Page 106 of Racing for Redemption
“I’m happy at Colton Racing,” I say automatically.
Harrington chuckles. “Loyalty. Admirable. But misplaced.” He stops walking, turning to face me. “I’ll be direct. I’m offering you a seat. Either alongside Bertrand at Vortex Satellite—”
I can’t help the grimace that crosses my face. Paul Bertrand; the man who deliberately had his teammate crashing into me to win the F2 title.My teammate? Is this old guy tripping? Who would even accept that?
“—or,” Harrington continues, noting my reaction, “replacing Kikuchi alongside James Farrant at Vortex Racing proper.”
My breath catches. Vortex Racing. The reigning champions. Alongside James Farrant, three-time world champion. The sort of offer drivers kill for.
The professional mask I reserve for the media slips over my face. “That’s flattering, but any discussions about my future should go through my manager, James Pierce. I’m committed to my current contract.”
“Contracts can be bought out.” Harrington waves a dismissive hand. “Money is no object for us.”
“It’s not about money,” I say, my tone cooling. “I believe in what we’re building at Colton Racing. There’spotential there.”
Harrington’s expression shifts, the cordial mask slipping just slightly. “Potential?” He laughs—a sharp, unpleasant sound. “William, let’s be realistic. Colton Racing is a shitbox with wheels. The only reason it’s not dead last in the championship is becauseyouoccasionally drag it into the points, or close to it.”
I tighten my jaw. “We’re making progress—”
“You’remaking progress,” he corrects. “The team is a joke. Has been since Frederick Colton died.” His lip curls. “And especially now, with his spoiled daughter playing Team Principal.”
Something hot and dangerous flares in my chest.How dare you speak of her like that, you snake.“Ms. Colton is an excellent Team Principal.”
“Ms. Colton,” he mimics, “is a trust fund kid who got Daddy’s team, because no one else wanted the headache. She has no business running an F1 operation. What has she done in the past? Managed a tire company? That type of experience doesn't translate to F1. She doesn't know how to handle the pressure, intensity, and stress. She’s slowly but surely breaking.”
I take a careful breath, trying to maintain composure. “With all due respect, you don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t I?” Harrington steps closer. “The team’s a disaster. Strategy calls that would embarrass an F3 outfit. Engineering that can’t keep up with basic development. And let’s not even discuss Nicholas Davanti—the walking definition of a pay driver who can’t even pay enough to justify his seat.”
“We’re working throughchallenges—”
“The only challenge that matters is Violet Colton’s incompetence,” he snaps. “The team was circling the drain before she took over, and she’s only accelerating the flush.”
I clench my fists. “Don’t youdaretalk about her like that.”
“Like what?Truthfully?” Harrington narrows his gaze. “This is business, William. And I’m offering you an escape from a sinking ship. Take it.”
“No.” One word, hard as stone.
“No?” His surprise seems genuine. “You’d rather waste your prime years in a backmarker than drive a championship-capable car?”
“I’d rather work with peopleIrespect.”
Something ugly flashes across Harrington’s face. “Respect,” he repeats, drawing the word out. “Is that what you call it? Your… arrangement with Violet Colton?”
Ice floods my veins. “What are you talking about?”
“Please.” He smirks. “The paddock notices things. Late-night strategy meetings? Melbourne celebrations that continued well past the team dinner? Your escapades in the UK to small concert venues?”
No one knows. We’ve been careful. This is a bluff. But then again, how does this asshole even know that? I'm starting to think that this man is more dangerous than what he lets on. This is next-level stalker shit.
“You’re out of line,” I warn, voice dropping.
“Am I?” Harrington presses. “Tell me, is sleeping with the boss part of your contract, or is that a…performancebonus?”
My helmet hits the ground before I realize I’ve dropped it. Red clouds my vision.Oh fuck.
“Never,” I say, each word sharp enough to cut, “speak about Violet Colton that way.Ever.”
