Page 50 of Racing for Redemption (Backmarker Love trilogy #1)

Fighting on the clock

Violet

I smooth my hands over my tailored suit, the only sign of nerves I allow myself before entering the boardroom.

They turn to me—some curious, some skeptical, all waiting for explanations over the clusterfuck that has been the past two months of poor to mediocre results that are barely different from last season's.

My mind is reeling. I've gone over the details and feedback from Blake, Johnson, and the engineers accompanying the team on the road.

We don't understand what we're failing at right now.

Yes, the car is two seconds slower than the top three, but we should be improving as the season progresses, not reverting to last year's model.

We're doing everything, running around like busy bees, desperately trying to find answers, solutions, something. Anything. Then, the questions begin.

How to salvage a sponsorship.

How to manage a reckless driver .

How to keep Colton Racing from slipping back into obscurity after our brief taste of points in Melbourne.

I hide the exhaustion of flying between continents for two months straight.

But hell, I just want to rest. For a bit.

A brief while. And resting doesn't include falling asleep in hotel, or airport lobbies.

And hell if I don't miss him, even more now after the scare that was his accident on track with Nicholas.

From the tone in his messages, he's starting to drift away from me.

Keeping a distance. Gradually not getting in touch.

It's a weird feeling. I take ages to reply to messages, but I always do, and not seeing anything from him lately… It worries me.

“Ladies, gentlemen,” I say, taking my seat at the head of the table. My voice doesn’t waver. “Let’s begin.”

The projector flickers to life, displaying our current standing: P7 in the Constructors’ Championship. Still holding on, despite everything.

“As you can see, despite recent setbacks, we’re maintaining our position from Melbourne,” I say, clicking to the next slide. “William Foster has shown exceptional skill in extracting performance from the car, though luck hasn’t been on our side.”

Chairman Reeves clears his throat. “Luck, Violet? Or poor strategy calls and subpar machinery?”

I meet his gaze steadily. “Both, if we’re being honest. The safety car timing in China was unfortunate. The incident with Bertrand in Bahrain was outside our control. As for the most recent crash—”

“That’s precisely what we need to discuss,” interrupts Amelia Chen, our newest board member, tapping her manicured nails against the polished table. “Gritt Tires is threatening to pull their sponsorship. Twelve million euros, gone, because Nicholas couldn’t keep his car on the track.”

I nod. “I’ve been in discussions with them for the past week.

And now, they’re concerned about the negative publicity from the crash, but more so about Nicholas’ behavior.

The drinking, the missed simulator sessions—” He's always been like this, but only now has it come to light.

He's a necessity for our financial liquidity, but a ticking bomb that doesn't give back anything of value in terms of performance on track.

“So, you’re saying it’s a driver problem, not a team problem,” says another board member, leaning forward.

“I’m saying it’s both,” I admit. “Which brings me to our first order of business—potential new sponsorship.”

I click to a new slide showing a sleek logo: Belforte Construction. “They’ve expressed significant interest in a primary sponsorship position. Initial discussions suggest a package worth nearly double what Gritt is providing.”

Murmurs ripple around the table.

“And what’s the catch?” asks Chairman Reeves, ever the skeptic.

I draw a deep breath. “They’re a relatively new player in the sector. Their financials look solid, but I want complete due diligence before we proceed. The last thing we need is to discover we’re laundering money for someone. ”

Another board member, one of the oldest members, nods approvingly. “Smart. What’s your timeline for this?”

“I’ll have a complete report by Imola,” I say. “In the meantime, I’ve managed to convince Gritt Tires to hold off on any decisions until after the European leg begins.”

I absentmindedly touch my wrist, where William’s watch sits.

He’d left it on my nightstand, and since Melbourne, I wear it as a silent promise that we’ll meet again.

I’ve worn it every day since, as ridiculous as it looks with my attire.

When did I become this sentimental? This attached to someone when I shouldn't?

I snap back to focus on Amelia as she asks about Nicholas.

“This brings me to my second point,” I say, clicking to a new slide showing a young driver in an F3 car.

“Ethan Jordan. Seventeen years old, currently leading the F3 championship. No academy backing, and not on the top teams’ radars, because he doesn't have sponsors.

But I've studied his footage, and his raw talent is undeniable.”

I play a video compilation of EJ’s recent races.

His overtakes are bold, but calculated, his defensive driving mature beyond his years.

He has the skills to become a top driver.

The talent is there, and I want to bring him in, nurture his talent in a team that will support, protect, and treat him like family.

“Blake Simmons brought him to my attention,” I continue. “He doesn’t have enough super license points for F1 yet, but I believe he represents the future of Colton Racing alongside William Foster.”

“And Nicholas?” asks a board member .

“His contract ends this season. I propose we don’t renew, and instead, in the meantime, we bring EJ in as our reserve driver, giving him enough Friday practice sessions to accumulate super license points while learning from William. And then, he takes over Nicholas’ place next season.”

Chairman Reeves frowns. “Nicholas’ father has significant business connections. Cutting his son could have repercussions. We're talking about the automotive industry not wanting to sponsor or work with us.”

“I’m aware,” I say. “That’s why we need to handle this delicately.

We frame it as a mutual decision, emphasizing Nicholas’ desire to explore other opportunities.

We give him a dignified exit while clearing the path for our future.

” The last thing I want is him crying out to the media that people were mean to him, then rally fans behind him for a smear campaign.

The board members exchange glances. Their hesitation is obvious, weighing politics against performance.

“William and EJ could form a partnership that lasts years,” I press. “Youth and experience, passion and talent, both hungry to prove themselves. It’s exactly what my father would have wanted for this team.”

I rarely invoke my father in these meetings as I want them to not draw parallels between us, and immediately rule that I'm not even close to how amazing he was as Team Principal and CEO, but sometimes, sentiment can tip the scales where logic fails.

After a moment, a board member nods. “I support this direction. Nicholas has been more of a liability than an asset lately. ”

One by one, the others signal their agreement. Even Chairman Reeves eventually gives a grudging nod. Well, this is a first.

“You have our approval to approach EJ,” he says. “But tread carefully with Nicholas. His father isn’t someone we want as an enemy.”

“Understood,” I say, a small weight lifting from my shoulders. “I’ll handle it personally.”

We move on to technical updates, marketing strategies, financial projections.

The usual business of running a Formula 1 team.

But beneath the professional discussion, I sense a subtle shift in the room.

The skepticism that greeted me when I first took over after my father’s death has softened, replaced by a cautious respect.

They are listening to me, slowly welcoming my input.

I have a lot of work to do, but this eases a bit of the stress I have going on.

The team, sponsors—or lack thereof—the drivers, the difficulties the team is facing without a reliable car, and a solid budget behind us.

We're doing a lot with very little. I can only imagine how unbelievable we'd be if we had the resources we need. How far we'd go. How high we'd climb.

When the meeting finally concludes, Chairman Reeves lingers as the others file out.

“Your father would be proud,” he says quietly, surprising me. “That points finish in Melbourne—first in a decade. It’s a start.” Oh, hell must have frozen. Is this the same man that wanted me out after last season’s finale?

“Just a start,” I agree. “We’re aiming higher, that's the goal. ”

He studies me for a moment. “The board was ready to replace you if this season began poorly. You know that, right?”

I keep my expression neutral, though his words confirm suspicions I’ve harbored for months. “And now?”

“Now, we’re waiting to see if Melbourne was a fluke, or a foundation.” He collects his papers. “Don’t make me regret supporting you, Violet.”

After he leaves, I remain seated, alone in the vast boardroom. Outside the window, London sprawls gray and rain-slicked. So different from the heat of the paddock, the noise of the garages, the smell of rubber and fuel.

I miss it. More than I expected to.

I check my phone. Three missed calls from Blake. A text message about William’s medical clearance after the crash. My heart skips at his name on the screen; an involuntary reaction I’m still not entirely comfortable with.

I thumb William’s watch, spinning it around my wrist. Our arrangement had seemed so simple in Melbourne—physical release, no strings, a way to “blow off steam” between two consenting adults who happened to work together. Clean. Uncomplicated.

Then came the distance. The overworking. The exhaustion. The notion that things are slipping away from me, him included. Why do I keep wearing his watch? Why do I find myself thinking of him during tedious meetings? Why did my stomach clench when Blake called about his crash?

I pull up our text exchange from a couple of weeks ago.

William: When are you coming back to the paddock?

Me: Not sure. Imola, hopefully. Get some rest, William.

Formal. Distant. Nothing like the breathless whispers in my hotel room, his hands tangled in my hair, my name on his lips like a prayer.

I’d almost written more. Almost told him I miss him. Almost suggested we meet in Imola, resume where we left off.

But complications are the last thing I need.

And I don't want to sound needy and burden him, when I initially said this was a casual thing.

However, I can't focus on that right now.

The team is walking a tightrope—financially, competitively, politically.

One misstep, one distraction, and we could lose everything my father built.

So, I keep William at arm’s length through cold texts and professional emails, even as I wear his watch against my skin.

I stand, gathering my materials. The European triple-header is approaching—Imola, Monaco, Barcelona. No more hiding in boardrooms and conference calls. The paddock awaits, with all its challenges. With all the excitement, adrenaline, and high stakes I love.

And William.

My phone buzzes with an incoming call from Blake. Time to focus on the business at hand. Time to be the Team Principal, not the woman who can’t stop thinking about her driver’s hands on her body, or the warm hug I desperately need right now.

I answer, voice steady as stone. “ Blake. Update me on the car repairs. ”