— “Do you usually fall asleep in strangers’ cars, or am I just getting special treatment?” Angela had worked two double shifts at the diner, was studying for three finals, and had slept maybe four hours in the last two days. She was beyond exhausted.
When she saw a black sedan waiting in front of the campus library at 11 p.m., she climbed in without checking the plate. The backseat was comfortable—suspiciously high-end for an Uber—but she was too tired to care. she closed her eyes for what felt like a second and woke up to an amused male voice.
— “Do you always climb into random cars, or am I special?” Angela opened her eyes. A man was sitting right next to her.
Expensive suit, a face that belonged on a magazine cover, dark hair, and a dry, sarcastic smile. He definitely wasn’t an Uber driver. When she looked around, she realized the car had a built-in bar and custom leather work.
Seriously, who has a bar in their car? That’s when it clicked: he wasn’t just some guy; he was a high-powered executive. — “And for the record, you’ve been snoring for twenty minutes,” he added.
In that moment, she wanted the ground to swallow her whole. Chapter One: The Discovery and the Offer.
No, I should have checked the plate. That’s what kills me when I look back. I should have looked at the damn license plate before getting in.
But my eyes were burning from exhaustion, and my brain was fried. Two double shifts. Three exams.
Four hours of sleep in forty-eight hours. I was running on autopilot, fueled by sheer willpower and cheap coffee. When I saw that black car idling in front of the library at 11 p.m., I just assumed it was my ride.
It was black. It was waiting. I was too tired to doubt it. I opened the back door and slid in like I was coming home.
The seat was incredibly soft. Too soft for a standard Uber, really. Но my exhausted mind didn’t register the red flag.
I just sank into the leather, closed my eyes, and let the darkness take over. It was the best sleep I’d had in weeks. Deep, dreamless, and quiet.
Until a man’s voice, deep and clearly entertained, cut through my fog like a hot knife through butter. — “Do you always climb into random cars? Or am I special?”
My eyes snapped open. Panic shot through my veins when I realized I wasn’t alone. A man was sitting right there.
So close I could feel the heat coming off him. He smelled like expensive cologne—the kind that probably cost more than my monthly rent. He was wearing a custom-tailored suit in dark tones, looking like he’d just stepped out of a boardroom on Wall Street.
His hair was perfectly styled but with that intentional “messy” look that wealthy men seem to master effortlessly. And his face… Good grief.
He was unfairly handsome. The kind of handsome that should be regulated by law. A sharp jawline, dark eyes watching me with a mix of curiosity and amusement, and a smirk that made me feel both annoyed and strangely flustered.
— “I…” My voice was raspy from sleep. I sat up too fast, and my head spun. — “I’m so sorry. I thought this was my Uber.”
I wasn’t… I wasn’t trying to break into your car. He tilted his head, that irritating smile still there. — “Technically, that’s exactly what you did.”
And you snored for twenty minutes. Heat rushed up my neck to my cheeks. I wanted to die right there on that absurdly comfortable leather seat.
— “I don’t snore.” — “You do. Quietly.”
It was actually kind of charming. His eyes sparkled with genuine amusement, and I didn’t know whether to laugh or scream. That’s when I finally looked around the interior.
The cabin wasn’t just luxury; it was obscene. A mini-bar, touch screens, exotic wood trim. Who even has a bar in their car?
Oh boy. The reality of the situation hit me like a ton of bricks. — “You’re not an Uber driver, are you?”
— “Definitely not.” — He leaned back, completely relaxed while I was spiraling. — “I’m Nick Peterson, and this is my car you hijacked while you were napping.”
The name didn’t ring a bell at the time, but the way he said it suggested it should have. Judging by the car and the aura of power he projected, he wasn’t just “some guy.” He was someone important, someone wealthy—someone who could probably sue me for trespassing or worse.
— “I am so sorry. Really, truly,” the words tumbled out. — “I’ve been working all day, studying all night, and I was waiting for my ride, and…” — I stopped, took a breath, and tried to find a shred of dignity.
— “I’ll get out now. Sorry for the trouble.” I reached for the door handle, but his voice stopped me.
— “It’s 11:30 at night. This isn’t exactly the safest part of town.” — “Not your problem,” I snapped back.
Exhaustion made me defensive. It was a reflex. He laughed.
A real laugh. A low, sincere sound that did something strange to my stomach. — “Fair enough.”
But since you’ve already spent twenty minutes sleeping in my car, I think I can at least worry about your safety. Let me give you a lift home. — “I don’t need charity.”
— My pride, stubborn as ever, flared up. — “It’s not charity.” — He leaned in a bit closer, and suddenly the car felt much smaller, warmer.
— “It’s common sense. It’s late. It’s dangerous.”
And technically, you’re already in the car. I should have said no. I should have gotten out and called another Uber.
But the truth was, I was drained and terrified of walking alone at this hour. And something in his voice, the way he looked at me, made my guard drop just an inch. — “Fine,” I muttered, giving in.
— “But if you turn out to be a serial killer, I’m going to be very annoyed.” — “Duly noted.” — His smile widened as he tapped on the glass partition separating us from the driver.
— “Jack, we’re good to go.” The car pulled away with a smoothness my usual Uber rides never had. I gave the driver my address, trying to ignore Nick’s steady gaze.
— “So,” he said, breaking the silence, “why so exhausted?” I don’t usually tell my life story to strangers, but there was something about the way he asked—genuine curiosity, not condescension—that made me answer. — “Full-time student, two jobs, maybe four or five hours of sleep on a good night.”
— “That’s not sustainable,” he said. There was no judgment, just a statement of fact. — “Must be nice to be rich, but some of us have to work to survive,” I replied, my sarcasm acting as a shield. To my surprise, he laughed again.
— “Touché. But you’re killing yourself, literally.” — “And you?”
