Page 5 of Racing for Redemption (Backmarker Love trilogy #1)

Rock bottom

Violet

My phone buzzes. Anna’s name flashes on the screen, accompanied by a flurry of supportive messages. I smile faintly, grateful for her unwavering friendship, but my fingers hover over the keys. What can I say? That I’m fine? That I’m not crumbling under the pressure?

I settle for a simple Thanks, Annie. Talk later in the hotel , and pocket the device.

As I exit our motorhome, a commotion erupts nearby. William Foster storms through the paddock, his face contorted with rage. He’s shouting, gesticulating wildly, nearly coming to blows with anyone who dares look his way .

Blake calls me and stops me in my tracks before someone's shoulder slams into mine. I turn around and lock eyes with William Foster's, burning with frustration and fury.

For a moment, time stands still. His hazel eyes, usually alight with determination and known for their warmth in the paddock, now burn with an intensity that mirrors my inner turmoil.

A tattoo on his neck constricts as he tightens his jaw threateningly.

I see it then, deep down—the desperation, the fear of failure.

His eyes are bloodshot. It’s like looking in a mirror.

“Watch where you’re going!” he snarls, his voice raw with emotion.

I straighten, my mask of icy professionalism sliding back into place with an extra edge I didn’t know I possessed. “Perhaps you should take your own advice, Mr. Foster.”

He scoffs, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. “Oh, that’s rich coming from you. What’s next, Colton? Gonna give me racing tips? Your team’s a joke! If your team was in F2, you’d be running last!”

His words sting more than they should, but I don’t let it show. Instead, I arch an eyebrow, my voice dripping with faux concern. “Rough day, Mr. Foster? I heard about the accident. Such a shame. Gunning for the championship again next year?”

Witnessing the moment he snaps, he rears his arm back. Then he punches the wall to his side. His jaw clenches, gaze on the floor. His breathing is all over the place. As he gets closer, his manager grabs him, trying to pull him away .

William’s eyes flash with rage, but beneath it, I glimpse something else. He’s hurting. Vulnerable. On the verge of crying.

“You know nothing ,” he hisses, his face inches from mine. “You were born into this world. Some of us had to claw our way up, and it’s still not enough. Never enough.”

His words hit harder than any physical blow. Because he’s right; I was born into this world, and look what I’ve done with it. En route to drive my Dad’s legacy into the ground.

For a moment, my carefully constructed facade cracks. “You think this is easy for me?” I whisper, barely audible. “You think I wanted 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 the garage, I corner Nicholas. “What the hell were 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.”

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 focus on 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 a big difference.

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 your perfect season is ruined.

I’m sorry my team is such a fucking disaster that 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? Can we even 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 left in 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.