“I’ll see you in a minute.”
The call ends, and I gather my things, riding the elevator down with two people discussing quarterly projections like it’s the only thing in the world that matters.
I stop in the ladies’ room before heading out.
The mirror is kinder here. I check my makeup, smooth a thumb beneath my eyes, touch up my lipstick just enough to look intentional instead of untouched. I straighten my jacket, adjust the line of my skirt, tug once at the hem like that might settle my nerves.
I don’t look nervous.
I look composed.
I take a breath I didn’t realize I’d needed to and let it out slowly.
This isn’t a meeting.
This isn’t a test.
I square my shoulders, pick up my bag, and head outside.
The street is busy in that end-of-day way—cars idling, people spilling out of buildings, the city shrugging off work and slipping into night. I scan the curb automatically.
Then I see it.
Black. Low. Polished. Waiting.
By the time I reach the car, Derek is already out, standing on the sidewalk like he planned it that way. He opens the door for me before I can reach for the handle.
“Hi,” he says.
“Hi.”
He holds my hand while I slip inside, then gently closes the door behind me. He circles the front of the car and slides into the driver’s seat, pulling back into traffic with practiced ease.
The car is sleek in the way everything flashy always is.
Low profile. Clean lines. Black so deep it almost absorbs the streetlight instead of reflecting it. No decals. No vanity plates. Fast without needing to announce itself.
Inside, it smells like leather and something faintly citrus—intentional, not artificial. The seats are firm but comfortable, built for control more than luxury. Everything is where it’s supposed to be. No clutter. No evidence of anyone else.
It fits him.
Efficient. Quiet. Purposeful. Designed to perform without drawing attention to the fact that it can.
When he pulls back into traffic, the engine barely registers. Just a smooth surge forward, confident and contained.
I don’t comment on it.
Neither does he.
That feels like part of the point.
I catch myself noticing his hands on the wheel—steady, sure—and the way he glances over once, just to make sure I’m settled.
It’s a small thing.
It shouldn’t matter.
But it does.
