Chapter 41 #2
I guide the car toward parc fermé, past the checkered flags and flashing cameras, my heart still racing as fast as the engine that just carried me to victory.
The dedicated area for the top three finishers comes into view, and I see them—my team, my people—pressed against the barriers, faces ecstatic, arms waving frantically.
The P1 parking spot waits for me—that sacred rectangle of asphalt I've dreamed of claiming since I was old enough to hold a steering wheel.
I ease the car into position with reverence.
For a moment, I sit motionless in the cockpit, hands still gripping the steering wheel, trying to process what just happened.
I did it. We did it. After all the doubt, the setbacks, the crash, the recovery—we actually fucking did it.
The silence inside my helmet is broken only by my ragged breathing.
I unclip the steering wheel, remove it, seat belts unlocked, radio turned off and then reach for my helmet.
The rush of fresh air as I pull it off hits me like a wake-up call.
This is real. Not a simulation, not a daydream during physical therapy. Real.
I stand in the car, balancing on the narrow cockpit edges, and raise my right hand to the sky—the same hand that was damaged in Monaco.
I point one finger upward in the universal gesture for number one, then bring my fist to my heart.
The crowd roars in response; a wall of sound that washes over me like nothing I’ve ever experienced.
"Fuck yeah!" I scream, eyes closed, face tilted toward the Italian sun. The release is primal, unfiltered emotion pouring out after being contained for so long.
I jump down from the car, legs momentarily wobbly as adrenaline courses through my system. The weight of victory and its meaning propels me toward the barriers where my team waits. I run, not walk, because walking isn't enough for this moment.
Tom is the first I reach, his normally reserved demeanor completely abandoned as he leans across the barrier to embrace me. "You magnificent bastard!" he shouts over the noise, his London accent super thick now. "That last overtake—I nearly had a heart attack!"
I laugh, hugging him fiercely. "Your strategy was perfect!" I pull back, grabbing his shoulders. "Thank you for believing in me."
The pit crew surrounds us, hands reaching out for high-fives, back slaps, wordless acknowledgments of our collective achievement.
These are the unsung heroes—the mechanics who worked overnight to perfect the setup, the strategists who calculated the optimal race plan, the engineers who coaxed every last horsepower from the engine.
Their sweat and sacrifice made this possible as much as my driving did.
EJ pushes through the crowd, his face a complex mixture of disappointment and genuine joy for me. Despite his pole position, his race ended in a struggle for points after Farrant's first-corner antics. Yet here he is, celebrating my success as if it were his own.
I pull him into a tight hug. "Next time, you'll convert that pole," I tell him firmly, patting his back. "Don't feel bad about today. Farrant's move was desperate and dangerous."
"I know," he nods, forcing a smile. "I'm happy for you, though. Really. You deserve this."
"So do you," I assure him. "Your time is coming. This team has two winners, not just one."
His smile becomes more genuine at that, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. We both know the truth of racing—you're only as good as your last result, and today, the result belongs to me. But his day will come. I know it.
I scan the barriers, searching for the one face that matters most right now.
And there she is—Violet, standing slightly apart from the others, her professional composure fighting a losing battle against raw emotion.
Our eyes lock across the distance, and something electric passes between us.
This victory isn't just mine. It's ours.
The culmination of her vision, her leadership, her unwavering belief in me a year ago when everyone else had written me off. I need to reach her. Now.
The barriers separating us suddenly seem offensive—an artificial divide between Team Principal and driver that no longer makes sense in our world.
Without conscious thought, my legs propel me toward her.
The decision forms in an instant, bypassing all rational thought: I'm going to cross that line, literally and figuratively.
I leap over the barriers in a single, fluid motion, ignoring the startled gasps from officials and camera operators.
Rules and protocol be damned. This moment belongs to us, and I won't let anything—not barriers, not paddock politics, not even F1's rigid structures—keep me from sharing it with her—the architect of our success.
Violet's eyes widen as she realizes what I'm doing.
For once, I've managed to truly surprise her.
Her hands unclasp from their tight position against her chest, dropping to her sides in shock.
I close the distance between us in three quick strides, momentum carrying me forward until I'm standing right in front of her, breathing her air, seeing the individual flecks of gold in her brown eyes.
"William, what are you—" she starts, but I don't let her finish.
I cup her face, thumbs brushing her cheeks with a gentleness that contrasts with the urgency of the moment.
I pull her toward me and capture her lips with mine, pouring everything I can't say right now into the kiss—the gratitude, the love, the triumph, the vindication.
Her body tenses for just a fraction of a second before melting against mine, her hands finding their way to my shoulders, then my neck.
The world around us fades to background noise. I'm vaguely aware of cheers, whistles, cameras clicking, but they're distant, unimportant. What matters is the softness of her lips, the faint taste of coffee and mint, the small sound she makes in the back of her throat as I deepen the kiss.
When we finally break apart, Violet's cheeks are flushed, her red lipstick slightly smudged. A slow smile spreads across her face, equal parts embarrassment and exhilaration. Damn, this woman is pure perfection.
Movement at the edge of my vision reminds me that we're not alone, that the FIA officials are waiting to escort me to the podium preparations. I squeeze Violet's hands once more before releasing them.
"See you on the podium," I tell her, backing away reluctantly. "Watch me closely."
"I always do," she replies, the double meaning clear in her eyes.
The next ten minutes pass in a blur of scales, cooldown room talk and then meeting some FIA members. I barely register the officials' instructions, nodding automatically as they explain the podium procedure I've watched a thousand times but never experienced.
When I step onto the podium, the roar of the crowd makes me emotional.
Oliver Lenox and Karl Roth flank me, Oliver giving me a proud look whereas Roth gives me his congratulations, genuine despite his disappointment at being beaten.
The weight of the first-place trophy in my hands feels both perfect and foreign—a metal symbol that can't possibly contain the magnitude of this achievement.
The British anthem begins, and as I stand with my hand over my heart, my eyes search the crowd below.
It takes only seconds to find her. Violet stands at the front, pride radiating from her like heat.
I hold her gaze as the familiar notes wash over us, a silent communication more powerful than words: We did this.
Together. Despite everything. Despite everyone.
The champagne bottles appear, and the expected ritual of spraying and celebration begins.
I go through the motions, laughing as Oliver and Roth soak me in return.
On this perfect Italian afternoon, with champagne dripping from my hair, and Violet's lipstick still faintly marking my lips, a sense of completion blooms in my chest.
We've silenced the doubters. And we did it the only way that truly matters in this world: by winning.