Hot Driver - S01 E52

Story 1 week ago

Hot Driver - S01 E52

Read Story: SEASON 1 EPISODE 52

{MBS – Same Morning}

The atmosphere between Ron and Maeve remained frozen, neither making any effort to bridge the distance that had grown between them.

Ron had resumed work fully now, his injuries mostly healed — the bruising faded, the swelling gone, his teeth replaced with a set of artificial ones that looked, if anything, slightly too perfect against the rest of his face.

He sat at his desk, going through paperwork with mechanical efficiency, his mind elsewhere entirely.

His phone buzzed. Maeve, from across the office.

Maeve: Mom’s flight just landed. I’m heading to the airport.

Ron didn’t bother responding. He watched, without comment, as she gathered her things and rushed out moments later, her heels clicking rapidly against the marble floor.

Good riddance, he thought, though a small, satisfied smile tugged at his mouth once she was gone.

His mind was elsewhere entirely — on Duane, on the plan slowly taking shape in his head, each piece falling carefully into place.

She’ll come crawling back to me once he’s out of the picture, he thought, leaning back in his chair. It’s only a matter of time now.

Este’s Restaurant – Same Morning

The restaurant was busier than ever, tables filling faster than Celeste could keep up with alone, the morning rush in full swing.

To her delight, the same woman from the day before returned — this time with three colleagues in tow, all of them dressed sharply, clearly professionals on a lunch break.
“We had to come back,” the woman said, beaming. “I told them all about you.”

The group ordered generously, and when the bill came, they paid far more than what was owed, waving off Celeste’s protests with warm smiles and promises to return regularly.

Celeste nearly fainted on the spot, overwhelmed by gratitude, her chest tight with emotion she could barely contain.

It’s all because of him, she thought, glancing toward her phone on the counter. Whoever he is. I owe him everything.

She hadn’t heard from her anonymous benefactor in two days now, and though she desperately wanted to reach out, some instinct told her to respect the privacy he’d clearly set for himself.

Her phone buzzed just as the thought crossed her mind.
Unknown: How is it going.

Celeste’s fingers flew across the screen immediately.

Celeste: Thanks so much, sir. Everything is going smoothly. It’s all because of you. Thank you so much, sir.

She sent it and stood there for a moment, phone clutched to her chest, tears prickling at the corners of her eyes.

Her phone rang moments later. Duane.

She picked up immediately, and the words tumbled out of her in an excited rush — the restaurant, the new customers, the new phone, describing the new house down to the smallest detail, unable to contain her joy.

She could hear the happiness radiating through Duane’s voice on the other end, matching her own.

“Any idea who’s been helping you?” he asked.

“None at all,” Celeste admitted, shaking her head even though he couldn’t see her. “Whoever it is, they clearly don’t want to be known. I just wish I could thank them properly, face to face.”

“Maybe someday you will,” Duane said. “Enjoy it, Mama. You deserve every bit of this.”

{Ivy Fashion Empire – Noon}

Duane walked through the lobby toward the elevators, a strange, prickling sensation settling over the back of his neck — the distinct feeling of being watched.

He glanced around casually, finding nothing obviously out of place, and pushed the feeling aside, chalking it up to exhaustion.
Behind the glass display case showcasing the empire’s latest collection — an area conveniently outside the reach of any security camera — Beauty stood watching him, arms wrapped around herself, longing written plainly across her face.
I miss him so much, she thought, tracking his every movement. Why won’t he just see me the way I see him?

She stayed there long after he’d disappeared into the elevator, unable to tear herself away.

Duane, meanwhile, stopped by the café on his way up, picking up Ivory’s coffee exactly the way she liked it, and carried it into her office himself, setting it down in front of her without a word.

She glanced up, surprised, then genuinely pleased. She took a sip, and a low, satisfied moan escaped her before she could stop it.

“This is perfect,” she said, eyes closing briefly.

Duane smirked, leaning down to press a quick kiss to her temple. “I’ll see you later.”

She nodded, smiling as he left, watching the door close behind him with something warm settling in her chest.

Creston International Airport – Early Afternoon

Mrs. Alice emerged from the arrivals gate, elegant and striking, pulling a designer suitcase behind her with the kind of effortless poise that turned heads across the terminal.

Maeve spotted her instantly and rushed forward, throwing her arms around her mother in a tight, emotional embrace.
The resemblance between them was uncanny — the same sharp cheekbones, the same calculating eyes, the same practiced charm layered over something colder underneath.

Alice was tall, pale, striking in the way former models often remained striking well into middle age, a single mother who’d raised two children largely on her own. Maeve had never known her father — Alice had simply told her, once, briefly, that he’d died, and the subject had never been raised again.

Maeve and her brother were Alice’s only children.
They walked together toward the car, chatting easily, though something distinctly cold flickered behind Alice’s polished smile whenever the conversation lulled.

“Where’s my brother?” Maeve asked as they settled into the back seat.

“He didn’t want to come,” Alice said dismissively, waving a manicured hand.

“You know how he is. Always so wrapped up in his own little world.”

The car pulled away from the curb, and Maeve launched into the full story — Ivory, the award, Tyler, Abigail, all of it spilling out in a rush of resentment and longing.

Alice listened with growing interest, her smile sharpening with every detail.

“Don’t worry, darling,” she said finally, patting Maeve’s hand. “Whatever you want, I’ll help you get it. That’s what mothers are for.”

Maeve smiled, relief washing through her — though a sudden, sharp ache in her throat interrupted the moment, drawing a small
wince from her.

“Are you alright?” Alice asked, eyes narrowing slightly.

“I’m fine,” Maeve said quickly, forcing a smile. “Just a scratchy throat.”

A headache followed almost immediately after, sharp and sudden, lasting several long minutes before finally fading as quickly as it had come. Maeve pressed her fingers to her temple, breathing through it carefully, determined not to let her mother see any weakness.

Her phone buzzed. Curtis.
She turned it face-down without reading the message, tucking it into her bag.
Not now, she thought. Not in front of her.

MBS – Ron’s Office – Afternoon

Ron’s secretary knocked hesitantly before stepping into his office, clutching a tablet to her chest, her expression already apologetic before she’d said a single word.

“Sir, I have some bad news.”

“Speak.”

“Our quarterly numbers came in. We took a significant loss this quarter. Ivy Fashion Empire’s new collection is outselling ours by a wide margin, especially since the award ceremony—”

Ron was out of his chair before she finished, closing the distance between them in three furious strides.

His palm connected with her cheek before she could react, the sound cracking sharply through the office.

She stumbled back, hand flying to her face, eyes wide with shock and pain.

“Get out,” Ron snarled. “Get out of my office.”
She fled without another word, tears already welling in her eyes, leaving Ron alone, chest heaving, staring at the numbers still glowing on the tablet she’d left behind on his desk.

Ivy Fashion Empire – Afternoon

Ivory sat alone in her office, the earlier warmth of the morning fading into something heavier as the quiet settled around her.

Unbidden, a memory surfaced — one she’d buried so deep, so thoroughly, that it rarely found its way to the surface anymore.

She was four years old again, small and confused, sitting on the staircase of the Bennett Mansion, listening to voices drifting up from the study below. Arthur and Diana’s voices, low, serious, discussing something in hushed tones she hadn’t been meant to hear.

“…the adoption papers are finalized. No one needs to know beyond us.”

“She’s ours now, Arthur. That’s all that matters. We’ll raise her exactly like our own.”

Four-year-old Ivory hadn’t fully understood the words then, not really — but some part of her had understood enough.

Enough to know that the people she called Mum and Dad weren’t the people who’d given birth to her. Enough to know that she’d come from somewhere else entirely. An orphanage. A history no one had ever spoken of since.

She’d never told anyone what she’d overheard that day. Not Arthur. Not Diana. Not Abigail or Hazel, both of whom had come along later, both of whom had no idea their sister carried a secret this heavy, this old.

Tears slipped free before Ivory could stop them, sliding silently down her cheeks in her empty office.

I’ve carried this alone for twenty-three years, she thought, pressing a trembling hand to her mouth to muffle the sound building in her throat. Twenty-three years, and I’ve never told a single soul.
She thought of Arthur and Diana — of how they’d never once treated her differently, never once let slip even the smallest hint that she wasn’t theirs by blood.
They’d loved her fiercely, completely, exactly like their own child, and she’d let them, all while carrying the knowledge of her own difference in silence.

It’s rare, she thought, tears falling harder now. It’s so rare to find people like them. People who choose to love you that completely, without ever needing you to know the difference.

Who are my real parents, she wondered, the question aching in a way it hadn’t in years. Why did they give me up? Did they even want me at all?
The questions had no answers. They never had.

She curled forward over her desk, shoulders shaking, the sobs finally breaking free after years of careful, practiced suppression, the golden trophy from the night before sitting forgotten and gleaming on the shelf behind her, utterly meaningless against the weight of everything she’d never let herself feel.

TBC