The rain fell in lazy drizzles over the cracked pavement of South Ridge, soaking the ends of Dylan Haven's boots as he walked the narrow stretch between the bus station and his apartment. He didn't run. He never did. Rain, like life, hit you whether you rushed or stood still. Might as well face it.
He reached his building—an aging gray block with rusted balconies and the faint stink of mildew in the stairwell. The elevator hadn't worked in months, so he climbed the steps in silence, counting them like regrets.
Third floor. Apartment 3B. He unlocked the door quietly.
Inside, the air was warm, slightly stale. Faint music drifted from an old radio in the kitchen. A cough echoed from the bedroom down the hall.
"Mom?" he called softly.
"In here, baby," her voice rasped.
He set his wet jacket aside and walked into the dim bedroom, where the blinds were drawn and his mother lay propped up on a few pillows. Her skin looked a shade paler today. He hated seeing it.
"How are you feeling?" he asked, pulling a chair close.
"I've been worse," she said with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "You look tired."
"Long walk."
"No call from the restaurant?"
"Nope. They said they'd 'keep my résumé on file,' which is code for: 'we're never calling.'"
She reached out and took his hand. Her fingers felt too thin. "Don't let it get to you."
"I don't," he lied. "It's just part of the plan."
She raised an eyebrow. "The plan being?"
"To get so successful they regret everything."
His mother gave a soft laugh. "You always were dramatic."
He didn't respond. Not with words. Not with a smile. He just held her hand tighter.
Two years ago, Dylan Haven had been a different man. He had a stable job working as a field supervisor for a logistics company. He wasn't rich, but he was building something. And he had Mia.
Or so he thought.
She'd been there through his early struggles. She said she loved his determination, his grit. They had plans—travel, a future, maybe kids. But then came Liam. His friend. His best friend.
And richer.
Mia left Dylan with a soft apology and a promise that it "wasn't about the money." But it was. Of course it was. The same week she left, she moved into Liam's luxury condo. Dylan didn't need a degree in psychology to decode that one.
He hadn't spoken to either of them since.
The betrayal had left a crater in him. Not just pain—but fury. Cold, calculated, motivating fury.
He didn't cry. He didn't beg.
He started keeping lists.
Things to do before I die:
Never trust a woman again.
Never rely on a friend.
Become the man they'll wish they hadn't betrayed.
And for the last year, his life had revolved around two goals: take care of his mother, and become a man no one could afford to walk away from again.
His savings had dwindled since she got sick. The cost of her medication, rent, and groceries chipped away at what little he had left. So he started doing freelance delivery jobs. Driving for others. Airport runs. Short-term contracts. Odd hours.
And now, he was running out of options again.
That night, he sat at the kitchen table, laptop open, scanning job listings like a soldier checking weapons. Most of them were dead ends—low pay, high stress, no stability. But one caught his eye.
"Executive Chauffeur – Diamonds HQ.
High-profile clientele. High discretion. Clean record. Luxury vehicle experience preferred."
He scrolled through the description, noting the salary—much higher than most driving gigs. Full-time. Health benefits. Security.
And the company name?
Diamonds.
He'd heard of it, of course. Everyone had. Tiana Kings—the icy queen of industry. The media loved her. The tabloids said she turned down proposals from billionaires and fired people for bringing her the wrong coffee. She was as feared as she was admired.
Dylan didn't care about the reputation. He didn't care about the power.
He just needed the paycheck.
And something about the name stirred something else in him—like stepping onto a battlefield.
He filled out the application. Kept it professional. Highlighted his driving history, his previous security clearance, his zero accidents, his personal discipline. He attached his résumé and clicked submit.
Then he closed the laptop and sat back, staring at the ceiling like it held answers.
He wasn't stupid. He knew how the world saw men like him—men who'd been burned and never healed right. Bitterness wasn't a badge you wore in public. But Dylan didn't care about public.
He'd learned the rules.
Love made you soft.
Trust made you foolish.
And women—especially beautiful, ambitious ones—were the most dangerous gamble of all. They smiled sweet until someone richer, faster, shinier came along.
He'd fallen once. That was enough.
Now? He wasn't chasing fairy tales. He was chasing fireproof success.
He rose early the next morning. Dressed sharp. Clean shave. Trimmed beard. Gray button-up shirt. Dark trousers. Clean black shoes. Professional. Respectable. The kind of man who could drive executives without saying too much or too little.
He got a call that same afternoon from Diamonds HR.
A woman named Candace, brisk and polite. "We received your application. Are you available to come in for a first-round interview tomorrow?"
"Yes," Dylan said immediately.
"9:00 AM sharp. Dress accordingly. You'll meet with our internal staff coordinator."
"Understood."
"Also, just a note—Ms. Kings is personally involved in the final selection. Should you move forward, expect additional screening."
Dylan raised an eyebrow. "Ms. Kings herself?"
"She's…particular."
"Good. So am I."
He ended the call and looked out the window of his apartment. The rain had stopped. The clouds were breaking.
Tomorrow, he'd walk into Diamonds HQ not as a victim of betrayal, but as a man reclaiming control. Not to impress anyone. Not to smile for cameras. But to get the job, get the check, and build the life his mother deserved.
And if Tiana Kings wanted cold professionalism?
Then that was exactly what she'd get.
No smiles. No softness. No games.
Just focus.
After all, women like her weren't to be trusted either.
Just admired from a distance—like hurricanes or wildfires.