The secret love behind the wheel

There are two things I hate in this world: liars and late drivers. Monday morning began with both. “Where the hell is he?” I muttered, checking my diamond watch for the fifth time. It wasn’t even ten o’clock yet, but my day was already packed: a board meeting at nine-thirty, an investor brunch at eleven, and a magazine shoot right after that. Standing behind the glass wall of my mansion and looking out at the streets of Manhattan, which thrummed with energy, I could hear the honking horns, see the neon lights, and smell the pretzels drifting up from below. “I love this city; it suits me,” I thought as my phone buzzed from the table. It was Bailey, my personal assistant. “He’s downstairs, ma’am,” she announced. I ended the call, grabbed my purse, my phone, and the metaphorical armor I wore like a shield. My heels clicked sharply against the marble floor as I stepped into the private elevator. By the time the doors slid open into the garage, I had already rehearsed three different ways I’d fire this man. And then I saw him. Leaning casually against a sleek black Mercedes, head slightly bowed, a cap casting a shadow over half his face. My driver. “Miss Blake,” he said, straightening immediately. His voice was deep, smooth and annoyingly calm. “Apologies for the delay. Traffic was heavier than expected.” His tone was polite, respectful even, but something about it irritated me. Something in the way he said itas though he wasn’t worried. As though he knew I’d forgive him. “I don’t accept excuses,” I snapped, my voice colder than the garage air. “If you want to work for me, you’ll learn that fast.” He didn’t flinch. Didn’t defend himself. He simply nodded and opened the back door as if I hadn’t just thrown icicles at him. Most employees either rambled apologies or trembled when I spoke like that. He did neither. That alone threw me off. Fine. Two can play this game. I slid into the back seat, pretending to be absorbed in my phone. But curiosity tugged at me like a string I couldn’t cut. I glanced at him through the rearview mirror. Strong jawline. Dark hair brushes the collar of his shirt. Sunglasses hid his eyes. But something about him looked… familiar. Impossible. I’d remember a face like that. I cleared my throat, breaking the silence. “Name?” “Ethan, ma’am.” The way he said it, low, steady, made my chest tighten unexpectedly. Ethan. A name I hadn’t spoken aloud in years. A ghost hovered at the edge of my memory, warm laughter, a boy’s voice behind a high school gym calling my name like it meant something. I shoved the memory aside before it could latch onto me. “I trust you’ve read the company policy,” I said. “Yes, ma’am.” “No small talk. No personal questions. You drive, I work. Understood?” “Understood.” There it was again, that calm, unreadable tone. It almost made me want to poke him, just to see if he’d react. As we merged into Manhattan traffic, I watched him more openly. His hands rested on the wheel with a confidence that didn’t belong to a typical chauffeur. The way he shifted gears was smooth, controlled. He anticipated the flow of traffic before it happened. I hate to admit it, but he was good. Too good. “Turn left on Fifth,” I instructed. He did perfectly, like he had already planned it. I tried focusing on my emails, but my eyes kept wandering. His posture, straight but not stiff, felt familiar in the strangest way. Like déjà vu in physical form. Like I’d sat behind this man once before, in another lifetime. Ridiculous. My phone buzzed: Bailey; Boardroom ready. Investors are early. Don’t be late. I sighed. As if I ever was. “Miss Blake,” Ethan’s velvet voice cut through my thoughts. “Seatbelt, please. Paparazzi ahead.” I blinked, then looked up. He was right. Camera flashes burst against the tinted windows like tiny explosions. I fastened my belt as he maneuvered through the chaos with swift, precise turns. Not reckless, not hesitant, just sharp and calculated. He didn’t look like someone avoiding cameras. He looked like someone used to handling them. My pulse jumped. He slowed at a red light, and for a moment, our eyes met in the rearview mirror. Hazel. Striking. A strange trace of gold near the center. My stomach flipped ugly, inconvenient, and far too telling. No. No, no, no. I blinked hard and looked away. When I glanced back, he was already focused on the road again. The rest of the ride was suffocatingly quiet. My heartbeat wasn’t. When we reached the building, he stepped out and opened my door. His fingers brushed mine, light, accidental, but enough to send an electric jolt up my arm. “Welcome to your day, Miss Blake,” he said softly. His voice lingered deep, calm, with that maddening hint of familiarity. I forced a polite nod and stepped out. “Try not to be late again, Ethan.” “Yes, ma’am,” he replied. Was it my imagination, or did the corner of his mouth twitch into the faintest smile? I turned and walked toward the glass entrance, but something pulled my attention back. He wasn’t looking at me; he was scanning the traffic, jaw tight with focus. Protective. Alert. Not the posture of someone who only drove cars. He felt familiar… but blurred. Like a song I used to know but couldn’t remember all the lyrics to. The elevator doors closed around me, sealing me inside a silver box of my own confusion. And before I realized it, I whispered his name under my breath. “Ethan.” It slid off my tongue too easily. Too naturally. “For someone I had just met?”