THE FORBIDDEN GLANCE
779 Words
Sasha's pov
If there’s one thing I hate more than early morning lectures, it’s people who think they can talk down to me just because my last name comes with too many zeros attached.
“Nice shoes, Sasha. "Did Daddy buy them with his spare change?”
The entire classroom snickers, and I feel my jaw tighten. I glance down at my Louboutins. Yeah, they’re expensive. And what? I earned this drip by surviving my family’s suffocating perfection games.
I don’t respond. That’s the rule: ignore the peasants and keep your crown straight. But when I stand up to leave, my bag strap catches on the edge of the desk, and...
Crash.
Half the contents spill across the floor. Lip gloss, my phone, even that packet of cookies I swore I wasn’t eating today.
The laughter turns savage.
God. Kill. Me. Now.
I shove everything back into my bag with a hiss and storm out before I can hear another word. My face is burning. My mood? Completely murdered.
--
The sight of the black Mercedes parked under the tree is the only thing keeping me from throwing a tantrum.
He’s there, leaning casually against the car; tall, broad shoulders, his white shirt rolled up at the sleeves like he just stepped out of some moody magazine spread.
Ethan.
My driver. The family’s “help.” The guy who drives me everywhere but acts like I’m invisible to him.
“Miss Sasha,” he says with a polite nod, holding the car door open like I’m some VIP stranger instead of the girl who’s been shamelessly staring at him for weeks.
“Don’t ‘Miss Sasha’ me,” I mutter, sliding into the back seat with a huff. “Just drive.”
---
The silence between us is suffocating. I’m still replaying that classroom disaster in my head, and he’s… focused. Hands steady on the steering wheel, jaw sharp under the faint shadow of stubble. Why does he look like that? Like he’s carved out of quiet storms and patience I’ll never have?
I lean forward, watching the side of his face. His lashes are unfairly long.
He doesn’t glance at me once. Not even when I deliberately clear my throat.
God, this is annoying.
“You’re not going to ask me how my day went?” I ask, my voice dripping with sarcasm.
“No, Miss Sasha,” he says simply, eyes on the road.
I blink. “Wow. Just… wow. Do you know how many guys at school would kill for a conversation with me?”
“Then perhaps you should talk to them instead,” he says, so flat, so calm, it makes my blood boil.
---
I stare at him. I mean really stare, like I could burn a hole in his perfectly calm face.
He doesn’t budge. He doesn’t even flinch.
Finally, he says, without looking at me, “Miss Sasha.”
Just my name, but it snaps me out of my daze.
“What?” I snap.
“You’re staring,” he says. Not teasing. Just stating it like a fact.
---
I smirk, leaning forward between the seats. “Does it make you nervous?”
He doesn’t answer, but I see his grip on the wheel tighten just slightly.
Oh. Oh, this is interesting.
“You know,” I say, lowering my voice, “for someone who spends every day driving me around, you act like I’m not even here. Do you not like me?”
He finally glances at me in the rearview mirror, his dark eyes steady. “Miss Sasha, I’m here to do my job. Not… anything else.”
I laugh softly. “Anything else? Like what?” I let the words hang, playful, challenging.
And then—because maybe I’ve officially lost my mind—I let my fingers graze his shoulder as I lean closer.
“You can tell me if you like me,” I whisper, my lips dangerously close to his ear.
---
The car jerks slightly as he pulls over to the side of the road.
His voice is low, firm. “Don’t.”
I blink. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t do that,” he says, finally turning to face me. His gaze is sharp, cutting through me like a blade. “You’re my boss’s daughter. I don’t… I can’t—” He stops himself, jaw clenched.
I’ve never been rejected like this in my life.
It stings. It burns.
But it also makes something inside me coil tighter.
---
He starts driving again, leaving me in silence, fuming and… intrigued.
No man has ever said no to me.
Especially not him.
---
- Writer
