The Trillionaire Driver.

Chapter 1B - The Mistaken Ride

The tension snapped like a live wire. Deborah stepped forward. “Enough. We came for dinner, not interrogation.”

Her father held up a hand. “Raymond.”, but the damage was done. The whispers continued. Chris reached subtly for her hand beneath the tablecloth, squeezing once, not for show, but for grounding. She blinked in surprise, her pulse stuttering.

He leaned closer, voice low. “You alright?”She nodded stiffly. “I’ve had worse.”

He smiled. “Not tonight.” For the first time, her breathing steadied.

Deborah’s father clears his throat, the weight of silence returning. “So,” he says slowly, “Chris, tell us… what exactly do you do for a living?”

Chris leans back slightly, unfazed. “I invest. Mostly in people.”

Uncle Raymond lets out a quiet laugh. “How poetic. Translation, unemployed with good vocabulary.”

The table chuckles again. Deborah’s jaw tightens; she glances around, her cheeks burning.

“Uncle, please, ”

“No, no,” Raymond interrupts, raising his glass. “I’m just trying to understand how my dear niece managed to find this… man. What did you say his last name was?”

“Alphonso,” Chris answers evenly.

“Alphonso,” Raymond repeats, tasting the word like it’s unfamiliar wine. “Never heard of your family. Are you local?”

Chris meets his eyes, calm but direct. “Very local. You could say I have roots here.”

Deborah can feel the energy shift. The confidence in Chris’s voice isn’t defensive, it’s dangerous, like someone who could end the conversation if he wanted to.

Her mother clears her throat. “Darling, maybe we should”

But Raymond waves her off. “No, I’m curious. Tell me, Mr. Alphonso, how does one invest in ‘people’? You sell them dreams? Promises? Hope?”

Chris finally smiles, a slow, razor-thin line, “Sometimes. Though in my experience, the people who mock dreams are usually the ones still chasing them.”

The laughter dies immediately, Deborah’s father looks up sharply, her brothers exchange glances, and for a brief second, no one breathes.

Then Raymond scoffs, trying to recover. “You’ve got quite the tongue for a man without pedigree.”

Chris sets his glass down quietly. “Pedigree doesn’t build empires. Vision does.”

The words hang heavy between them, Raymond’s smile thins. “Vision, huh? That’s cute. My niece could use some of that. Maybe that’s why she picked you, to borrow yours.”

Deborah slams her fork down, the sound sharp against the crystal plates. “Enough. You’ve made your point.”

Her father exhales, calm but disappointed. “Deborah, we’re just having a conversation.”

“No, you’re not,” she snaps. “You’re dissecting him like he’s some experiment. You invited me here to talk about the company, not to parade my personal life.”

The room falls silent again. Even the servers freeze at the edges, Chris studies her, this proud, sharp woman cracking for the first time tonight. Then he looks at her father. “You raised a fighter,” he says quietly. “That’s rare.”

Her father’s gaze lingers on him. “Fighting isn’t the same as leading.”

“True,” Chris replies. “But it’s a start.”

The tone in his voice, steady, grounded, unflinching, makes everyone glance up. There’s something about the way he says it, like a man who’s been in real battles, not boardroom ones. Raymond scoffs. “Listen to this philosopher in a borrowed suit.”

Chris finally turns to him, calm as ever. “You seem very interested in me, Mr.?”

“Raymond,” he says curtly.

Chris nods once. “Well, Mr. Raymond, maybe next time we meet, I’ll let you handle the valet yourself. Seems like that’s your specialty.”

The jab lands so smoothly it takes the table a second to catch it. Then Deborah’s youngest brother snorts, trying, and failing, to hide his laughter.

Her father clears his throat again, trying to restore order. “Alright. Enough of this back-and-forth. Deborah, you should have told us sooner about this… arrangement.”

Her heart skips, Arrangement, That word lands like a blade. Chris doesn’t flinch. “We wanted to be sure first.”

Her mother leans forward. “Sure of what, dear?” Chris meets Deborah’s eyes. “That it’s real.”

The line hits differently, soft, believable, too natural to sound rehearsed. Deborah blinks, surprised at how genuine it feels. Raymond mutters, “Real, huh? I give it a month.”

Chris looks at him again, voice level but lower now. “You might be right. Or I might own half your company by then.”

The entire table freezes. Her father’s expression darkens. “Excuse me?”

Chris smiles faintly. “Just a joke.” but no one’s laughing.

Deborah grips his arm under the table, whispering, “What are you doing?”

He leans closer, voice just for her. “Balancing the odds.”

She wants to be angry, but there’s a flicker of something else, relief. For once, someone’s not afraid to talk back.

Her father stands. “Dinner’s over. Deborah, I’d like a word.”

Deborah rises reluctantly. Chris stays seated, calm amid the tension swirling around him. As the family disperses, Raymond lingers behind, lowering his voice.

“I don’t know who you think you are, but whatever game you’re playing, it won’t last. This family eats people like you.”

Chris’s expression doesn’t change. “Good thing I’m not on the menu.”

Raymond smirks. “We’ll see.”

He leaves, Chris sits there alone for a moment, fingers drumming lightly against the table. The storm outside has turned heavy, the rain now a steady roar.

He glances once at the reflection in his wineglass, his own faint smile flickering back, Then, under his breath, “Let’s see how far you’re willing to play, Deborah Lewis.”