed. I've learned from last year's mistakes. I've learned from watching Violet handle these situations with cutting precision.
"Funny," I say, stopping completely now and turning to face him. "Speaking of flexible standards, I couldn't help but notice Farrant's only made the podium twice this season. Quite the decline for your golden boy. Is the pressure getting to him, or is the car just not what it used to be?"
Dominic's fake smile vanishes entirely. Around us, mechanics and team personnel slow their work, pretending not to listen while obviously drinking in every word. This is how the paddock operates—public confrontations become currency, traded and dissected for days.
"A temporary setback," Dominic says dismissively. "Unlike Colton Racing, which has been a backmarker for what, a decade now? Though I must applaud your team's desperate attempt to shift the narrative. Going public with your little romance was quite the PR stunt."
I tighten my jaw but maintain my smile. "Is that what you think our relationship is? A PR stunt? That's rich coming from the man who leaked private photos to discredit us, who manipulates the media like puppets." I step closer, lowering my voice. "Who potentially sabotaged my car in Monaco."
"Careful, Foster." His voice lowers to match mine, eyes glinting with malice. "Accusations without proof can be very expensive. Ask your girlfriend about that—her bank account is half a million euros lighter because she couldn't control her temper."
The mention of that settlement—the one Violet paid to avoid a court battle with this snake—makes my blood boil.
"Worth every cent. You wanted her to bow down to you, she told you to shove it," I reply, enjoying the flicker of confusion in his eyes at my calm response. "Just like watching you scramble to maintain relevance this season has been priceless."
Dominic's nostrils flare. "At least I don't need to fuck my way into a racing seat. Violet–"
The crude words hit their mark, exactly as intended. My vision tunnels briefly, the old rage threatening to surface. Last year, I would have thrown a punch. Last year, I did throw a punch. I remember the satisfying crunch of his nose under my fist after he made similar comments about Violet.
But I'm not that person anymore. I've grown. I've healed. I have too much to lose now. And even if I didn’t, I’m not wasting any of my precious time on this guy.
"Take Violet's name out of your mouth," I say, voice deadly calm. "You don't deserve to speak about her at all."
"Such devotion," Dominic mocks, growing bolder at my restraint, misinterpreting it as weakness.
"The paddock's worst-kept secret is finally official.
Tell me, was she good in bed from the start, or did she improve with practice?
Is that why you keep underperforming—distracted by memories of your boss spreading her—"
"Stop." One word, hard as granite. I've moved closer without realizing it, our faces inches apart now.
"You're embarrassing yourself, Dominic. Is this how a Team Principal behaves?
Spewing schoolyard insults because his team is slipping in the standings?
Because a woman had the audacity to stand up to him? "
His face contorts with anger. "That bitch assaulted me in front of the entire paddock."
"That woman," I correct, emphasizing each syllable, "defended her driver against someone who was laughing at his potentially fatal crash.
Who may have caused it." I shake my head slowly.
"She's twice the Team Principal you'll ever be, younger, successful, self-made, and it kills you, doesn't it?
That she's rebuilding what you thought was dead.
That we're coming for you, fair and square. "
Something ugly flashes across his face—naked hatred, unvarnished and raw. "Fair and square? You think that's how this sport works? You're more na?ve than I thought."
"No," I say, holding his gaze. "I know exactly how this sport works.
But I also know that we're going to beat you without resorting to your tactics.
Without using satellite teams to take out competitors.
" I smile, genuine this time. "Without sabotaging cars.
Without leaking private photos. We'll do it with talent, passion, and integrity. "
"Big words from the team currently sitting fifth in the Constructors'," Dominic sneers.
"Today, maybe," I acknowledge. "But the trajectory speaks for itself. We're rising. You're falling. It's just mathematics, Dominic."
His face flushes darker. "You're delusional. Colton Racing will never touch the championship—not this year, not next year, not ever."
"Keep telling yourself that," I say, shrugging lightly. "It'll make our victory all the sweeter when it comes. And it will come."
"You have no integrity. A team in which a Team Principal is sleeping with her driver… Ridiculous. We need integrity in the paddock."
"Right." I nod, as if considering his words seriously. "The integrity you showed when you had your Vortex academy driver take me out in Abu Dhabi two years ago in F2? Or how you got that place on the team by literally sleeping your way into owning it? That kind of integrity?"
A flash of something dangerous crosses his features. "Careful, Foster. Your girlfriend isn't here to protect you."
"She doesn’t need to protect me. I’m the one doing that."
"Such loyalty," he sneers, regaining composure. "Violet's trained her dog well. Sit. Stay. Good boy."
The insult is so predictable, it almost makes me smile. "Thanks for the compliment," I reply, genuinely amused now. "People have actually compared me to a golden retriever before. Sweet, excitable, gentle—I'll take it. I’m a good boy."
My unexpected response throws him momentarily off-balance. I press the advantage.
I continue. "You know what I think? I think you're terrified.
Not of me—I'm just a driver. You're terrified of Violet.
Of what she represents. Of what she's building.
Of having a woman potentially destroy your perfect house of cards glued with spit, manipulation, and half-assed threats.
Of having people compare you both and seeing that you haven't built anything; you just usurped power and brandish it like a petulant child. "
His mouth opens, then closes, speechless for once. The gathered audience—now not even pretending not to watch—shifts uncomfortably. A few coughs. Someone snickers.
Turning slowly, I face him with a deliberately relaxed posture. "Something on your mind, Dominic? You seem fixated on my relationship. It's getting a bit strange, honestly. Is this all an elaborate ploy because you want to date me? If that’s the case, just ask, okay?"
I nod once, politely, as if we've just concluded a pleasant business meeting.
"Always a pleasure, Dominic. Best of luck this weekend.
Sounds like you'll need it; your car is driving like a shopping trolley with a busted wheel. Just listen to Farrant’s media comments. Even I feel sorry for the dude."
I turn and walk away before he can recover, keeping my pace measured and my back straight. No rushing. No glancing back. The temptation to turn and see his expression is strong, but I resist. It's better this way—leaving him fuming, denied the last word.
As I put distance between us, the tension in my shoulders begins to ease. My phone buzzes in my pocket. It's a text from Violet:
Where are you? Engineering meeting in 15.
I smile down at the screen and tell her I'm coming.
She has no idea what just happened, how I walked away from a confrontation that last year would have ended with security pulling us apart.
I’m proud of myself. I’m proud of us.