The driver’s daughter

*Title: Chapter 1 - The driver's daughter* The first time Ethan Cole saw me, he was looking down from his penthouse balcony like I was a stain on his father's driveway. I wasn't supposed to be there. My father, James Okoro, had been the Coles' driver for fifteen years, and his rule was simple: "Amara, you stay in the staff quarters. You don't enter the main house unless Madam calls you. And you never, ever speak to Ethan." I broke all three rules before noon. I was twenty-four, fresh out of Enugu State University with a second-class upper in Economics and no job. My NYSC was done, my certificate was still crisp in my father's small room behind the garage. The plan was to stay for two weeks while I hustled for an internship in Lagos. Two weeks in Abuja, in this massive estate in Asokoro, then I would disappear. "Amara! Bring my toolbox from the kitchen!" my father shouted from under the black Mercedes G-Wagon he was servicing. I ran across the courtyard, my cheap slippers slapping against the polished marble that the gardener mopped every morning at 6 AM. The main kitchen door was open, and I slipped in, grabbed the red metal toolbox, and turned to leave when I heard it. "Who the hell are you?" He stood in the doorway of the kitchen, tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a white shirt that probably cost more than my entire final year school fees. His hair was still wet from a shower. His eyes were cold, grey, and furious. This was Ethan Cole. The heir. The boy my father spoke about like he was a god. The man whose face was on Business Day magazine last month: "At 26, Ethan Cole Takes Over Cole Logistics After Father's Death." "I'm sorry, sir. I came to pick—" "I don't care what you came to pick. Staff use the back entrance. Are you new? Didn't my mother train you?" The contempt in his voice made my cheeks burn hot. My father had warned me. Oga Ethan does not like people. "I'm not staff," I said before I could stop myself. My pride was always my problem. "I'm James's daughter. The driver's daughter." His eyebrows lifted slightly. He looked me up and down, from my faded Ankara dress to my dusty slippers. Then he smirked. It was not a kind smirk. "Ah. The driver's daughter. That explains the lack of manners and the sense of entitlement." He stepped aside, but not enough. I had to squeeze past him, toolbox banging against my leg, and I caught his scent - expensive cologne, fresh soap, and money. He didn't move. He wanted me to feel small. "Tell your father to control his family. The last thing I need is villagers wandering around my house touching things." I didn't reply. I walked out, my fists tight, my eyes hot with tears I refused to shed. I hated him instantly. Arrogant, spoiled, rich boy. That afternoon, I heard Mrs. Cole, his mother, shouting in the living room. Her voice carried all the way to the boys' quarters where I was helping my mother peel yams for dinner. "Ethan, you cannot fire James! He has been with us for fifteen years! Since you were in primary school!" "He's getting old, Mother. And now he's bringing his entire extended family to live here? This is not a charity home. This is a private residence. I want standards." "He has one room! His daughter just graduated! She will leave in two weeks! Have some compassion, Ethan. You have become so cold since your father passed." "She should have left yesterday." I dropped the knife. My mother looked at me, her eyes sad and tired. "Don't mind him, Amara. That boy has been angry since his father died last year. His father was his best friend. Since then, he carries the whole company on his head." But it wasn't just anger. It was the way rich people looked at poor people. Like we were disposable. Like we were supposed to be grateful for the crumbs. That evening, I decided to prove him wrong. I sat under the dim yellow bulb in our one room, opened my old HP laptop that had a cracked screen, and started applying for jobs. Any job. Accountant, teller, customer care, even receptionist. I applied to twenty companies on Jobberman and LinkedIn. I attached my CV with shaking hands. My father came in late, tired, his uniform sweaty and stained with engine oil. "Amara, did you see Oga Ethan today?" "Yes, Dad." "Sorry, okay? He is under a lot of pressure. The company lost a lot after Oga Cole died. The board wants to remove him. He is just... stressed." "Dad, it's fine," I lied. It was not fine. At 11 PM, the power went out in the staff quarters, as usual. NEPA took light. The main house had a giant 100KVA Mikano generator that roared to life instantly, lighting up the whole mansion like Christmas, with all the ACs humming. Our side remained dark, hot, and full of mosquitoes. I stepped outside for air. The night was cool, the sky full of stars over the vast compound. The estate was silent except for crickets and the generator. I sat on the low fence near the garage, fanning myself with a church program. And then the main house's side door opened. Ethan came out, on the phone, wearing grey shorts and a black t-shirt now. His hair was messy. He was arguing with someone, his voice low and dangerous. "I don't care what the board thinks, Chief! I said we are not selling the Apapa port! That port is my father's legacy... No, I will handle the debt myself... Don't call me again tonight." He stopped when he saw me. He ended the call and shoved his phone into his pocket. His grey eyes found me in the dark. "What are you doing here? Spying on me now?" "Sitting," I said, my voice flat. "It's too hot inside. There's no light in our quarters. And there's no fan. So I'm sitting." For a second, something flickered in his eyes. Annoyance? Guilt? I couldn't tell. He looked at the dark staff quarters, then back at his bright mansion. Then he said, "You have a degree, right? Your father said you studied Economics. Second-class upper." "Yes. Why?" "So why are you sitting in a driver's quarters in Abuja instead of working in a bank in Victoria Island?" The insult was so blunt I laughed. A bitter laugh. "Because banks don't hire driver's daughters, Oga Ethan. They hire people like you. People with connection and surname. People who didn't have to fetch toolbox from kitchen." He stared at me. No one had ever spoken to him like that, I could tell. His jaw tightened. He took a step closer. The light from the mansion hit his face. He was, annoyingly, extremely handsome. Sharp jaw, full lips, that cold grey gaze that made girls in Lagos fall. "What's your name again?" he asked. "Amara. Amara Okoro." "Amara," he repeated, like he was tasting it, testing it. "My father's company, Cole Logistics, needs an intern in the finance department. The pay is 150k. It's not charity. You will work like everyone else. 8 to 5. Monday to Saturday. You will stay away from the main house during work hours. And you will report to me." My heart jumped into my throat. 150k! That was more than my father earned in two months. That was rent. That was freedom. "Why are you helping me?" I asked suspiciously. "This afternoon you wanted to fire my father because I entered the kitchen." "I'm not helping you," he said coldly. "My assistant quit this morning and I need someone who can use Excel without crashing the system. My mother said you were good with numbers, you won best in Mathematics in your school. Be at the main gate by 7 AM tomorrow. Don't be late. And don't wear... that." He gestured vaguely at my Ankara dress and walked back inside, leaving me in the dark, leaving his cologne in the air. I sat there, shocked, my heart beating fast. Did the arrogant, cold heir of Cole Logistics just offer me a job? Or was this another way to humiliate me? My father would be happy. My mother would thank God and start praying. But I felt a strange knot in my stomach. Working for Ethan Cole meant seeing him every day. The man who thought I was a stain on his driveway. The man who looked at me like I was nothing. I looked up at his penthouse balcony. He was standing there now, looking down at me again, a glass of whiskey in his hand, his t-shirt off now, showing his broad chest. Our eyes met across the darkness, across the class divide, across the courtyard that separated the main house from the boys' quarters. He didn't smile. Neither did I. But for the first time, the driver's daughter was not looking away.