I should have checked the license plate. That was the detail that stayed with me afterward, the one that made the whole thing feel both absurd and inevitable. But my eyes were burning with exhaustion, and my mind was somewhere else entirely.
I had worked two shifts back to back at the café, studied for three exams, and slept four hours across two days. By eleven that night I was running on autopilot, held together by willpower and cheap coffee. When I saw the black car parked in front of the library, I assumed it was my Uber.
It was black. It was waiting. I was too tired to question anything beyond that.
I opened the back door and slid inside as if I were coming home. The seat was impossibly comfortable, too comfortable for an Uber, but my exhausted mind failed to register the warning. I sank into the soft leather, closed my eyes for what I intended as a second, and let the darkness take me.
It was the best sleep I’d had in weeks. Deep, dreamless, and free of the low hum of worry that usually followed me into bed. Then a male voice, deep and clearly amused, cut through the quiet.
“Do you always break into other people’s cars, or am I special?”
My eyes flew open. The panic was immediate. A man sat beside me.
He wore a custom suit in dark tones and had the kind of face that belonged in magazines — defined jawline, dark eyes watching me with a mixture of curiosity and amusement, a smile that made me feel both irritated and strangely warm. “I’m sorry,” I said, my voice hoarse from sleep. “I thought this was my Uber.”
“Technically, you hijacked my car and then snored for twenty minutes.”
Heat climbed my neck.
“I don’t snore.”
“You do. Lightly. It was actually kind of adorable.”
I looked around properly for the first time.
The interior of the car wasn’t merely luxurious. It was obscene — a built-in minibar, touchscreen displays, polished wood trim, more quiet comfort than any car I’d ever been in. No Uber had a minibar.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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