Chapter 41
To whom it may concern...
William
The lights go out in Monza, and twenty cars launch forward in a synchronized dance of noise and split-second moves. I’m thankful I’m not in the midfield because, on this track, the first couple of corners can become carnage.
Something's wrong. In my peripheral, there's movement where there shouldn't be—cars scattering, a flash of familiar livery spinning. I was so focused on my moves that I didn’t notice what happened in front of me. I glance at my mirrors as I accelerate down the straight toward Curva Grande.
"Tom, what did I pass by just now? I saw contact."
A beat of silence that tells me everything before Tom even speaks. "EJ got clipped by Farrant. Looks like he divebombed into Turn 1. Both EJ and Farrant have damage."
Anger flashes hot through my system. Farrant—Dominic's number one driver and reigning World Drivers’ Champion—taking out our pole-sitter in the first corner.
The coincidence seems too perfect, too convenient.
But I can't afford to dwell on it now, not while threading this missile through Monza's high-speed circuit.
"Does this change our strategy?" I ask, focusing on the Lesmos approaching at 280 kilometers per hour.
"Negative. Stick to Plan A. Focus forward." Tom's voice is measured, professional. "EJ's got floor damage, but he's still running. Looks like a puncture, though—he'll need to pit."
I process this information while my body works on autopilot, hands and feet making minute adjustments that keep the car dancing on the edge of adhesion.
Monza demands a unique balance—low downforce for the straights, enough grip for the few critical corners, perfect timing on the brakes.
The car comes alive beneath me, responsive in ways it hasn't been all season.
The race settles into its rhythm, a high-speed chess match playing out at 330 kilometers per hour.
I'm holding P4 comfortably, saving tires while keeping pace with the leaders. Ahead, Thomas Roberts leads in the ProTech Energex, with his teammate Oliver Lenox in P2, and Vortex Racing’s Yuki Kikuchi in P3.
My engineer informs me that Roth is closing behind me, his Baretta Racing looking hungry in my mirrors.
"Gap to Kikuchi?" I ask as we start lap 10.
"1.8 seconds and closing," Tom replies. "His tires are starting to drop. Heavy graining on his right side. You're faster in sector two."
By lap 15, the gap has shrunk to 0.7 seconds. I'm in his DRS zone, close enough to feel the dirty air from his car buffeting mine. Close enough to make a move, if I can time it perfectly.
"How's EJ?" I ask, needing to know our team situation while setting up my attack.
"P14 after the puncture. He's pushing hard, but points look unlikely; the midfield is all bunched up in a DRS train." Tom's voice carries resignation. "Farrant retired."
I smile grimly behind my visor. At least there's that. "Karma is a bitch, eh?"
Turn 4 approaches—a tight right-hander where braking zone meets opportunity for an overtake.
Kikuchi defends the inside line, forcing me wider than is ideal.
But I've been studying his approach, noticing how he clips the apex too aggressively, compromising his exit.
This time, I hang back slightly, creating space to carry more speed through the corner's exit.
The plan works perfectly. As he struggles with reduced traction on the exit, I get better drive, pulling alongside as we hurtle toward Turn 5.
For a heartbeat, we're wheel to wheel, neither yielding.
Then physics and nerve play out their inevitable conclusion—I'm through, P3, the move so clean, it might as well have been choreographed.
"Beautiful, William!" Tom's voice cracks with rare emotion. "Absolutely beautiful overtake!"
The race evolves lap by lap. Lenox pits from P2, dropping behind me temporarily.
Thomas Roberts leads unbothered, his ProTech Energex clearly the class of the field today.
My own pit stop approaches—the critical moment where races are won and lost in the modern era.
And I know a thing or two about losing races due to a poor pitstop, so… Let’s nail this one, we need it.
"Box this lap," Tom instructs on lap 25. "Box, box, box."
The pit lane speed limiter engages with a sharp reduction in speed that always feels like hitting a wall.
I nail the marks, stopping precisely on my line.
The crew swarms the car—a synchronized ballet of carbon fiber wheels and pneumatic guns.
Four tires changed in 2.4 seconds, and I'm gone, merging back onto the track in P5.
"Great stop," Tom confirms. "Undercut didn't quite work on Lenox, but they've got a relentless pace at the front. We’ve lost a couple of places, but they’re easily recoverable. You're P5, 12 seconds behind the leader, who’s yet to pit. Fresh medium tires. Push on the next lap."
I unleash everything the car has, finding pace I didn't know existed.
Each lap comes with split times that flash green on my steering display—sectors faster than anyone else on track.
The titanium in my right hand throbs dully due to the strain of G forces, but I ignore it, focusing only on extracting maximum performance from every corner, every straight, every millimeter of asphalt.
By lap 40, the landscape has shifted dramatically. Lenox leads, but he's battling with Roth for P1. I've moved into P3—after Thomas and Kikuchi had poor pit stops—closing rapidly on both. The gap that once seemed insurmountable has shrunk enough that I can spot them a turn ahead of me.
"How many laps left?" I ask, voice tight with concentration.
"Seven laps to the checkered flag," Tom replies. "Gap to P2, 4 seconds. You're gaining half a second per lap. You're flying. This is doable, William."
Doable. The word settles in my mind like a challenge.
Not just points. Not just a podium. But a win—my first in Formula 1.
The very thing that would silence every critic, prove every sacrifice worthwhile, and validate Violet's faith in me beyond any doubt.
Fuck, that would be the greatest gift of them all after almost dying.
I drive like I've never driven before. Not with the reckless abandon of my earlier career, not with last year’s desperation, but with a calculated precision that Monaco's recovery taught me.
Every corner becomes an exercise in physics and psychology, finding the absolute limit without crossing it.
The car responds beautifully, as if it understands what's at stake. And I’m channeling any fear that may appear as my superpower.
With three laps remaining, I'm within DRS range of Roth and Lenox, who are locked in their own battle for the lead. Their fight has compromised their pace, allowing me to close the final gap more rapidly than anyone expected.
"One second to Roth," Tom confirms, excitement coloring his tone. "You're the fastest car on track. Let’s get them!"
The final lap arrives with the three of us separated by less than a second.
Lenox leads, Roth harries him from behind, and I shadow them both, waiting for the inevitable mistake that comes when two drivers focus only on each other and burn through their tires at the same time. I can see the graining from here.
It happens in Turn 10—Lenox defends aggressively against Roth, forcing both to take a compromised line.
The opportunity materializes like a gap in the clouds; a perfect racing line available while they battle off-line.
I commit completely, carrying more speed through the corner than seems physically possible, my exit perfectly positioned.
Fuck, this is reckless, even for me.
The straight before Turn 11 becomes my runway.
With DRS open and slipstream from both cars ahead, I surge forward with breathtaking acceleration.
For a moment, we're three wide approaching Turn 11—a situation that shouldn't be possible nor recommended at these speeds, that defies racing logic and self-preservation.
I brake last. Not by much—milliseconds, tiny increments of pressure and timing—but enough. The Colton Racing car slides through the impossibly small gap, claiming the inside line for Turn 11 while Lenox and Roth realize too late what's happening.
I hold my breath as I avoid hitting them.
Time stops.
My heart is in overdrive.
This is insane.
And then, I'm through. Clean air ahead. The checkered flag just seconds away.
I cross the line with my breath held, unable to process what just happened until Tom's voice explodes in my ears.
"WILLIAM DANIEL FOSTER, YOU'RE AN F1 GRAND PRIX WINNER!"
Joy, disbelief and vindication hit me all at once. I scream into my radio, raw and unfiltered. "YES! FUCKING YES!"
The tears come without warning, blurring my vision as I pump my fist in the air. Everything we've built, everything we've fought for, everything we've endured—it all culminates in this moment, this victory, this proof that we belong.
"This is to everyone who doubted me, Colton Racing, and Violet Colton," I say into the radio, voice thick with emotion. "Shove it, snakes. May you stub your toes every day."
I chuckle to myself, suddenly aware of the official broadcast capturing my words.
But I don't care. Let them hear it. Let Dominic hear it.
Let the world know that I'm here on merit—not because I'm involved with Violet.
Let them understand that Colton Racing is back, a force to be reckoned with once again.
The cool-down lap becomes a victory parade, emotions too big to contain inside the carbon fiber cockpit.
I'm an F1 Grand Prix winner.
Against all odds, after Monaco's tunnel nearly ended everything, I've climbed to the very top of the podium.
Fucking finally.