Page 45 of Racing for Redemption
The unnervingly blue, yet warm eyes of Silas Belforte, as he spoke of my father’s legacy, stay with me as I leave. Dangerous or not, he might be our last hope for survival. And in Formula 1, survival trumps moral purity every time.
The Porsche Taycan responds to my touch like it’s reading my mind, humming rather than roaring as I navigate through London traffic. Night has fallen, the city’s lights smearing across my windshield like melting stars. I tap the call button on my steering wheel, and Anna’s name appears on the display. My shoulders relax in anticipation of her voice. This video call is overdue. I’ve been avoiding it since Bali, knowing she’ll see right through my “everything’s fine” facade. Anna always does.
The line connects, and her face appears on my dashboard screen, blonde waves wild around her face, those blue eyes crinkling with delight.
“There she is! The elusive Violet Colton—most mysterious woman in motorsport who left me hanging in Bali,” she exclaims, her British accent tinged with the subtle inflections of Japanese that sound incredibly endearing. “I was beginning to think you’d forgotten my face.”
“Impossible,” I reply, as a genuine smile spreads across my face for the first time today. “How could I forget that disaster you call hair?”
“Excuse you! This is called texture. You should try it sometime with those perfect curls of yours.” She leans closer to her camera. “Are you driving? Please tell me you’re actually going home at a reasonable hour.”
I check the time—9:43 PM. “Define reasonable.”
Anna groans. “Vi, we’ve talked about this. The team won’t fall apart if you leave before the sun goes supernova.”
“I had meetings,” I say defensively. “Important ones. Potential new sponsor.”
“Ooh, that sounds promising! Tell me everything.” She wiggles her eyebrows suggestively.
I laugh despite myself. “He’s… complicated. But that’s work talk, and I know how you feel about work talk.”
“Correct. Work talk is banned unless it involves scandalous paddock gossip.” She adjusts her position, and I glimpse her apartment behind her—minimalist Japanese decor with touches of her colorful personality scattered throughout. Her expression softens. “Now, enough deflection. How are you? And I mean really, Vi. Not the press conference version.”
The question hits harder than it should. I signal for a lane change, buying myself a few seconds.
“I’m… functioning,” I admit finally.
“Functioning.” She repeats the word flatly. “That’s the saddest verb I’ve ever heard.”
“Would you prefer ‘operational?’ ‘In working order?’” I try for levity, but hear the strain in my own voice.
Anna’s not having it. “I prefer ‘happy’ or ‘thriving’ or even ‘moderately content.’ What’s going on, Vi? Talk to me.”
I exhale slowly. “I’m tired, Annie. Really tired. I’m sleeping maybe three, four hours a night. The rest is just… work. Endless work. Trying to find sponsors, keep the one we have, manage the board’s expectations…”
“And by ‘manage the board’s expectations,’ you mean ‘stop them from firing you if the team doesn’t magically start winning?’”
“Something like that.” I navigate onto the highway, the Taycan accelerating smoothly. “I’ve got a new driver, though. Remember the reason I cut short our trip? He's already showing promise.”
“Oh?” I can hear the immediately piqued interest in her voice. “Do tell. Is he cute?”
“Anna!”
“What? It’s a relevant question. You’re spending most of your waking hours at that factory. Might as well have something nice to look at.”
I roll my eyes, though she can’t see it. “He’s professional and fast. That’s what matters.”
“So heiscute. Got it.” She laughs at my silence. “Full name? Age? Instagram handle? I need to do some reconnaissance.”
“William Foster. Twenty-four. And I have no idea about his social media—I don’t follow my employees online like some kind of stalker.”
“William Foster,” she repeats, mentally taking notes. “I’ll investigate later. But stop dodging my real question. How are you feeling? Not the team, not the drivers. You, Violet.”
The directness of her question catches me off guard. With anyone else, I’d deflect again, but this is Anna. She’s seen me ugly-cry over failed exams, held my hair back after too many tequila shots, and stayed on the phone with me all night when my dad died. She let me move in with her for a couple of months after my mom’s death.
“Honestly?” My voice drops. “Empty. Alone. Like I’m just going through the motions.”
The admission hangs in the silence between us.
