By that evening, Charlotte was running on fumes. Two back-to-back shifts at the university café, cramming for three final exams in Business Administration, and only a couple hours sleep in forty-eight. If she survived, she reckoned she deserved a small medal or at least a good nights rest.
So when she spotted a sleek black car idling outside the university library around eleven, she assumed her pre-booked taxi had arrived. She didnt bother checking the number plateshe simply flopped into the backseat like a collapsed soufflé.
It did occur to her, through the fog of exhaustion, that the car was a bit more posh than the usual battered Uberssupple leather seats, utter silence, a whiff of expensive aftershave. But by then she was too tired to care. She closed her eyes just for a moment and was promptly snoring.
A calm, slightly amused voice roused her:
Is it standard for you to nap in strangers cars, or am I just particularly lucky tonight?
Charlotte sat bolt upright. Next to her was a man in an immaculate three-piece suit, dark eyes twinkling with amusement, lips curled in a small, infuriatingly perfect smile.
Youve been asleep for about twenty minutes, by the way, he added. And you do snorejust a little.
She could feel her face going a ruddier shade of beet. A quick scan of the car confirmed her mistake: touchscreen console, real wood paneling, actual mini-bar. Not the typical budget ride.
Youre… not the driver?
No, Im the owner. Harry Ashfords the name.
Didnt ring a bell, but he radiated solid confidencethe sort that comes from sitting atop many stacks of pound notes. Charlotte scrambled for an apology and reached for the door handle.
Its late, he pointed out, almost gently. At least let me give you a lift home.
She was tempted to say no, but one look at the deserted, slightly menacing street outside had her reconsidering. The car glided away, and, before she knew it, she was telling Harry about the joys of endless shifts, looming deadlines and the unique torture that was student overdraft.
You cant go on like this, he remarked quietly, like someone whod never queued for a meal deal. Youre running yourself ragged.
Outside her small terraced house, he surprised her with a proposition.
I need a personal assistant. Someone who can organise chaos and keep me sane. Hours are flexible, salarys more than fair. Surely thats better than endless café shifts?
I dont need your pity, she snapped, chin in the air.
Its not pity. Its a job offer.
She took his business card anyway. At home, her housemate nearly fainted at the name. Harry Ashfordone of the wealthiest business leaders in England, depending on which paper you read.
She agonised for three days. But unpaid rent is more persuasive than pride, and finally, she called.
When can you start? Harrys question came without so much as a how-do-you-do.
Tomorrow, Charlotte said, surprising even herself.
Harrys home looked like the set of a glossy magazine shootspacious, full of glass and sunlight, gardens that could inspire poetry. Her new salary dwarfed anything shed made pouring coffee, but Harry made it clear from day one:
Youre here because youre clever and organised, Charlotte. I need people I can trust.
Work soon became engrossing. She wrangled his schedule, streamlining meetings and saving him from double-booked disasters. The more she sorted his life, the more he entrusted her with. Respect grewquietly, naturally, with no grand gestures.
At a business do, her nerves prickled under the scrutiny of Londons elite. Harry rested a reassuring hand on her back. That small gesture said everything. Suddenly, she realised her feelings werent strictly professional.
Two months later, she received an email: shed been invited to a year-long international exchange programme with a partial scholarship.
When do you leave? Harry asked.
Three months.
He paused, considering.
I could ask you to stay. But I’d lose respect for you if you stopped reaching for more.
That evening, as he saw her off, Harry said for the first time:
I love you.
I love you, too, Charlotte replied.
Then godo it all. I want to see you soar, not settle.
A year shot by. When she returned, only Harry was at the arrivals gateno driver, no fuss.
Double-checked the licence plate this time? he grinned.
Ive triple-checked. But if youre here, I might fall asleep again.
He took her suitcase.
Ive bought a flat in Chelsea.
She stared.
For us, he clarified.
Without fanfare, on one knee in Heathrow Terminal 5, he asked,
Charlotte Wilkins, will you build our future with me?
Yes, she grinned.
Today, shes finished uni and launched her own consulting business. He still runs his empire, but now theyre partnersin business, in life.
Whenever she slides into his passenger seat after a long day, she smirks.
Want to check the car reg again? he teases.
If youre here, Ill risk another nap, she laughs.
And now, its not a mistake. Its exactly where shes chosen to be.
