20 An Unexpected Chauffeur
“Just avoiding some construction. Trust me, this is faster.”
I didn’t trust her at all, but exhaustion had worn down my defenses. The sleepless night at the hospital left me barely able to keep my eyes open. I leaned back against the Porsche’s buttery leather seat, tension melting from my shoulders despite my suspicions.
“You really look like you could use some rest,” Sarah commented, her voice impossibly cheerful for this early hour. “Hospital benches aren’t exactly designed for comfort.”
I stared out the window, watching the city blur past. How did she know I’d slept on a bench? I hadn’t mentioned that.
“I’ve been there,” she continued, as if reading my thoughts. “The vinyl seats, those awful fluorescent lights… nothing worse than trying to sleep in a hospital.”
My paranoia subsided slightly. Maybe she was just making conversation.
Sarah’s phone rang, the sound cutting through the car’s quiet interior. She glanced at the
screen and smiled.
“Sorry, it’s my brother. Do you mind if I take this?”
I shook my head, grateful for the reprieve from forced small talk.
“Hey, big bro!” she answered, tapping her steering wheel to the beat of some unheard song. “Yep, on my way now… No, everything’s fine… I told you I’d handle it, didn’t I?”
Something about her tone shifted during the call – more assured, less bubbly. I stared out the window as we passed the hospital again from another angle. A tall man in an impeccably tailored suit stood outside, phone pressed to his ear. Even from this distance, his commanding
presence was unmistakable.
Our eyes met for the briefest moment as we drove past. Something about him seemed familiar, but my sleep–deprived brain couldn’t place him.
“That’s him right there,” Sarah said, following my gaze. “My overprotective brother.”
“He looks…” I searched for the word. “Important.”
Sarah laughed. “He thinks he is.” She hung up the phone and turned her full attention back to driving. “So, fashion designer, huh?”
I froze. “How did you know that?”
“Your hands,” she replied smoothly. “Designer calluses. My mom sews too.”
It was a plausible explanation, but something felt off. The Porsche took a sharp turn, and I
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20 An Unexpected Chauffeur
gripped the door handle.
“You know,” Sarah continued, “I’ve always thought that fashion is like armor. The right outfit can protect you from anything.”
Her words hit unexpectedly close to home. I’d designed my own armor for years – perfect outfits as shields against my family’s cruelty.
“Sometimes it’s not enough,” I murmured, more to myself than to her.
“No,” she agreed, her voice softening. “Sometimes the wounds go too deep for fabric to fix.”
The weight of the past twenty–four hours crashed down on me suddenly. My father signing over my mother’s shares. Alistair’s compatible blood type with Ivy. The contracts that might still bind me. I felt tears threatening and turned my face toward the window.
“Hey,” Sarah’s voice was gentle. “Whatever you’re going through… it won’t last forever.”
“You don’t know anything about me,” I said, harsher than intended.
“I know that strong women don’t end up sleeping on hospital benches unless they’re fighting for something important.” She navigated through traffic with practiced ease. “And I know talent
when I see it.”
“You’ve seen my work?” I couldn’t hide the suspicion in my voice.
“Evening Gala’s last collection? The asymmetrical hemlines and architectural shoulders? Revolutionary.” She flashed me a smile. “I might drive a Porsche for fun, but I know my fashion.”
I studied her profile, trying to place her. A fashion blogger? Industry insider? She didn’t look familiar from any shows or events.
“We’re here,” she announced, pulling up to my villa’s gate.
I blinked in surprise. We’d arrived much faster than I expected. I reached for my purse to get my
wallet.
“How much do I owe you?”
Sarah waved her hand dismissively. “This one’s on me.”
“I can’t accept that,” I insisted, pulling out a hundred–dollar bill. “Please.”
She hesitated before taking it. “Honestly, it’s been nice having company. Most passengers just stare at their phones.”
I stepped out of the car, the morning sun warming my face. “Thank you for the ride.”
“Hazel?” Sarah called as I was about to close the door.
“Yes?”
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“Don’t let them take what’s yours.” She smiled, but her eyes remained hidden behind her designer sunglasses. “You’re worth more than they know.”
Before I could respond, she pulled away, the Porsche’s engine purring as it disappeared down
the street.
I stood at my gate, key in hand, frozen in place. How did she know my name? I’d introduced myself simply as “Hazel,” not giving my last name. And the way she spoke about “them” taking what was mine… it was too specific, too knowing.
The realization hit me like a physical blow. She knew who I was from the beginning. This wasn’t a chance encounter or a lucky break. Someone had sent her to pick me up.
I glanced back at the empty street where the Porsche had vanished. Who was Sarah really? And more importantly, who was her brother – that commanding man outside the hospital who looked vaguely familiar?
My phone buzzed in my purse. A text from an unknown number appeared on screen;
“Hope you got home safely. Rest well, Ms. Shaw. You’ll need your strength for what’s coming.”
I nearly dropped my phone. The message disappeared as quickly as it had appeared, leaving no trace in my message history. I frantically searched through my recent texts, but it was gone – as if it had never existed.
A chill ran down my spine despite the morning warmth. Someone was watching me. Someone knew exactly who I was and where I’d been.
And whoever they were, they weren’t done with me yet.
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