Every time my driver took me to work, he brought his girlfriend along.
Since it was on the way, I never said anything about it.
Until one day I opened the car door and found a note stuck to my seat in the back:
"Freeloaders not allowed in this car."
I peeled the note off and turned to the driver. "What is this?"
His girlfriend was sitting in the passenger seat, glaring at me with open contempt. "Can't you read? Every single day you mooch a ride off my boyfriend. Have you no shame? If you can't afford a cab, stay home. God, I can't stand leeches like you."
I stared at her, completely baffled. The driver rushed over to my side and whispered his explanation.
"Ms. Pruitt, my girlfriend doesn't know I'm a chauffeur. She's the jealous type. The note is just... her way of showing she cares about me."
He paused, then added, "Also, she's not comfortable sharing a car with you. Let me drop her off first, and then I'll come back for you."
Before I could respond, he climbed behind the wheel of my car and drove off.
I stood on the curb, watching the taillights disappear. Then I calmly pulled out my phone and dialed 911.
"Hello. A man and a woman just took my car without permission. I'd like to report a theft."
——
Never in my life had I imagined that as the CEO of a publicly traded company, someone would look me in the eye and call me a freeloader.
And the car they drove off in was mine.
Twenty minutes after the call, a squad car pulled up in front of me.
Two officers had barely stepped out when Alfred Lawrence came tearing around the corner in my black Maybach. He slammed the brakes, lurching to a stop just feet away, and jumped out. His face was chalk-white.
"Ms. Pruitt, what happened? Why did you call the police?"
I looked at him. Said nothing.
One of the officers sized him up. "Are you the individual Ms. Pruitt says took her vehicle without authorization?"
The color drained from Alfred's face even further. "No, no, officers, this is all a misunderstanding." His hands went up, palms out. "I'm Ms. Pruitt's driver. I drive her every day. I just dropped someone off on the way. Took a few extra minutes, that's all. Nobody stole anything."
He gestured frantically at the Maybach behind him, forcing a grin. "See? I brought the car right back. First thing."
The officers looked at me, then back at him. "Ms. Pruitt, do you want to press charges?"
I was about to answer when Alfred leaned in close, his voice dropping to a desperate whisper.
"Ms. Pruitt, please. For my father's sake. He drove for you all those years. Just let this one go."
He swallowed hard. "You know my dad's health isn't good. I finally found a girlfriend, and it's the one thing he wanted for me. What I did back there was just to keep things stable between her and me. I had no choice."
The mention of his father softened something in me.
Owen Lawrence had been my chauffeur for six years. Honest, dependable, steady behind the wheel, and never once a source of trouble. In all those years, he had never been late, never gotten a single violation. Every holiday, when I handed him a bonus, he'd try to wave it off for a solid five minutes before finally accepting.
Three months ago, Owen was diagnosed with a lung condition that required long-term rest. He had no choice but to resign.
On his last day, he stood in my office, rough hands twisting together, clearly wanting to say something but unable to get the words out. Finally, face flushed with embarrassment, he told me his son Alfred had just lost his job. If the company had an opening, could I possibly give the boy a chance.
Owen had been an honest man his entire life. He had never asked anyone for a favor. That was the first time.
Out of respect for him, I said yes.
For the first two months, Alfred did fine.
