ELARA'S POV:
I slammed the door like a scene from a telenovela where the spoiled heiress just discovered she's not the favorite child.
Which, by the way, I absolutely am.
My Chanel bag flew mid-air in slow motion and landed perfectly on the couch like it, too, had drama to contribute.
I stood there in the middle of my condo—fuming, scandalized, betrayed by the fashion gods.
"Gosh!" I cried out, hands on hips. "First, Nadine wears his hoodie. And now… now he's wearing hers?!"
I nearly shrieked.
This is treason.
I plopped down beside my bag and grabbed the nearest throw pillow, hugging it like it could absorb my confusion, my rage, my mild jealousy.
"I'm not jealous," I told the throw pillow. "I'm not! Okay—fine! I'm a little jealous."
I snatched my phone like it owed me money and pressed a call on Ari's name.
He picked up on the third ring. "Hey—"
"ARI. He's wearing her hoodie."
There was a pause. "Who?"
"Cairo!" I stood up and started pacing like a full-on madwoman in a silk robe. "Earlier, she was wearing his hoodie. Now he's wearing hers. What is this, a limited edition hoodie exchange program I wasn't invited to?!"
"Oh my God," Ari sighed. "Are you seriously calling me for hoodie gossip?"
"This is not gossip," I snapped. "This is a crime against couture. He could've borrowed my clothes. I have a stunning YSL blazer that would've complemented his jawline."
"You don't even own a hoodie."
"I could buy one!" I gasped. "Or I could lend him one of my luxury trench coats! Or a Balenciaga scarf! I have options, Ari. OPTIONS."
There was silence on his end.
"I mean… yeah," I mumbled, deflating a little. "Maybe I am jealous. A little. But can you blame me?! He's so—ugh—cold and moody and emotionally unavailable and—"
"Exactly not your type."
"Not Exactly!" I wailed, collapsing back onto the couch. "And now he's in a hoodie that isn't mine. I feel… cheated on. And we're not even dating!"
"You're not even talking."
"We made eye contact at the racetrack! He literally ran to the fence and told me to wait so he could drive me home! That is basically our thing, Ari. We communicated."
Ari groaned. "You're delulu."
"I'm aware."
Before he could say more, my phone beeped.
A text message flashed on the screen.
MOM: Go downstairs. We bought you a surprise. You need to grow up and stop depending on drivers.
What parenting intervention is going on now?
"Ari, I'll call you back," I said and hung up, grabbing my keys. "Apparently my parents bought me a surprise and expected me to act like an adult."
As if.
By the time I got to the parking lot, I already had a headache from imagining what "surprise" meant in my parents' vocabulary.
Last time they tried to surprise me, I ended up on a finance Zoom call with the board of directors of a bank I didn't know we owned.
I turned the corner and stopped.
There.
In front of me.
A car.
A red, shiny, not-pink car.
I blinked. "Oh."
It was sleek.
Brand new.
Probably expensive.
Definitely something out of a luxury showroom.
BUT IT WAS NOT PINK.
"What in the masculine energy is this?" I whispered, walking toward it like I was approaching a wild animal.
I circled it slowly, my heels clicking on the pavement. "It's red. Like… tomato red. Like lipstick that doesn't suit my undertone."
I looked around.
No ribbon.
No confetti.
No reveal music.
Just me.
And a big red car.
Looking like it belonged to a man named Brad who listens to rock music and plays golf on weekends.
I squinted at it. "You look aggressive. I don't trust you."
Then the second wave of panic hit me.
I can't drive.
My head snapped back. "I can't even drive! What am I supposed to do with you?! Feed you? Walk you on a leash?!"
I pulled my phone out again and speed-dialed Ari.
He answered with a tired voice. "Now what?"
"They bought me a car," I whispered.
"Okay?"
"I CAN'T DRIVE, ARI."
"Oh God."
"You know that, we both can't! I can't even park. Or reverse. Or turn left without panicking. And it's RED. It's not even pink. Not even a soft neutral. Just… Ferrari of doom red."
"Maybe it's time you finally learn?"
"Do I look like a girl who can handle driving lessons?!" I snapped. "One small bump on the road and I'll sue the Department of Transportation!"
Ari tried to hold back a laugh.
I could hear it vibrating in his throat. "You'll be fine."
"I'm fragile," I insisted. "I bruise emotionally. What if I run over a squirrel?! What if I forget the brakes and crash into a bakery full of innocent baguettes?!"
"Then you better call Cairo. He knows cars. He literally just offered to drive you home from the track."
Dead.
Silence.
Ari was waiting.
I knew exactly what he was doing.
"No," I said.
"Yes," he countered.
"I'm not asking him for help. He's hoodie-swapping with Nadine. They're probably eating cereal out of each other's bowls. I'm not giving him the satisfaction."
"Elara."
"I'd rather walk."
"You can't even walk in wedges for more than ten minutes."
"That's why I Uber!"
I hung up dramatically and turned to the car again.
"You," I said, pointing an accusing finger at the hood. "You are going to sit there and be ungrateful for the rest of your life. Because I'm not touching you. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not until you're repainted pale Barbie blush."
The car said nothing.
I took that as an agreement.
I stormed back into my condo like I had just survived a reality show elimination.
Hair frizzing.
Ego bruised.
Mascara hanging on for dear life.
I kicked off my heels and threw myself onto my couch with the energy of a woman who just got gifted a luxury vehicle she has absolutely no structural knowledge of operating.
Which is… me.
I stared at the ceiling dramatically. "So this is how it ends. In a luxury unit, with a luxury car, and zero idea how to reverse out of a parking slot."
I buried my face into a throw pillow and screamed like a banshee.
Then I flipped over.
Then I screamed again—this time softer, more ladylike, more hopeless heiress from a teleserye.
Think Marimar meets Mean Girls.
I sat up and started walking in circles.
No, pacing.
No—gliding angrily.
Back and forth.
Around the couch.
Past the fridge.
Through the hallway. Into the bathroom mirror.
Then I stopped and stared at myself.
"Do you even know how ridiculous you are?" I asked mirror-me.
She blinked.
"You have a driver's license. A literal license. With your face. And your signature."
I opened my wallet and pulled it out, like it was a weapon I was threatening myself with.
"See? It's legit. Official. Government-issued. Why do you have this if you can't drive?"
Mirror-me said nothing.
Coward.
I squinted at the card. "Oh yeah," I muttered.
"Because my mom pulled strings and made sure I got one for identification. Because I'm rich. And to be fair, I didn't ask for it! They just said, 'Anak, you need a government ID,' and next thing I knew, I was in a testing center sipping Starbucks while someone whispered answers into my ear. I didn't even touch the steering wheel. I touched a clip-on wheel in the waiting area for the aesthetic."
I waved the plastic card in the air. "This is not a license. This is a souvenir. A pretty little card that screams: 'She has the power but no idea how to use it.'"
I sat down again.
Slumped.
Hopeless.
Defeated.
Then, like in every movie montage where the heroine has finally reached her turning point, a single, terrifying spark ignited in my brain.
Maybe I can learn.
But who would teach me?
I crossed my arms and muttered a list of names.
"Not mom. She's too busy playing tennis with rich tita-friends. Not dad. He doesn't even drive—he gets choppered everywhere. Not Ate Vicky, my yaya at the main house, she has severe road rage and once flipped off a priest in traffic. Not Ari—we both treat shopping carts like heavy machinery."
I stared blankly at the wall.
Then, slowly, painfully, my brain conjured the one person I explicitly didn't want it to conjure.
Cairo.
Tall.
Broody.
Silent.
Pro-racer.
Helmet-removing, track-jogging, hoodie-swapping traitor.
Him.
Teaching me how to drive?
Ugh. I hate how structurally perfect it sounds.
I stood up, hands on hips, pretending to fight the idea. "No. No. I will not ask him. I have pride. I have dignity. I have options!"
I didn't.
My options were: hire a private instructor (too awkward), watch YouTube tutorials (highly lethal), or… knock on Cairo's door with my ego stuffed into a brown paper bag.
I groaned.
Then I changed outfits.
Obviously.
Because if I was going to ask for a favor that severely compromised my social standing, I needed to look casually helpless.
Not desperate.
Not flirty.
Just… cute enough to soften the request.
Like, "Oops, I can't parallel park, but I moisturize daily."
I settled on an oversized cream knit sweater and high-waisted shorts.
Lip tint.
A messy bun that took exactly seventeen tries to perfect.
I stared at myself in the mirror again and said, "You're not begging. You're humbly requesting professional asset allocation while being naturally charming."
Then I took a deep breath and stepped into the hallway.
His unit was only one door down.
I walked slowly.
Dramatically.
Like I was in a perfume ad, except instead of promoting luxury, I was promoting a minor personal crisis with cute shoes.
I stopped in front of his door.
Lifted my hand.
Paused.
What if he wasn't home?
What if Nadine was inside watching Fast & Furious and laughing at people like me who only drive in Mario Kart?
But before I could chicken out, the handle turned and the door swung open.
AND I DIDN'T EVEN KNOCK.
My soul left my body.
There he was.
Cairo.
Looking like a walking Calvin Klein campaign.
His t-shirt was slightly oversized, his hair messy in that effortless I-just-woke-up-and-still-look-hot way, and he was holding a ceramic mug like he actually drinks regular coffee and not just liquid angst.
He stared down at me. "You good?"
My brain completely short-circuited. "No," I blurted out.
He raised an eyebrow.
"I mean yes. I mean—ugh, okay. Look." I exhaled heavily. "You told me to wait at the racetrack. You offered to drive me home. I didn't take you up on it then, but… I need you to teach me how to drive now."
A long pause stretched between us.
Then—
"Don't you already have a license?" he asked.
Oh my God.
Even he knows?
Or was he just testing me?
I groaned, covering my face. "It's a souvenir! It's decorative! It's just something pretty I show at banks and airports so they know I exist!"
He took a slow sip of his coffee, completely unbothered.
Like I hadn't just admitted to a high-society government scam on a random weekday. "And you want me to teach you?"
"Unless you're too busy exchanging hoodies," I muttered before my filter could stop me.
His lips twitched.
Was that a smirk? A real, actual smirk?
"I'm not busy," he said slowly, his voice dipping into that low, dangerous register. "And I guess… I can teach you."
"Really?!"
"But I have rules."
Of course he does.
"No talking while I explain. No screaming when we accelerate. And definitely no pink furry wheel covers."
I pouted, crossing my arms. "Fine. But I'm allowed to panic silently, right?"
He nodded once. "Silent panic. Acceptable."
I bit my lip, trying to suppress a massive grin. "Thank you."
He looked at me for a beat too long, his dark eyes tracing the messy bun I spent twenty minutes fixing.
Then he said, "Meet me in the parking lot tomorrow. Seven A.M."
"Seven?!" I gasped. "I don't even wake up at seven unless I'm catching an international flight to Milan!"
"You wanna learn or not?"
Ugh.
Broody men and their military discipline.
"Fine," I mumbled. "But I'm bringing coffee. And lip balm. And maybe a pink wheel cover just to threaten you."
He chuckled under his breath—a low, rumbling sound—and slowly closed the door.
I turned away, my heart doing literal cartwheels against my ribs.
That's when the gravity of the situation hit me.
Oh no.
I just signed up to spend prolonged periods of time alone with Cairo.
In an enclosed, moving vehicle.
Where I control the wheel.
Where I could possibly, accidentally, kill us both.
Cool, cool, cool.
What could possibly go wrong?