Page 10 of Racing for Redemption
For a moment, my carefully constructed facade cracks. “You thinkthisis easy for me?” I whisper, barely audible. “You thinkIwanted any of this?” By now, my voice is almost a hiss matching his.
Surprise flickers across his face, replacing some of the blind anger. He opens his mouth to respond, but his manager finally yanks him back.
“William,enough!” the manager barks. “We don’t need this kind of publicity.”
As he’s dragged away, William Foster’s eyes remain locked on mine. I watch him disappear into the crowd, my heart pounding. What just happened?Did I really let my guard down in front of that guy, of all people?
Blake appears at my side, concern etched on his face. “Violet, are you okay? Do you want me to report him?”
I shake my head, composing myself. “No, it’s fine. Just… post-race tension. And, I’m partially to blame.”
I take a deep breath, forcing my features into a neutral expression. “Let’s get to the garage. We have a race to prepare for.”
As we walk, I sense the gaze of the paddock on me. Judging. Waiting for me to crack. Arguing with William Foster was not on my bingo card for this season, but neither was my Dad’s team sinking before my eyes—and yet, here we are.
A couple of minutes later, the race starts, and I’m studying the monitors. Nicholas is in last place—as expected—but he’s holding his own. For now. That’s progress.
A flash of gold and blue catches my eye. James Farrant’s Vortex Racing car screams past, lapping Nicholas. This is normal for us. Happens all the time. Yet, a knot forms in my stomach. I’ve got a bad feeling.
“Nicholas, hold your line,” his engineer commands into the radio. “Let Farrant pass and continue his race. He’s not who you’re racing against.”
But Nicholas doesn’t listen. He veers left, trying to block Farrant as they approach Turn 1. My heart leaps into my throat.
I turn on the comms on my end. “Nicholas, what are you—”
The crunch of carbon fiber sends shivers down my spine. Nicholas’ car spirals out of control, the metallic screech of tires against asphalt piercing the chaos. It collides violently with Farrant’s rear wheel, the impact sending an aftershock through the vehicles. The crash launches both cars off the track in a chaotic shower of sparks and twisted debris that shocks those in the stands watching the race.
“Fuck!” I hiss, slamming my fist against the desk.
The garage erupts into chaos. Mechanics scramble, shouting orders. I stand frozen, watching the replay on the screens.Over and over, I watch Nicholas’ idiotic move, Farrant’s perfect all-win season record erased, and it was our team’s fault. Just what we need.
My phone buzzes. A message from Dominic Harrington pops up:
Like father, like daughter. Some rivalries never die, eh, Violet? That was spectacularly low of you, but hey, I can understand that. After so many years of being a footnote, you needed to be the headline. You got it. I hope you enjoy it.
I want to scream.
To cry.
To punch something—Dominic’s face, if possible.
Instead, I straighten my jacket, turn around, and walk to the media pen, readying myself to face the swarm of reporters already gathering there.
“Ms. Colton! Was this retaliation against Vortex Racing?”
“Did you order Nicholas to take out Farrant?”
Their questions blur together, a mishmash of accusations that make no sense, seeing as we are not even close to the midfield teams, much less the reigning champions. I take a deep breath, steeling myself for the storm to come.
“Colton Racing deeply regrets the incident,” I begin, my voice steady despite the turmoil inside. “We will cooperate fully with any investigation…”
The interviews were a nightmare. Cameras flashed, questions flew, and every word I spoke was dissected and twisted. I maintained composure, but inside I was screaming.
Back in thegarage, I corner Nicholas. “What thehellwere you thinking?”
His eyes are wide, panicked. “I-I thought I could hold him off, maybe gain a position—”
“Gain a position?” I hiss. “You were two laps down!Two!There are no positions to gain by overtaking the race leader! You were not racing him, for fuck’s sake! What about trying to catch the driver in P19? Did you put any effort into that? He was 45 seconds ahead, and your sole focus was on Farrant—who was in P1—and almost 3 minutes away from you. Nice judgment there.” I pause and notice his unapologetic face. “Also, learn to obey the orders your engineer gives you. They are the authority in this garage.”
