Hot Driver - S01 E92

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Hot Driver - S01 E92

Read Story: SEASON 1 EPISODE 92

Hamilton General Hospital – Night (Continued)

Ivory threw her arms around him the moment his eyes fully focused on her, and Duane hugged her back with what little strength he had, both of them sobbing into each other’s shoulders in a way that had nothing composed or dignified about it at all.

He’d been so sure, in that final conscious second on the cinema pavement, that this was it — that the darkness closing in around him was permanent, that he’d never get to see her face again. And now here he was, weak and wired to a dozen machines, and she was real, warm, sobbing against his chest.

I made it back to her, he thought, tightening his arms around her as much as his depleted body would allow. I actually made it back.

He pulled back just enough to kiss her forehead, then her eyelashes, then the tip of her nose, before finally capturing her lips in a slow, unhurried kiss.

“I love you,” he murmured against her mouth.

“I love you too,” Ivory said, laughing through her tears. “Say it again.”

“I love you.”

“Again.”

He laughed weakly, kissing her once more instead of answering, and she melted into it, unwilling to let go.

Across the room, Arielle had buried her face in both hands. “Oh my GOD, someone stop them, I’m going to cry harder than I already am.”

Ariel wasn’t even trying to hide it, tears streaming freely down his face as he watched his brother — his actual brother — alive and kissing the woman who’d flown across an ocean twice for him.

Mr. Hale cleared his throat pointedly.

Duane and Ivory finally broke apart, and Duane’s gaze swept the room properly for the first time, landing on face after unfamiliar face — the older couple standing close together, tears in both their eyes, the young man who looked like he’d been crying for hours, the young woman practically vibrating with emotion beside him.

His brow furrowed. “I’m sorry,” he said, voice still rough. “I don’t— who are you all?”

The door opened before anyone could answer, a doctor rushing in, clearly having been alerted the moment the monitors registered the change.

“He’s awake.” The doctor’s face broke into genuine, relieved surprise as he crossed to the bed, running quickly through his checks — pupils, reflexes, pressing gently along the bandaged wound. “Vitals are strong. Everything looks remarkably good, all things considered. The wounds still need time to finish healing, but—” he shook his head slightly, still visibly stunned, “—this is nothing short of a miracle.”

He made a few final notes and stepped back out, leaving the room to the family, and Duane’s confused gaze returned to the strangers gathered around his bed.

Mrs. Hale cleared her throat softly, stepping closer. “Duane. There’s a lot to explain, and I know this is going to be difficult to hear all at once, but—”

She told him everything, gently, carefully — the hospital switch twenty-eight years ago, Alice, the years of searching, the moment they’d seen his face and known instantly. Ivory took over partway through, filling in the parts about the orphanage records, Celeste’s shock, the DNA confirmation that had come back while he was still unconscious.

Mr. Hale produced a folded document and pressed it gently into Duane’s hands.

Duane stared down at it, his own name printed beside a percentage that left no room for doubt, and before he’d even finished reading the second paragraph, tears were sliding freely down his face.

“I know Celeste isn’t my birth mother,” he said, voice cracking. “I’ve known that my whole life. But she’s still my mother. She raised me with nothing and gave me everything.” He looked up, overwhelmed. “And now you’re telling me I’m— what, the son of the richest family in Canada? I don’t even know how to process that.”

“You don’t have to process it all tonight,” Mrs. Hale said softly.

Arielle, unable to contain herself a second longer, blurted, “Brother, I want to go shopping with you.”

A startled, watery laugh broke free from Duane despite everything, and it seemed to shatter whatever careful composure the room had left.

Mr. and Mrs. Hale crossed to the bed together and pulled him into a careful, tearful embrace, mindful of his healing chest, and after a stunned moment, Duane’s arms came up around them both, holding on.

Arielle grabbed her brother’s arm and dragged him into the hug as well, and Ariel went willingly, and within seconds the whole family was wrapped around the hospital bed together, crying and laughing in the same breath.

Ivory stood back for a moment, watching, her own face wet with tears, something warm and aching blooming in her chest at the sight of him — finally, finally surrounded by people who loved him, who’d fought for him, who’d never stop now that they’d found him.

Then Arielle’s hand shot out, pulling her into the pile too, and Ivory laughed through her tears, letting herself be folded into the middle of it all.

—

Creston – Curtis’s Residence

Curtis’s driver pulled up the long, secluded drive toward his estate, deep at the city’s edge where the trees grew thick enough to swallow the road from view.

The house wasn’t there.

Not fully. What remained was a blackened, smoking shell, walls collapsed inward, the roof entirely gone, still faintly smoldering in places despite what looked like it had happened hours ago.

Curtis stumbled out of the car and fell to his knees in the ash-covered driveway, a broken, guttural sound tearing out of him.

Everything, he thought, staring at the wreckage. Everything I had. I never trusted banks. I kept it all here.

His entire fortune — cash, records, everything he’d built over decades — reduced to ash and smoke in front of him.

His phone buzzed.

Wife: Like the gift? That’s what you get for having a daughter without telling me. She’s dead, though, and I hope she rests in pieces.

Curtis stared at the screen, the words slamming into him with sickening clarity. His wife. The one who traveled constantly, the one he’d almost forgotten existed in the chaos of the past month.

She knew, he thought numbly. She’s known this whole time.

Memory surfaced unbidden — a night, years ago, another woman, another betrayal he’d inflicted without a second thought, the particular cruelty he’d shown someone who’d trusted him.

I’ve done this to someone before, he realized, the horror of it compounding with everything else. This is what it feels like on the other side.

His phone buzzed again. His secretary this time.

A significant sum has been withdrawn from company accounts without authorization. We are currently insolvent. Creditors have been notified.

Curtis remained on his knees in the driveway, surrounded by the ruins of everything he’d built, sobbing until his throat gave out.

—

Celeste’s Residence – The Next Morning

Celeste moved through the kitchen, gathering her things for the day’s opening at the restaurant, when her phone rang.

Mrs. Hale.

“Celeste!” The joy in her voice was audible even before she finished the sentence. “He’s awake. He’s actually awake!”

Celeste dropped the container she’d been holding, spice scattering across the counter, and pressed her free hand to her mouth.

“He’s awake,” she repeated, disbelief and pure joy tangling together. “Oh, thank God. Thank God, thank God—”

“Mama?” Luis appeared in the doorway, alarmed by her tone.

“He’s awake, baby!” Celeste turned to him, tears already streaming. “Duane’s awake!”

Luis crossed the kitchen in three quick strides and threw his arms around her, sobbing openly into her shoulder.

“I’m going to miss him,” he choked out, the relief and the ache of distance tangling together all at once. “I miss him so much already, Mama.”

“I know, baby,” Celeste murmured, holding him tight. “I know. But he’s alive. He’s alive, and that’s everything.”

—

Bennett’s Mansion – Same Morning

The family gathered around the phone on speaker, Diana’s face bright with relief as Ivory’s voice came through from the other end.

“He’s eating a little now,” Ivory reported. “Not much, but it’s something.”

“Thank goodness,” Diana said. “My baby’s back.”

“MY baby,” Ivory corrected, laughing.

“Yes, well,” Arthur said dryly, “we’ll need to have a discussion at some point about when exactly your driver became your baby, but I suppose that conversation is overdue anyway.”

Ivory laughed. “At least I never have to worry about you setting me up on another disastrous blind date again, Dad.”

“I still say that Norman fellow was perfectly respectable,” Arthur muttered, and the whole room burst into laughter at the memory.

Hazel leaned toward the phone. “I used to see you sneaking into his room every night, you know. In that sinful little nightie.”

“HAZEL.”

The whole family dissolved into laughter, Ivory’s mortified protest barely audible over it.

“So that’s what’s been happening under my roof,” Arthur said, feigning outrage, though his eyes crinkled with amusement. “Right under my nose.”

“Dad!”

They laughed harder, the sound warm and easy, a family finally allowing themselves a full breath of relief after weeks of holding it.

—

Morales Mansion – Same Morning

Ron paced his study, agitation crawling under his skin with nowhere to go. Everything had gone wrong — the plan delayed, the ache in his chest worsening by the day, some formless dread building steadily that he couldn’t outrun no matter how hard he tried to focus on Ivory instead.

The pain struck again, harder this time, buckling his knees entirely.

He collapsed to the floor, gasping, and blood began trickling — from his nose first, then his mouth, then, horrifyingly, his ears.

“GRACE!” he tried to scream, though it came out weak, wet, barely a whisper.

Footsteps approached.

Grace stood in the doorway, looking down at him with an expression that held nothing resembling alarm.

She smiled.

“Good,” she said quietly, crossing her arms. “That’s exactly what you deserve. You’re going to rot, Ron. Slowly. Until your insides come out of your own body and maggots feed on what’s left.”

Ron stared up at her, disbelief and terror colliding through the pain. “Who—” he choked out. “Who are you?”

“My father worked in your office,” Grace said, voice flat and cold. “You killed him. Slammed his head into a wall until he stopped moving. Do you even remember his name?”

Ron’s blood-flecked mouth opened, but no answer came. He didn’t remember. He’d never bothered to know.

“I’m his daughter,” Grace said. “And I’ve been poisoning your food since the day I walked into this house.”

Ron spat blood, weaker now than he’d been seconds before, his whole body trembling.

Grace crouched down, spitting once, deliberately, directly onto him. “Rot,” she said, and stood, walking to the door.

She picked up his phone from the nightstand on her way out and dropped it directly into the toilet in the adjoining bathroom, flushing it without ceremony.

Then she left, locking the door behind her, and Ron lay alone on the floor of his own study, blood pooling slowly beneath him, utterly unable to call for help.

—

Canada – The Hale Estate

The estate sprawled across acres of manicured grounds, the main house a sweeping structure of pale stone and glass that seemed to catch and hold the morning light in every window. Inside, soaring ceilings arched over rooms filled with careful, understated luxury — polished hardwood, art collected over decades, a grand staircase curling upward from the marble foyer.

The breakfast room alone was larger than most people’s entire homes, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking gardens still dressed faintly in morning frost.

Duane had been discharged that morning, and true to her word, Ivory hadn’t left his side once, propping pillows behind him at the table so he could sit upright without straining, the doctor’s warnings about overexertion still fresh in everyone’s minds.

“Open,” Ivory said, holding a spoonful toward him.

“I can feed myself,” Duane protested weakly.

“You’re not strong enough yet. Open.”

He gave in, taking the bite, and when she went to pull the spoon away, he caught her fingers instead, licking a stray bit of sauce from her thumb with a lazy, teasing look that made her flush.

She pinched his nose in retaliation, and he laughed, wincing slightly at the pull against his healing chest.

“I just hope she doesn’t accidentally kill him with all this fussing,” Arielle said dryly from across the table, sipping her juice.

“She won’t,” Duane said, grinning at his new sister. “Baby sis.”

Arielle’s whole face lit up instantly. “Say it again.”

“Baby sis.”

She practically glowed, and Ariel reached over and smacked the back of her head lightly.

“Ariel’s maltreating me,” Arielle announced immediately, turning to Duane with exaggerated wounded dignity. “Defend my honor.”

“Let him rest,” Mr. Hale said, chuckling, though the warmth in his voice was unmistakable.

Ivory raised the spoon again, and as Duane opened his mouth for the next bite, their eyes locked — something soft and overflowing passing between them that had nothing to do with breakfast at all.

“I love you,” he murmured, quiet enough that it was mostly just for her.

“I love you too,” she whispered back.

Mr. Hale, watching them from the head of the table, cleared his throat gently. “Duane. When you’re strong enough — no rush at all — I’d like to discuss the possibility of you taking over one of our subsidiary companies. Whenever you’re ready.”

Duane blinked, clearly still adjusting to the sheer scale of the life unfolding in front of him, and simply nodded, too overwhelmed to form a proper response just yet.

—

Creston – Este’s Restaurant

Celeste moved through the kitchen, checking pots, calling out instructions to her staff with the easy confidence of someone fully back in her element.

“Ma’am,” one of her workers called from the front. “You have a visitor.”

Celeste wiped her hands on her apron and stepped out — and stopped dead.

Peter.

Older, thinner, the years showing plainly on a face she’d once known intimately, standing awkwardly near the entrance like he had any right to be there at all.

“How DARE you,” Celeste said, voice shaking with a fury she hadn’t felt in years. “How dare you show your face here, Peter.”

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

“Sorry?” Celeste’s laugh came out sharp, disbelieving. “You emptied our accounts and disappeared. You left me with nothing. NOTHING, Peter. And now, the moment I’ve finally built something of my own, you show up and say SORRY?”

—

Morales Mansion – Same Time

Ron lay on the floor of his locked study, barely conscious, blood soaking dark and thick into the fabric of his trousers now, seeping from places that made the horror of his situation undeniable even through the fog of his fading awareness.

He vomited again, more blood spilling across the hardwood, his body shuddering weakly with the effort.

He wasn’t dying yet. Not quite.

But he was seeing, in vivid, unbearable detail, exactly what dying might feel like — slow, humiliating, entirely alone.

—

Canada – Duane’s Suite

Ivory lay curled against Duane’s side in the enormous bed, his head resting against her chest, her fingers moving idly through his hair as evening settled soft and quiet over the estate outside their window.

“You’re thinking about Creston,” she said, feeling the small shift in his breathing that always gave him away.

“I miss it,” he admitted. “Celeste. Luis. The mansion. Hazel driving Arthur crazy every morning.” He tilted his head slightly to look up at her. “I want to go back. Even just for a week.”

“We will,” she promised, pressing a kiss to his forehead.

He reached up and took her hand, pressing it flat against his chest, right over his heart.

“Feel that,” he said quietly. “It’s beating too fast.”

“You should rest, then.”

“It’s beating fast because of you.”

Ivory’s breath caught, warmth spreading through her chest, and she leaned down to press a soft peck to his lips.

“I don’t want a peck,” Duane murmured against her mouth.

She leaned in properly this time, and their lips met in something slower, deeper, unhurried.

“I love you, baby,”.

“I love you, my addiction.”

She kissed him again, and outside the window, the last light of the Canadian evening faded slowly into dark.

TBC.