Chapter 6 The Boss as a Driver
1403 Words
Claire's POV
"Claire, wait."
Ethan's voice stopped me just as I stepped out of the hotel's revolving doors.
I froze for half a second before reluctantly turning around.
He was standing a few feet away, his expression somewhere between irritation and false concern. "Why are you always like this?" he demanded. "We were together for four years, Claire, and you still haven't changed—hot-headed, impulsive, making scenes in public."
I blinked at him, disbelief numbing my anger for a moment. That's why he followed me? To scold me?
For one stupid heartbeat, I'd thought he might have come to check on me—to offer some comfort after everything that happened inside. But of course not. That was never Ethan.
I almost laughed. "Are you serious right now?"
He sighed, as if I were the exhausting one. "We could have had a future if you'd just tried to be more… I don't know. Feminine. Softer. Sexy. Why can't you be more like Emma?"
The words sliced through the last fragile thread of patience I had.
More like Emma? The woman who helped destroy my family, who stole my boyfriend, and still had the nerve to show up tonight dripping in diamonds?
I looked at him, disbelief melting into disgust. "Four years together, and you still don't understand me. I don't need to change for anyone—especially not for a man who left me for a walking plastic surgery catalog."
"I was going to propose to you!" Ethan's voice rose, echoing off the marble columns. "Thank God I didn't!"
I let out a hollow laugh. "Don't try to justify your cheating by blaming me. And thank you for sparing me the nightmare of marrying you."
I brushed past him, ignoring the look of wounded pride on his face. The spring breeze was biting cold, and my thin dress offered no protection.
The more I walked, the more my feet ached in my heels. No taxis in sight. Only the city lights glittering like indifferent stars.
Memories surfaced despite my best efforts to bury them. Ethan and I, walking hand in hand through shop windows a year ago. The day he bought me that little Cupid brooch I'd once admired but couldn't afford. He'd smiled then, eyes warm. "When I'm rich, I'll buy you something better, Claire."
How ironic those words felt now.
Love turned out to be nothing more than a loan that never got repaid.
The wind stung my face. Despite my best efforts, tears welled in my eyes. I wasn't weak—but even the strongest woman could break after being betrayed, humiliated, and slapped all in one day.
Still, I didn't regret fighting back. I'd rather be the woman who threw the soup than the one who swallowed her pride.
My foot throbbed with every step. I was about to take off my heels and walk barefoot when a sleek black Bentley rolled to a stop beside me.
The tinted window slid down, revealing him.
Lucius.
His face was unreadable, every feature carved from shadow and control. "Get in the car," he ordered, his voice deep and commanding.
I froze, startled by both his sudden appearance and his tone. It wasn't a suggestion—it was an order.
Work hours were over. I didn't owe him obedience. And after the scene he'd witnessed at dinner, the last thing I wanted was to face him.
So I ignored him and kept walking.
"It's nearly impossible to get a cab here," he said evenly behind me.
I still didn't respond, tightening my grip on my purse and quickening my pace.
He waited a moment, then added, his tone deceptively calm, "You should know there have been several attacks on women in this area recently. The suspect hasn't been caught."
I stopped. The street suddenly felt darker. The rustling of leaves sounded sharper in the cold wind.
My pride battled with reason—but instinct won.
I turned back, exhaled quietly, and opened the passenger door. Without a word, I climbed in.
Lucius started the engine. The silence between us was thick, almost suffocating.
After a few minutes, he reached into the console and handed me a small black box. "This will help with the swelling."
I blinked, surprised. "What is it?"
"Ointment," he said simply.
Out of politeness, I took it and opened the lid—only to gag at the pungent smell that hit me. "What the—" I almost choked.
Lucius's lips curved, the faintest ghost of amusement flickering across his otherwise stoic face. "Apply it," he said, eyes fixed on the road.
I hesitated but dabbed a little on my cheek anyway. The cooling sensation spread immediately, the sting fading almost at once.
I gasped softly. "It actually works."
"Of course it does," he murmured, as if stating an obvious fact.
Still, the smell was unbearable. I wrinkled my nose, glaring at him through the corner of my eye. His faint smirk deepened, and I realized—he was enjoying my discomfort.
I turned away with a huff.
A few moments later, his voice broke the silence again. "So," he began, tone casual but eyes sharp, "you were drinking alone that night. Mourning your cheating boyfriend. And you begged me to take you home."
I froze. The bluntness in his words made my heart stutter.
I shot him a glare. "Excuse me? I did not beg you. And for the record, last night was a mistake. A moment of weakness. I had no idea you'd be my boss."
He didn't look away. His gaze was steady—too steady. "And now?"
"Now," I said firmly, "we maintain professional boundaries. What happened will not happen again."
Lucius's voice dropped lower, almost a whisper. "Professional boundaries. One-time thing."
"Yes."
He leaned back slightly, his expression unreadable. Then he said, almost lazily, "Don't flatter yourself. I have no interest in you. If anything, I should be the one concerned that you might try to use me for your own benefit."
The arrogance in his tone made my blood boil.
"Wow," I said through clenched teeth. "You really are full of yourself, Mr. Watson."
He said nothing, the faint smirk returning to his lips like a secret only he understood.
Ten minutes later, the car pulled to a stop outside my building.
"Thank you, Mr. Watson," I said stiffly as I unbuckled my seat belt. "For the ride."
"You don't need to thank me," he replied in that same emotionless tone. "You're an employee. If something happened to you, the company would have to cover part of the compensation fee."
I blinked. "Excuse me?"
He looked at me, perfectly calm. "It's a business precaution."
Unbelievable.
"Don't worry, Mr. Watson," I snapped. "I'll make sure I live to a hundred. You can save your precious compensation money for yourself."
Before he could respond, I slammed the door shut.
The Bentley pulled away, tires hissing softly against the pavement. He didn't even glance back.
I stood there, watching the taillights disappear into the dark, my pulse still racing.
He was infuriating—cold, arrogant, insufferably composed.
And yet, against all reason, my heart was still beating too fast.
When I got home, Betty ran up to me the moment I opened the door. "Claire! What happened to your face?"
Mom came hurrying out of the kitchen, her expression changing instantly when she saw the redness on my cheek. "Who did this? Was it your father?"
I forced a small smile. "Don't worry, Mom. I got slapped twice, but I returned the favor."
Her eyes filled with tears. "You shouldn't have gone there…"
"Don't defend him," I interrupted, the smile slipping. "Ryan stopped being my father the moment he walked out on us. Why do you still protect him?"
"Claire, he's your father after all," she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper.
I looked at her, at her tired eyes, at the woman who'd endured everything in silence—and my anger faded into exhaustion.
"I'm tired, Mom," I said quietly. "I'm going to rest."
I went to my room and shut the door behind me. My cheek still burned, but the pain in my chest was worse.
I collapsed onto my bed, staring at the ceiling.
Tomorrow was the weekend. Thank God for that.
Because after tonight, I wasn't sure how much strength I had left to face the world again.
- Writer
