Page 65 of Racing for Redemption
“We’ve made significant progress,” Johnson concludes, addressing the assembled team. “But let’s be realistic—we’re still fighting to be best of the rest, not challenging for podiums.”
“Yet,” Blake adds with a wink in my direction.
“Exactly. Yet.” Violet stands, effortlessly commanding attention. “Six months ago, this team was considering redundancies, questioning its future in the sport. Today, we have a car that’s showing genuine improvement, a clear development direction, and”—her eyes meet mine briefly—“drivers who can extract performance.”
Nicholas shifts uncomfortably at the plural, aware his contribution has been minimal at best.
“Australia will be our first real test," Violet continues. “But whatever happens there, remember this: we’re building. Each race, each session, each lap is a step toward returning ColtonRacing to where it belongs. We’re here to win in the long run, but we need to be realistic; if we extract everything the car has to offer, we can be a couple of places above our dreaded last place as a team. And there’s a lot of potential for you two to get a bit higher on the Driver's Championship standings, and fight with the midfield cars. I believe we can do that this year. After what I witnessed in this pre-season testing, I firmly believe in this.In us.”
There’s a quiet determination in her voice that resonates with everyone in the room. This isn’t just a job for her—it’s a mission, a crusade to restore her family’s legacy. And we're all committed to it. Well, minus Nicholas, it seems.
As the meeting disperses, I linger, organizing my notes for the flight home tomorrow. The garage slowly empties, mechanics heading out for one final team dinner before returning to the factory. Johnson claps me on the shoulder as he leaves, a gesture of appreciation that means more than any verbal praise.
Soon, only Violet remains, gathering her papers at the far end of the conference table. We haven’t spoken privately since our dinner together, both of us maintaining professional distance in the team environment.
“You were impressive these last three days,” she says suddenly, breaking the silence. “Not just your pace. Your feedback, your approach, your attitude with the team.”
“Just doing my job,” I reply, though her words send a flush of warmth through me.
“Above and beyond.” She hesitates, then adds, “I made the right choice, signing you.”
The simple validation means more coming from her than any podium trophy could. “I guess I can back up my groveling then.” I flash a playful smile, earning a soft one from her. “But for real, I won’t let you down,” I promise, meaning every word.
“I know.” She locks her eyes on mine, and for a moment, that connection from the restaurant returns—something unspoken, but slowly building between us. Then, she gathers her things and straightens. “Get some rest. Season starts for real in two weeks.”
“Yes, boss,” I say with a small smile.
She rolls her eyes at the title but returns the smile before walking away, leaving me alone with my thoughts, and the lingering scent of her perfume.
Two weeks until Australia. My first measure against nineteen other cars, all fighting for glory, all believing they deserve the podium places more. The car isn’t perfect—far from it. We’ll struggle on power circuits, fight for scraps of points on good weekends—assuming the conditions favor us—and likely suffer frustrations and disappointments along the way.
But for the first time since signing with Colton Racing, I allow myself to feel something beyond cautious optimism. Something like genuine excitement. Something like belief. This car is actually not that bad; I had a lot of fun driving it.
This season won’t be about championships, or even podiums. It will be about proving myself, helping this team climb from the back of the grid, showing the racing world that William Fosterbelongs in Formula 1. Securing that contract extension for two more years and taking all the pressure off me. I don’t want to be a footnote in F1. I want more.
And maybe, just maybe, this season will also be about discovering what lies beneath Violet Colton’s carefully constructed professional facade—the woman who laughs over churros, misses going to live shows, and speaks passionately about hidden Barcelona restaurants.
I pack up my notes, switch off the conference room lights, and head out into the cool Barcelona evening, already counting the days until the real challengebegins.
Chapter 19
Friends on the road
Violet
William’s name in my contacts.
I’ve been staring at it for seven minutes now, thumb hovering, debating. He’d asked me weeks ago in Barcelona about going to a show—a casual invitation I’d accepted just as casually. Yet, here I am, frozen in indecision, like I’m about to call the board of directors with catastrophic news instead of a racing driver about a concert.
I toss my phone onto the couch and pace my penthouse’s living room. Floor-to-ceiling windows frame London’s skyline, lights puncturing the gradual darkness that is taking over. When was the last time I even went to a live show? Six years ago? Seven? Anna had dragged me to see some indie band in Tokyo during a business trip. I’d spent the first hour checking emails until she confiscated my phone.
I pick up my phone again. This is ridiculous. I’m a grown woman who runs a Formula 1 team. I can call a driver about a concert.
His contact photo stares back at me. It’s his official team headshot—serious expression, racing suit. Nothing like the William who’d grinned and said, “When we’re back in the UK, we should go to a show together,” as if suggesting something as simple as grabbing coffee.
I hitCallbefore I can overthink it again.
The line rings three times. I almost hang up.
