My ribs were tightly wrapped beneath the stiff, suffocating fabric of the black chauffeur’s uniform.
Every breath I took was a sharp, jagged stab of agony. It had been exactly one week since my father broke his wooden cane across my back on the marble floor of the estate.
I hadn’t fully healed. I was still severely anemic, still coughing up blood into the bathroom sink, still struggling to stand upright.
But Oliver didn’t care. He had deemed me "unfit" to attend the Greenville Charity Gala by his side. Instead, he had tossed the keys to the extended Maybach at my feet.
"You want to act like a vicious, low-class servant?" he had sneered, his eyes filled with contempt. "Then do a servant's job. Drive us."
So, I drove.
The rain was a solid, unrelenting wall of water, hammering against the windshield.
The wipers slashed back and forth frantically, but the road ahead was barely visible.
In the rearview mirror, the scene was entirely different. The back of the Maybach was a warm, luxurious cocoon. Beatrice was draped in a glittering silver gown, her head resting gently on Oliver’s shoulder.
He was whispering something to her, his hand softly stroking her hair. They looked like a magazine cover. They looked like soulmates.
I kept my eyes on the slick, dark road. My hands gripped the leather steering wheel, my knuckles white.
I felt nothing looking at them. The beating last week had shattered my ribs, but it had also shattered the pathetic, lingering illusion that Oliver would ever look at me with anything other than disgust. I was numb. I was just waiting for the right moment to disappear completely.
We approached the main intersection at the edge of the city. The traffic light above us glowed a steady, bright green.
I pressed the accelerator to pass through.
Then, the blaring horn ripped through the sound of the rain.
A massive, eighteen-wheel freight truck came barreling out of the darkness from the intersecting street. It was moving too fast, completely ignoring the red light. The driver was drunk, asleep, or both.
The blinding glare of the truck’s headlights flooded the cabin of the Maybach.
Time slowed down to a crawl.
I saw the trajectory of the massive steel grille. It wasn't aiming for the front of the car. It was hurtling directly toward the rear passenger door.
Straight for Oliver.
I had spent the last week realizing I meant absolutely nothing to him. I knew he would gladly watch me die if it meant saving Beatrice a drop of blood. I knew he hated me.
But ten years of ingrained muscle memory—the exact same instinct that had made me drag his unconscious body from a burning warehouse when we were teenagers—hijacked my brain.
I didn't think. I didn't weigh the pros and cons.
I just reacted.
I yanked the steering wheel violently to the right, slamming my foot on the gas.
The heavy luxury car swerved sharply, the tires screeching against the wet asphalt. I threw my side of the car directly into the path of the speeding truck, using the driver's seat as a steel shield.
The impact was apocalyptic.
The sound of tearing metal and exploding glass was deafening. The airbag deployed, punching me in the face, but it wasn't enough to stop the crushing force of the truck.
The driver's side door caved inward like a crushed tin can.
The steering column snapped and pinned my chest, driving my already fractured ribs deep into my lungs.
The Maybach spun wildly across the wet intersection, metal sparking against the pavement, before finally slamming into a concrete traffic pillar and coming to a violent halt.
Darkness flickered at the edges of my vision.
The pain was absolute. It was a blinding, suffocating agony that radiated from my crushed chest down to my trapped legs. A warm, thick liquid poured down my forehead, blinding my left eye.
The engine hissed, smoking in the heavy rain.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of the storm.
Then, a groan from the back seat.
"Beatrice?"
Oliver's voice. It was frantic. Terrified.
"Beatrice, are you okay? Talk to me!"
"Oliver... my arm," Beatrice whimpered, her voice trembling. "It hurts. I'm scared."
I tried to speak. I tried to make a sound, to let them know I was crushed, that I was bleeding out in the front seat. But when I opened my mouth, a thick wave of blood bubbled up my throat, choking me.
I heard the heavy, desperate thud of Oliver kicking his jammed door open. The hinges screamed, and the door gave way. The freezing rain poured into the ruined cabin.
Through the shattered remnants of the rearview mirror, I watched him.
He unbuckled Beatrice with shaking hands. He carefully, gently lifted her into his arms, wrapping his expensive suit jacket around her shoulders to shield her from the rain.
"I've got you," he whispered to her. "The ambulance is already pulling up. You're going to be fine."
He stepped out into the storm.
I lay pinned against the steering wheel, my blood soaking into the leather seat. My right hand twitched, reaching slightly toward the back.
Look at me, I thought. Just look at me once.
Oliver didn't look forward. He didn't check the front seat. He didn't ask if the driver—his wife—was alive.
He didn't even glance at the crushed, mangled metal that was currently suffocating me to death.
He turned his back to the wreckage and walked away, carrying Beatrice toward the flashing red and blue lights of the arriving paramedics.
I watched his broad shoulders disappear into the rain through the shattered windshield.
The cold seeped into my bones, replacing the pain. My breathing grew shallow, the blood filling my lungs.
As my eyes slowly fluttered shut, a strange, profound sense of peace washed over me.
I had saved his life ten years ago, and I had just saved it again tonight. My debt to him, my foolish, unrequited love, was finally paid in full.
The Carmella who loved Oliver Sterling died in that crushed driver's seat.
When I woke up, I would never look back.
