6. The Driver
Two years later.
It was a bright, crisp, beautifully clear afternoon in Manhattan. The city was alive with the frantic, thrumming energy of commerce and ambition.
I stepped out through the heavy glass revolving doors of Le Bernardin, one of the most exclusive, expensive restaurants in the city. I had just finished a highly successful, three-hour lunch meeting, officially closing a massive risk-assessment consulting contract for my own newly founded, wildly successful financial intelligence firm.
I was wearing a bespoke, razor-sharp designer suit that fit me perfectly. I wasn’t wearing it to perform for anyone, or to hide my background. I was wearing it because I had earned it, and because I looked utterly radiant and untouchable in it.
I stood under the awning, breathing in the cold city air.
The valet attendant, a young man in a crisp uniform, jogged up to me holding a set of keys.
“Your car, Ms. Bennett,” the valet smiled politely, gesturing to the curb.
Pulled up to the entrance, gleaming aggressively under the afternoon sun, was a sleek, midnight-blue Aston Martin DB11. It was a masterpiece of engineering and power. And it was legitimately, legally, and entirely paid for in cash by me.
I handed the valet a generous tip, thanking him, and walked around to the driver’s side.
I opened the heavy door and slid into the low, incredibly comfortable, hand-stitched leather seat. I closed the door, sealing out the noise of the city, wrapping myself in the quiet luxury of the cabin.
I pressed the ignition button. The massive V12 engine roared to life with a deep, guttural, terrifyingly beautiful growl that vibrated right through my chest.
As I gripped the hand-stitched leather steering wheel, my eyes flicked up to the rearview mirror.
For a brief, fleeting moment, a ghost of a memory drifted across my mind. I remembered the suffocating, heavy smell of white hydrangeas. I remembered the humid night air of Charleston. And I remembered the cruel, arrogant, mocking laughter of my ex-husband at the entrance to that reception tent.
He had looked at me, the woman who had built his foundation, and he had tried to reduce me to nothing more than a pathetic, disposable servant to protect his own fragile, fake ego.
She’s just the driver, he had said.
I looked at my reflection in the mirror. My eyes were bright, fierce, and entirely free.
I smiled. It was a brilliant, victorious smile.
“You were right, Ethan,” I whispered to the empty air, shifting the heavy car smoothly into gear.
I pulled out into the bustling traffic of Fifth Avenue, the engine roaring as I accelerated, seamlessly merging into the fast lane of my own life.
“I am the driver,” I said softly to the ghost in the mirror. “And I just drove right over your entire life.”
The city stretched out before me, endless and bright, and I put the pedal to the metal.
