Page 11 of Racing for Redemption
Nicholas flinches. I take a breath, trying to rein in my anger. It wasn’t entirely his fault. The pressure, the constant failure—it’s getting to all of us. But hell if he isn’t a poor driver.
“Go get checked by medical,” I say, softer now. “We’ll discuss the rest later with the entire team.”
As he leaves, Blake approaches. “Nicholas’ testimonial wasn’t enough. Stewards want to see you. Now.”
I nod, bracing myself for another battle. The walk to race control resembles a march to the gallows.
Inside, James Farrant is already there, face red with fury. “You did this on purpose!” he shouts as soon as I enter. “You couldn’t stand seeing us succeed, could you? Isn’t it enough to catwalk around the paddock pretending to work? Now you also focuson taking me out? This was a perfect season for me! I was going to set a record for most races won in a season!”
“That’s enough, Mr. Farrant.” The head steward intervenes. He turns to me. “Ms. Colton, please explain your team’s actions.”
I take a deep breath. “It was a grave error in judgment by our driver. Colton Racing in no way condones or encourages such reckless behavior. We accept full responsibility and any penalties deemed appropriate.”
The room falls silent. I meet Farrant’s gaze, unflinching. He’s fuming, and with good reason.We’re a shitshow right now.
After what seems like an eternity, the stewards announce their decision. A hefty fine, and a five-place grid penalty for Nicholas at the next race. Which won’t make any difference, because we always start from last place. The money, however, makes abigdifference. We barely have any, and now we’re paying fines on top of all the money we’ve been hemorrhaging with the consecutive crashes and DNFs.
As I leave, Farrant catches up to me. “You’ll never come close to our level, so stop fucking meddling with us,” he growls.
I turn to face him, exhaustion and frustration finally breaking through my professional facade. “What do you want from me, James? An apology? Fine. I’m sorry. I’m sorry my driver made a stupid mistake. I’m sorry yourperfectseason is ruined. I’m sorry my team is such a fuckingdisasterthat we can’t even fail without taking others down with us!”
Farrant steps back, startled by my outburst. He smirks, basking in my groveling. “Just keep your backmarker cars out of our way or off the grid, whichever is easier for you to accomplish with your poor managerial skills,” he sneers before storming off.
I retreat to our motorhome, my head pounding with each step. Blake hovers nearby, his concern palpable.
“It’s a mess out there, Violet,” he murmurs. “The news outlets and social media are going crazy with this, insinuating that the ‘Colton-Harrington feud reignited.’”
“This is bullshit,” I seethe, covering my face as I fall in my chair.
“I know,” Blake cuts in gently. “But perception is reality in this world. And those in power can manipulate the narrative as they want.”
I rub my temples. “How do we fix this?Canweeven fix this?”
Before Blake can answer, my phone chirps. It’s a notification for a live interview. Dominic Harrington’s smug face fills the screen.
“…disappointment, really.” His silky voice oozes false sympathy. “Young Violet, bless her heart, she’s trying so hard to fill Daddy’s shoes. But this? This reeks of desperation.”
First, his condescending message. Then, his driver personally attacked me. Now, this asshole again. I ball my hands into fists as he continues.
“It’s a man’s world, this paddock. Always has been. And while I admire her…spunk, perhaps it’s time to admit that some legacies are better leftin more capable hands.”
The rage building inside me threatens to explode. I want to march over to Vortex’s garage and give Dominic a piece of my mind. Burn it to the ground. Hell, make their famous catering give everyone indigestion. Something. Instead, I force myself to breathe.In. Out.
Chapter 4
Mirrors
Violet
The hotel bar is a blur of soft jazz, dim lights, and clinking glasses. I slump onto a stool, tracing my fingers over the cool marble countertop. Anna slides in beside me, her presence a balm to my frayed nerves.
There’s something about her that always disarms me, and then, all of a sudden, we’re teens again back in my bedroom, and I’m telling her how I found my kart’s tires had been slashed, and I couldn’t participate in a key race when there were British F4 team scouts there that could have seen something in me.
“Violet,” she murmurs, “talk to me.”
I swallow hard, fighting the lump in my throat. “It’s all falling apart, Anna. Everything Dad built…”
My voice cracks. I clench my jaw, willing the tears away. Anna takes my hand, squeezing gently.
