The Heir Behind the Wheel

Chapter 2. The Last Fare

"No. I won't regret it."

Vanessa looked at him with eyes like frozen glass. A thin smile touched her lips — not warm, not kind. The kind of smile people wear when they've already decided you don't matter anymore.

"I don't have time to sit around waiting for some dream that's never gonna happen," she said, her voice steady, almost bored. "Besides, I've already found someone who can give me what I need. Right now. Not ten years from now."

Ethan's eyes went wide. His chest heaved. The air in the apartment felt too thick, too hot, pressing against his ribs like a hand trying to crush them.

"What do you mean?" His voice cracked upward, bouncing off the narrow walls. "Who? Tell me who!"

Vanessa didn't flinch. She just turned her head toward the window, as if looking at him for one more second was more than she could stand.

"Julian Cross."

The name hit him like a fist to the jaw.

CRASH.

Ethan's boot connected with the small table beside him. It flipped, sending the leftover birthday plate crashing to the tile floor. A fork skittered under the couch. The sound rang through the tiny apartment like a gunshot.

Then silence. Heavy. Ringing.

"If that's what you want," he said, his voice shaking, his hand pointing at the door, "then get out."

His finger trembled. His jaw was locked so tight his teeth ached.

"Pack your stuff. Right now. And don't you ever show your face in front of me again. I swear to God, Vanessa Hart — I will never take you back. Not in a million years."

Vanessa stood up slowly. She studied him for a moment, head tilted, as if she was checking something only she could see. Then she turned without a word and walked toward the bedroom.

Ethan didn't move. His hand stayed in the air. His breath came in short, sharp pulls through his nose. The smell of the birthday cake still hung in the room — sweet, sickening, wrong.

A minute passed. Then two.

She came back out carrying a white duffel bag over her shoulder. Her face hadn't changed. Still sour. Still bored. As if *she* was the one being wronged here.

"Everything's already packed," she said flatly. "Imagine that. You didn't even notice I moved my clothes out three days ago."

A small, bitter smile curled at the corner of her mouth. "And don't act like I'm the only one at fault here. This is on you, Ethan. You were never enough. You never tried hard enough."

She reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a brown envelope. She dropped it on the overturned table with two fingers, light as a receipt.

"I need you to sign these. Soon."

Then she walked out. No glance back. No hesitation. The door slammed shut behind her, and the sound cracked through the apartment like a bone snapping.

And in the silence that followed, Ethan just stood there. Still pointing at the door. His hand slowly dropped to his side. Her words kept replaying in his skull, over and over, like a broken record he couldn't turn off.

*You were never enough.*

***

Three days later.

The wipers dragged across the windshield in slow, tired arcs. Rain still poured over Crestview, turning the streets into rivers of reflected neon. Streetlights bled gold and red across the wet asphalt, making the whole city look like it was melting.

Ethan glanced at the watch on his wrist. Almost midnight.

He should go home. The word tasted bitter in his mind. *Home.* That small apartment where every corner reminded him of her voice. Her insults. The way she had looked at him like he was something she'd scraped off her shoe.

One more fare. Just one more, and then he'd park the cab and sit in the dark for a while.

He pulled up to the curb near the old train station. A man was waiting there — elderly, thin, clutching a leather briefcase to his chest like a shield. His silver hair was plastered to his forehead with rain.

"The Grand Meridian. Please." The old man's voice was tight. Anxious. He slid into the back seat and shut the door fast, as if something behind him might reach in and grab him.

Ethan nodded. Put the car in gear. Pulled into the rain-slicked street.

For the first few minutes, neither of them spoke. The only sound was the hum of the engine and the soft drumming of rain on the roof. But Ethan's eyes kept flicking to the rearview mirror.

The old man sat rigid in the back. His breathing was uneven — short, shallow gasps, like a man who had been running for a long time. His fingers gripped the briefcase so hard his knuckles had gone white.

Ethan had driven a cab for years. He knew people. He knew the difference between a tired businessman and a man who was scared. This old man was scared.

And the suit he wore — dark, perfectly tailored, the kind that cost more than Ethan made in three months. The briefcase had a small gold logo stamped near the clasp. Quiet wealth. The kind that didn't need to announce itself.

"Hey," Ethan said carefully, keeping his eyes on the road, "you alright back there?"

In the mirror, the old man hesitated. Then gave a small, stiff nod. Nothing more.

Ethan turned his attention back to driving. But when he checked the side mirrors, something made his stomach tighten.

A black sedan. Three car lengths back. No high beams. Just sitting there, matching his speed perfectly.

Ethan slowed down. Just a little. Testing.

The sedan slowed too.

He shifted lanes to the left. The sedan followed, drifting closer. Now it was barely two car lengths behind. The windows were tinted so dark they looked like holes cut into the night.

Ethan's fingers tightened on the steering wheel. His pulse kicked up a notch.

"You..." The old man's voice came from the back seat, thin and shaking. "Are you one of them?"

Ethan frowned. "What do you mean?"

The old man's eyes went wide. He realized his mistake. His voice jumped an octave, sharp with panic.

"Drive faster, son! Step on it! Or we're both dead tonight!"

Ethan's heart slammed against his ribs.

*Damn it.*

Three days ago, his wife walked out. Three days ago, she handed him divorce papers like she was handing him a grocery receipt. And now—

*What kind of life is this?* he thought, his jaw clenched, his knuckles white on the wheel. *I just wanted to make it. To be somebody. I haven't even lived yet. God, please. Just let me live.*

The prayer was silent. Desperate. A whisper in the back of his skull.

His foot pressed down on the gas pedal. The engine roared, straining, the old cab shuddering as it lunged forward into the rain. The speedometer climbed. The wipers screamed against the glass.

Behind him, the black sedan's headlights flicked on.