MARRIED TO MY ENEMY

TAXI WAR

I push through the glass doors and the hot, sticky Balinese air wraps around me like a heavy blanket I can’t shake off.

It’s thick, humid, and instantly makes my cheap white dress cling to my skin. Sweat starts forming on my forehead. The parking lot is almost empty, with only a few yellow lights buzzing overhead like tired insects. I’m beyond exhausted and my stomach is growling, but the hunger feels secondary to the sudden wave of fear hitting me.

I drag my ugly pink suitcase behind me. The wheels wobble badly on the cracked pavement, making a loud, embarrassing rattling sound with every step. This suitcase feels heavier than it did inside the airport.

This isn’t like any airport pickup I’ve ever experienced in my life. There’s no driver in a crisp black suit holding a sign with “Bianchi” written on it. No tinted SUV waiting with air conditioning blasting. No bodyguards scanning the area. Nothing.

Just me.

Alone. At midnight. In a foreign country I’ve only seen in pictures. I’ve been to different countries expect this.

My heart starts racing again, fast and unsteady. This whole situation suddenly feels like the opening of a horror movie the naive rich girl who runs away from her mafia family and ends up kidnapped or lost in the jungle forever.

This is the first time I’ve ever traveled completely alone. The first time I’ve truly run away from my father, from my arranged marriage, from the golden cage I’ve lived in for twenty years.

I reach into my pocket for my phone out of pure habit, then freeze. It’s completely dead. I destroyed the SIM card back in the airport bathroom. No Google Maps. No way to call Chloe. No emergency contact. Nothing.

All I have is a crumpled, slightly damp receipt in my other hand that says “Blueview Hotel.” No address. No phone number. Just the name. What if the driver doesn’t even know where it is?

I look down the curb. Three taxis are parked there. Two have their lights off, the drivers clearly asleep inside with windows rolled down. The third one has its light on and the engine quietly running.

“Taxi!” I call out, trying to sound confident. My voice comes out smaller than I wanted in the quiet, empty space.

The taxi with the light on slowly rolls forward. I let out a long breath I didn’t realize I was holding. Thank God.

It stops right in front of me. I quickly grab the back door handle. The inside smells strongly of old cigarettes and some kind of sweet air freshener, but I don’t care. I just want to get out of here.

“Blueview Hotel, please,” I tell the driver.

He nods without even turning to look at me. “Okay.”

I’m about to slide into the seat when the opposite back door suddenly swings open.

Someone else is trying to get in at the exact same time.

“Hey!” I say sharply. “I called this first.”

I look up across the seat.

It’s him.

The airport guy with the green eyes and wrinkled white shirt.

Of course it’s him.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I mutter under my breath, glaring hard.

His eyes narrow the moment he recognizes me. He looks just as annoyed as I feel.

Good. That makes two of us.

“It’s my taxi,” I say louder, standing my ground. “I called it first.”

“Nope,” he replies in a deep, calm voice, holding his door open like he owns the entire car. “It’s mine.”

“You did not!” My voice goes up an octave. I hate when that happens. “I was standing here waiting. I called it!”

I’m literally pointing at the ground like a child. If my mother saw me right now, she would faint from embarrassment.

He leans casually against the open door, his black suitcase resting at his feet. His sleeves are still pushed up, showing strong forearms. “I saw it first from over there. First come, first served… princess.”

There’s that word again. He says “princess” like it’s something dirty.

No one speaks to me like this. Ever.

“Call me whatever you want,” I snap back. “This taxi is still mine.”

I turn to the driver desperately. “Sir, can we please go now?”

The driver is wide awake now, watching our drama in the rearview mirror with tired eyes.

Airport guy moves surprisingly fast. He grabs my door handle and tries to pull it shut while I’m still holding it open. We end up in the most ridiculous tug-of-war ever both of us gripping the same taxi door in an empty parking lot at midnight.

“What is wrong with you?” I shout. My voice echoes across the lot. “Let go!”

“You let go,” he fires back, sounding equally frustrated. “This is my cab.”

We sound like two little kids fighting over the last toy in the playground.

The driver lets out a loud, exhausted sigh. “Who called first?”

“I did!” we both shout at the exact same time.

The driver rubs his face. “Look, I don’t have time for this. Just share the ride. It’s a big island. I can drop both of you.”

Share a taxi with this arrogant stranger? Absolutely not. I’d rather walk the whole way barefoot or probably crawl.

“No,” I say firmly.

He’s smirking at me now. A real, amused smirk. Men are usually either terrified of my last name or falling over themselves to impress me. This guy looks completely unbothered. He has no idea who I am, and for some reason that makes me even angrier.

The driver has clearly had enough. He shakes his head and mutters something under his breath. “Forget it.”

Before either of us can react, he puts the car in drive and speeds off. The tires kick up small stones that sting my legs. The red taillights disappear quickly down the dark road.

We’re left standing there like complete idiots, both still holding onto nothing but air.

I whirl around to face him. “This is all your fault!” I yell. “My taxi is gone now because of you! How am I supposed to get to my hotel?”

He doesn’t answer right away. He just glances down the empty road, then back toward the airport building, and walks a few feet away from me like I’m not even there.

He’s ignoring me completely.

That makes me furious.

The parking lot feels even quieter now. Just the buzzing lights, distant crickets, and a dog barking somewhere far away. The humid air is so thick my dress is completely stuck to my back.

Minutes feel like hours. Real panic starts setting in. No phone. No way to contact anyone. What if there are no more taxis tonight? What if I have to sleep on a bench inside the airport until morning?

I’m seriously considering sitting on my suitcase and crying when I finally see headlights in the distance, coming slowly down the dark road.

Another taxi. An old silver Toyota.

I don’t waste a single second. I grab my suitcase handle, run toward the lights waving my arms like a crazy person, throw open the back door, shove my pink suitcase inside, and practically dive in after it. I slam the door shut hard.

I look out the window. He’s still standing under the yellow streetlight, black suitcase in hand, just watching me. He didn’t even try to run for this one.

I can’t stop the huge, smug smile that spreads across my face.

“Blueview Hotel,” I tell the driver, my voice sweet and victorious. “And please drive as fast as you can.”

The taxi pulls away smoothly. I keep staring at him in the side mirror as he gets smaller and smaller, hands casually in his pockets, face completely blank.

I won.

It feels ridiculously satisfying. Better than winning an argument with my father. Better than any shopping spree in Milan. Better than anything I’ve felt in months.

Take that, jerk.

The driver turns onto the main road. Bali unfolds outside my window dark palm trees, mysterious shadows, and the distant sound of waves somewhere. I finally lean back against the seat, my heart still pounding hard.

I tell myself I don’t care that I left him standing there all alone.

I tell myself I don’t care if I never see that arrogant man again.

So why do I keep glancing back at the mirror, half hoping I’ll still see him?