Hot Driver - S01 E23

Story 3 days ago

Hot Driver - S01 E23

Read Story: SEASON 1 EPISODE 23

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Ivy Fashion Empire – Ivory’s Office – Afternoon

The office door burst open moments after Ivory’s scream, Miles rushing in, eyes wide, scanning the room for the source of the crash.

“Ms. Bennett? Are you—”

“Call Duane,” Ivory snapped, pointing toward the shattered remains of her phone scattered across the floor, glass glinting under the overhead lights. “Now. Tell him to get up here immediately.”

Miles didn’t ask questions. He simply nodded and hurried back out, phone already pressed to his ear, his footsteps quick and nervous against the marble.

Ivory paced the length of her office, arms crossed tight over her chest, heels striking the floor in short, furious beats. Her mind was a chaotic storm of fury and something else entirely — something raw and unfamiliar that she refused to look at directly.

He kissed her, she thought, over and over, the image burning itself behind her eyes every time she blinked. He actually kissed her. Right there. In public. Where anyone could see.

Why do I care? Why does this even matter to me? He’s just my driver. Just an employee. I don’t care who he kisses.

She didn’t believe herself. The realization only made her angrier.

She stopped by the window, staring out over the city skyline without actually seeing it, replaying the image again — Duane’s hand curled around Beauty’s, then the second photo, lips pressed together, unmistakable.

I’m not jealous, she told herself firmly. I don’t get jealous. I’ve never been jealous a day in my life.

The lie sat uncomfortably in her chest, refusing to settle.

Minutes later, the door opened again. Duane stepped in, unhurried as always, though a flicker of confusion crossed his face at the sight of her — flushed, furious, practically vibrating with rage, broken glass still scattered near the wall.

“You screamed my name so loud the whole floor probably heard it,” he said, glancing at the mess.

“What happened here? Did you throw something?”

“Don’t change the subject.”

“I’m not changing anything. I just walked in.”

Ivory snatched a tablet off her desk — she’d already pulled the images up from her assistant’s backup — and shoved it toward him, nearly hitting him in the chest with the corner of it.

“Explain this.”

Duane looked down at the screen.

There he was, unmistakably, hand in hand with Beauty outside the cinema. And then, in the second image, lips locked with hers entirely, the two of them wrapped up in what looked, at a glance, like an intimate, unmistakable kiss.

He stared at it for a long moment, and something flickered across his face — surprise, quickly masked, replaced almost instantly with a flat, unreadable calm. He knew, immediately, exactly what he was looking at. The angle was wrong. The lighting didn’t match anything from that night — too warm, too golden, nothing like the harsh fluorescents of the cinema lobby. His own posture in the photo looked stiff, unnatural, the kind of stiffness that came from a body pasted awkwardly into a scene it had never actually occupied. His hand in the first photo bent at an angle his wrist had never once achieved in his entire life.

Photoshopped. Someone had gone through the trouble of manufacturing this entirely, and done a passable enough job that it might actually fool someone who wasn’t looking closely.

But he didn’t say that. He wasn’t about to hand Ivory the satisfaction of an explanation, not when she’d already decided, apparently, that she had the right to interrogate him over his personal life like she owned that too.

“It’s none of your business,” he said flatly, handing the tablet back.

Ivory’s mouth fell open. “None of my business? You’re kissing another one of my employees in broad daylight, and you think that’s none of my business?”

“Correct.”

“Do you have any shame at all?”

“Do you always go through your employees’ private photos, or is this a special occasion?”

“Someone sent them to me,” Ivory snapped. “Which means someone thought I deserved to know exactly what kind of man I’ve got driving me around every single day.”

“And what kind of man is that, exactly?”

“The disgusting kind. The kind who kisses one woman while probably stringing along someone else at home.” She crossed her arms tighter. “I pity your girlfriend, honestly. The poor girl probably has no idea you’re out here cheating on her the moment her back is turned. Boys are all the same. Every single one of you. You promise the world and then you go behind everyone’s back the first chance you get.”

Duane almost laughed at that — the sheer, unearned confidence of the accusation, the venom behind it that felt far too personal for a conversation about a stranger’s fabricated photo. “I don’t have a—”

“Save it,” Ivory cut him off, voice climbing. “I could sue you, you know. For cheating on your girlfriend under my company’s roof. For conduct unbecoming of an employee. I could think of a dozen reasons to fire you on the spot.”

“I’m not defending her. I’m telling you facts.” His jaw tightened, and for the first time, something sharper slipped into his voice. “Why are you so worked up about this, Ms. Bennett? Why are you so jealous on my girlfriends behalf instead of minding your own business?”

Ivory’s face went scarlet, the accusation hitting somewhere she wasn’t prepared to examine. “I am NOT jealous.”

“Sure you’re not.”

“I couldn’t care less who you kiss.”

“Then why are you screaming my name loud enough to shatter your own phone?”

Ivory opened her mouth, then closed it again, no response arriving fast enough to salvage the moment.

“That’s what I thought,” Duane said quietly.

He turned and walked out before she could fire back another word, leaving her standing there, chest heaving, staring at the door, humiliation and something far more confusing warring for space in her chest.

She looked down at the shattered phone still scattered near the wall and, for reasons she couldn’t articulate even to herself, felt the sudden, ridiculous urge to cry.

She didn’t. She never did. Not in front of anyone who could see.

Minutes Later

Duane drove her out of the office in silence, the tension from upstairs still thick enough to choke on, neither of them willing to break it first.

“Take me to my parents’ mansion,” Ivory said eventually, staring out the window, her voice carefully flat.

He followed the familiar route without comment, though the silence didn’t last more than a few minutes.

“So,” Ivory said, voice deceptively casual, picking at the hem of her sleeve. “Are you going to go see your family this weekend? Assuming your girlfriend allows it. How touching,” she said, dripping sarcasm. “In your dreams, you probably imagine yourself as some kind of saint, don’t you? Devoted son, loyal brother, always doing right by everyone — meanwhile you’re out here kissing my employees in movie theaters behind closed doors.”

“Ivory.”

“What? Am I wrong?”
“I DON’T HAVE A GIRLFRIEND,” Duane shouted suddenly, his composure finally cracking, the words tearing out of him louder than he’d intended, echoing sharply through the confined space of the car.

Ivory blinked, genuinely startled by the outburst, her sharp retort dying somewhere in her throat. “Huh?”

Bennett’s Mansion – Evening

Duane parked the car in the lot and got out first, walking around toward the entrance ahead of Ivory, still visibly tense from the argument.

The front door swung open before he even reached it. Abigail stood there, and the moment she caught sight of him, her whole face lit up with genuine, unguarded delight.

“Wow,” she said, eyes widening
appreciatively, looking him over from head to toe without any pretense of subtlety. “The new driver. He’s cute!”

“Abigail,” Duane said, offering a polite smile, though he was slightly caught off guard by the enthusiasm.

“I mean it,” Abigail continued, grinning. “My sister has good taste in hires, apparently, even if she doesn’t have good taste in anything else.”

She stepped aside to let him in, and across the dining room, Arthur rolled his eyes without looking up from his meal, clearly unimpressed by yet another member of his family fawning over the help.

“Is this what my daughters have been reduced to?” he muttered. “Fawning over drivers.”

“Nobody’s fawning, Dad,” Abigail said breezily. “I’m just appreciating good genetics. It’s practically educational.”

Hazel came barreling down the hallway a moment later, throwing her arms around Duane before he’d even fully crossed the threshold.

“I miss you, handsome bro!” she declared, squeezing tight, nearly knocking him off balance.

“I saw you three days ago,” Duane said, laughing, hugging her back regardless.

“three days is forever when you’re not around to show me your handsome face .”

Behind them, Ivory finally stepped through the door, and Abigail’s attention immediately shifted, rushing forward to pull her older sister into a fierce, prolonged hug.

They stood there for a long moment, neither willing to let go first, the earlier lightness of the room quieting into something more tender.

“What did Tyler do to you?” Ivory finally murmured against her shoulder, voice low with barely contained anger. “If that bastard did anything to hurt you, I swear he’s going to rot in jail. I’ll make sure of it personally, contract or no contract.”

Abigail didn’t answer, just held on tighter, saying nothing, her fingers curling into the back of Ivory’s blazer.

“huh?,.talk, should I get him arrested, tomorrow?”

Abigail still didn’t talk, she just hugged her big sis tighter.

Ivory let the silence stretch, unwilling to push further, and eventually pulled back, giving her sister a long, assessing look before moving past her toward the dining room.

“Sit down and eat something,” Abigail called after her. “You look exhausted. And don’t argue, I can already see the argument forming.”
Ivory paused at the table, greeting her parents briefly before settling into a chair, and Abigail followed, scooping a portion of food onto a plate and setting it in front of her sister without being asked.

“I can feed myself,” Ivory said, though there was no real heat in it.

“You look like you’re about to fall asleep in your soup. Just let me.”

Diana glanced over from her own seat, warmth in her eyes as she took in both her daughters at the table together for the first time in what felt like ages. “Duane, sit down. Join us for dinner.”

Arthur’s eyes rolled so hard it was practically audible, though he said nothing further, returning his attention to his plate with pointed disinterest.

Duane took a seat, and for a while, the table settled into something resembling peace — plates passed around, quiet conversation, the ordinary rhythm of a family sharing a meal, punctuated occasionally by Hazel’s enthusiastic retelling of some school drama nobody had asked about.

“I’m leaving tomorrow,” Abigail said eventually, breaking the comfortable lull. “Going back to my own mansion. I need some space to think. To breathe. Away from all of this.”

Diana reached over and squeezed her hand. “Whatever you need, sweetheart.”

“I’m leaving too,” Duane added. “By the weekend. Two days from now. Going to see my family.”

Hazel’s face fell dramatically, her fork clattering against her plate. “You’re leaving? Already? I’m going to miss you so much. Who’s going to protect me from Dad’s boring dinner conversations?”

“I heard that too,” Arthur said dryly.

“You were meant to hear that one as well.”

“It’s just a couple of days, Hazel,” Duane said, laughing.

“Still. The house feels different when you’re not around. Emptier. Less handsome, generally.”

Duane smiled at that, something warm settling in his chest despite the day’s chaos, though he didn’t examine that feeling too closely either, focusing instead on his plate.

Abigail’s Room – A Few Minutes Later

Abigail excused herself from the table early, a sharp, sudden pain lancing through her lower belly the moment she stood, sharp enough to make her breath catch.

She made it to her private restroom just in time, doubling over slightly as the cramping hit — sharp, familiar, undeniable. Her period. Her tummy felt like it was on fire, the pain radiating outward in waves that made her grip the edge of the sink for support, knuckles whitening.

Tyler.

The thought arrived unbidden, sharp as the cramps themselves.

He was the one who always knew her cycle better than she did half the time — tracking the dates on his own phone with an almost obsessive precision she used to tease him about, showing up with a stash of pads before she’d even realized she needed them, running warm water for her without being asked, rubbing slow, careful circles against her back until the worst of the pain passed, murmuring reassurances against her hair while she curled into him.

He would have known. He would have already been here, already taking care of this, already taking care of her, without her having to ask for a single thing.

A tear slipped free before she could stop it, sliding down her cheek and dropping silently onto the bathroom tile.

She wiped it away quickly, angry at herself for the weakness, furious that even now, even after everything, some part of her still wanted him here.

I don’t need him, she told herself. I don’t need anyone.
She reached for the small emergency kit she kept in the cabinet instead, forcing herself through the motions alone, teeth gritted against another sharp wave of pain.