The Trillionaire Driver.

Chapter 2A – Morning After the Storm

The storm had passed, but the city still smelled like rain, wet asphalt and something metallic.

Deborah stirred awake in her penthouse, silk sheets tangled around her.

The night replayed in flashes. Chris’s voice, the calm defiance. That smile at the end, she sat up, rubbing her temples. “What the hell did I just drag myself into…”

Her phone buzzed, three missed calls from her father, one from her assistant, and a single unread text.

Chris: Breakfast? 9AM. I’ll drive.

Her brows shot up. “Drive?” she muttered. “He thinks he’s my chauffeur now?”

Still… curiosity edged her irritation. Who was this man who could sit in a room full of billionaires, take insults like a professional, and leave everyone speechless?

She slid out of bed, wrapping a robe around her. “He said he invests in people… right. Probably sells fake stock tips on YouTube.” but the more she tried to convince herself, the less she believed it.

[9:03 AM – Outside her building]

Chris leaned against a dark sedan, casual, composed, wearing a charcoal jacket that didn’t look designer but somehow fit better than luxury. He smiled when she stepped out. “Morning. You’re late.”

She froze. “Excuse me?”

“You told me that last night,” he said, opening the door for her. “Returning the favor.”

She stared at him for a moment, half-amused, half-annoyed. “You’ve got some nerve.”

“Comes with the job.”

She got in anyway. “And what job is that, exactly?”

He didn’t answer immediately, just started the engine, pulling smoothly into traffic. “Let’s call it problem solving.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It wasn’t meant to be.”

She turned toward him, studying his face, Calm, unreadable. Not a single twitch of arrogance or guilt.

“Do you always talk in riddles?” she asked.

“Only when people ask dangerous questions before coffee.”

She rolled her eyes but smiled despite herself. “Fine. Where are we going?”

“Somewhere with good omelets and bad service.”

“Charming.”

They drove in silence for a few moments. The city blurred by, glass towers, billboards, morning rush.

Then she said quietly, “You shouldn’t have done that last night.”

“Which part?”

“The part where you almost declared war on my family.”

Chris smirked faintly. “They started it.”

“They were testing you.”

“And they failed.”

Her lips parted, but no words came out. Something about his confidence unnerved her, not arrogance, authority, Like someone who never had to prove himself.

The car slid into a quiet street. Rain still dripped from the trees, glinting in the late morning light, Deborah’s phone buzzed on the dashboard. Her father’s name flashed across the screen. Chris glanced at it once, then back to the road. “You should take that.”

She hesitated. “He’s probably just angry about last night.”

“Probably,” Chris said, tone unreadable.

She sighed and answered. “Morning, Dad.”

Her father’s voice came low and sharp. “Deborah. Where are you?”

“Having breakfast. Why?”

“With him?”

Her chest tightened. “How do you even”

“Listen to me carefully,” he interrupted. “Stay away from that man.”

“Excuse me?”

“You don’t know who he is.”

She frowned, glancing at Chris, who looked perfectly calm, one hand on the wheel. “He’s”

“He’s dangerous, Deborah. The name Alphonso, it’s not what you think. That man isn’t poor. He’s… someone we don’t cross.”

Her pulse spiked. “You mean he’s connected?”

A pause, then, “More than connected. The kind of man who hides behind other people’s names. No one really knows how deep his reach goes. If he’s near you, it’s for a reason.” She looked at Chris again. He felt it, her stare, but didn’t turn, just a small, knowing smile at the corner of his mouth.

“Dad,” she whispered, “what are you saying?”

“I’m saying get out of that car, now” The line went dead.

The air seemed to thicken. The quiet hum of the engine was suddenly too loud. Chris spoke softly. “Everything alright?”

She swallowed hard. “My father thinks you’re dangerous.”

He chuckled once, low. “Fathers tend to think that about men they can’t control.”

Her hand hovered near the door handle. “Should I be worried?” He finally looked at her, steady, calm, almost amused, “Not yet.”

The car slowed to a stop outside a discreet café tucked between glass towers. The sign above the door was small, elegant, The Ledger.

Deborah raised a brow. “This doesn’t look like your typical breakfast spot.”

Chris shrugged, stepping out. “That’s why it’s good.”

Inside, the place smelled of espresso and quiet money, Not flashy, refined, The kind of café where deals worth millions were whispered over croissants. A waiter spotted them and froze mid-step. For a split second, his professional smile faltered. Then he straightened fast.

“Good morning, sir,” he said quickly too quickly. “Your usual table?”

Deborah blinked. “Usual?”

Chris gave a casual nod. “That’ll do.”

The waiter led them to a secluded booth near a tall window overlooking the street. Other patrons,  sharply dressed, the kind who never looked surprised by wealth  gave discreet glances their way.

When they sat, Deborah leaned forward. “Your usual table?” she echoed.

Chris smirked. “They must be confusing me with someone else.”

“Really? Because he looked like he was about to salute you.”

“Maybe I tip well.”

She didn’t buy it. “Chris, be honest. Who are you?”

He met her gaze without flinching. “The man you begged to play your fake husband, remember?”

She sighed, rubbing her forehead. “Don’t remind me.”

The waiter returned, overly polite now. “Would you like the chef’s special, Mr. Alphonso? It’s your preferred preparation.”

Deborah froze. “Preferred?”

The waiter’s eyes widened slightly, too late. He realized he’d said too much. “Ah, my apologies, sir, I must have” Chris waved him off lightly. “It’s fine. Bring it.”

The waiter vanished, Deborah leaned in again, voice low. “You come here often enough for them to know your preferred preparation?”

Chris stirred his coffee. “I like consistency.”

“That’s not consistency, that’s familiarity.”

He smiled faintly. “You’re very observant today.”

“Because I’m trying to figure out whether I’m having breakfast with a con artist or a king.”

He looked up, the faintest glimmer in his eyes. “Why not both?” She stared, at a loss for words.