Chapter 6 The Boss as a Driver

Claire's POV

"Claire, wait!"

Ethan's voice, laced with false authority, stopped me just as I stepped out of the hotel's gleaming revolving doors.

I froze for half a second, a sigh escaping my lips before I reluctantly turned.

He stood a few feet away, his expression a baffling mix of irritation and what he probably thought was genuine concern. "Why are you always like this?" he demanded, as if I were the problem. "We were together for four years, Claire, and you still haven't changed-hot-headed, impulsive, always making a scene in public."

I blinked at him, disbelief momentarily overriding my simmering anger. That's why he followed me? To scold me? For one stupid heartbeat, I'd entertained the ludicrous idea that he might have come to check on me, to offer some comfort after the public humiliation. But of course not. That was never Ethan.

I almost laughed, the sound hollow. "Are you serious right now?"

He sighed dramatically, 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. Sexier. Why can't you be more like Emma?"

The words, dripping with casual cruelty, sliced through the last fragile thread of patience I possessed.

More like Emma? The woman who helped dismantle my family, who stole my boyfriend, and still had the nerve to show up tonight dripping in ostentatious diamonds?

I looked at him, disbelief curdling into pure 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 grand marble columns of the hotel entrance. "Thank God I didn't!"

I let out a harsh, hollow laugh. "Don't you dare 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 wounded pride contorting his face. The spring breeze was biting cold, and my thin dress offered little to no protection.

The more I walked, the more my feet ached in my heels. No taxis were in sight, only the city lights glittering like indifferent, mocking stars.

Memories surfaced despite my best efforts to bury them. Ethan and I, walking hand in hand through brightly lit shop windows a year ago. The day he'd bought me that little cupid brooch I'd admired but couldn't afford. He'd smiled then, his eyes genuinely warm. "When I'm rich, I'll buy you something better, Claire."

How incredibly ironic those words felt now.

Love, it turned out, was nothing more than a loan that never got repaid.

The wind stung my face, and despite my fierce resolve, tears welled in my eyes, blurring the indifferent city lights. I wasn't weak-but even the strongest woman could break after being betrayed, publicly humiliated, and physically assaulted 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, silently choking on it.

My foot throbbed with every painful step. I was about to take off my heels and walk barefoot, consequences be damned, when a sleek black Bentley rolled to a silent stop beside me.

The tinted window slid down, revealing him.

Lucius.

His face was a mask, every feature carved from shadow and absolute control, utterly unreadable. "Get in the car," he ordered, his voice deep, commanding, leaving no room for argument.

I froze, startled by both his sudden, unexpected appearance and his audacious tone. It wasn't a suggestion-it was an unequivocal order.

Work hours were long over. I didn't owe him an ounce of obedience. And after the absolute spectacle he'd witnessed at dinner, the very last thing I wanted was to be cooped up in a car with him.

So, I ignored him, tightening my grip on my purse, and kept walking.

"It's nearly impossible to get a cab here at this hour," he said evenly from behind me, the car still crawling at my pace.

I still didn't respond, only quickening my steps.

He waited a moment, then added, his tone deceptively calm, chillingly precise, "You should know there have been several attacks on women in this area recently. The suspect hasn't been caught."

I stopped dead in my tracks. The street suddenly felt darker, colder. The rustling of leaves in the wind sounded sharper, more sinister.

My battered pride battled furiously with raw reason-but primal instinct, the very instinct he seemed to awaken, won.

I turned back, exhaled a shaky breath, and opened the passenger door. Without a single word, I climbed in.

Lucius started the engine, the powerful car purring softly. The silence between us was thick, heavy, almost suffocating in its intensity.

After a few tense minutes, he reached into the console and handed me a small, black, unadorned box. "This will help with the swelling."

I blinked, genuinely surprised. "What is it?"

"Ointment," he said simply, as if discussing the weather.

Out of some ingrained politeness, I took it and carefully opened the lid-only to gag at the incredibly pungent, almost medicinal smell that hit me. "What the-" I choked, pulling away.

Lucius's lips curved, the faintest ghost of amusement flickering across his otherwise stoic, perfect face. "Apply it," he said, his eyes fixed on the road ahead.

I hesitated, then reluctantly dabbed a tiny bit onto my throbbing cheek. The cooling sensation spread almost immediately, the sting fading as if by magic.

I gasped softly, genuinely impressed. "It actually works."

"Of course it does," he murmured, as if stating the most obvious, incontrovertible fact in the world.

Still, the smell was absolutely unbearable. I wrinkled my nose, glaring at him through the corner of my eye. His faint smirk deepened, and I realized-he was thoroughly enjoying my discomfort.

I turned away with a huff, crossing my arms defensively.

A few moments later, his voice broke the heavy silence again. "So," he began, his tone casual, almost conversational, but his eyes, when he briefly flicked them to me, were sharp, dissecting. "You were drinking alone that night. Mourning your cheating boyfriend. And you begged me to take you home."

I froze. The bluntness, the absolute lack of delicacy in his words, made my heart stutter.

I shot him a furious glare. "Excuse me? I did not beg you. And for the record, last night was a mistake. A moment of weakness. A catastrophic lapse in judgment. I had no idea you'd be my boss."

He didn't look away. His gaze was steady-too steady, too intense. "And now?"

"Now," I said, my voice firm, resolute, "we maintain professional boundaries. What happened will not happen again."

Lucius's voice dropped lower, almost a conspiratorial whisper, a dangerous rumble that vibrated through the car. "Professional boundaries. One-time thing."

"Yes."

He leaned back slightly, his expression unreadable, a Sphinx-like enigma. Then he said, almost lazily, with an edge of pure arrogance, "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 sheer audacity, the unadulterated arrogance in his tone, made my blood boil.

"Wow," I said through clenched teeth, my voice a low growl. "You really are full of yourself, Mr. Watson."

He said nothing, that faint, infuriating smirk returning to his lips like a secret only he understood, a silent victory.

Ten minutes later, the Bentley pulled to a smooth, silent stop outside my building.

"Thank you, Mr. Watson," I said stiffly, unbuckling my seat belt with deliberate movements. "For the ride."

"You don't need to thank me," he replied, his voice still that same emotionless, detached cadence. "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, his gaze unwavering. "It's a business precaution. Purely logical."

Unbelievable. The man was infuriating beyond measure.

"Don't worry, Mr. Watson," I snapped, my temper flaring again. "I'll make sure I live to be a hundred. You can save your precious compensation money for yourself."

Before he could respond, I slammed the car door shut with a satisfying thud.

The Bentley pulled away, tires hissing softly against the wet pavement. He didn't even glance back.

I stood there, watching the taillights disappear into the dark, my pulse still racing from anger, from defiance, from something I couldn't name.

He was infuriating-cold, arrogant, insufferably composed, treating me like a liability rather than a human being.

And yet, against all reason, my heart was still beating too fast.

When I got home, Betty, my younger sister, 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 instantly shifting from worried to horrified when she saw the angry red mark on my cheek. "Who did this? Was it your father?"

I forced a small, wobbly smile. "Don't worry, Mom. I got slapped twice, but I definitely returned the favor."

Her eyes filled with tears, not for herself, but for me. "You shouldn't have gone there, honey."

"Don't defend him," I interrupted, the smile slipping, a fresh wave of bitterness rising. "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, filled with an age-old sadness.

I looked at her, at her tired, perpetually worried eyes, at the woman who had endured so much in silence-and my anger, for a moment, faded into sheer exhaustion.

"I'm tired, Mom," I said quietly, rubbing my temples. "I'm going to rest."

I went to my room and shut the door behind me, the silence a welcome balm. My cheek still burned with a dull ache, but the pain in my chest was far, far worse.

I collapsed onto my bed, staring blankly 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.