### Driving Lessons
Emily parked her Mini Cooper outside the office and hurried toward the entrance. Ahead of her, two women walked slowly, deep in conversation. Just before the doors, they stopped abruptly, blocking her path. Without thinking, Emily pushed between them, nudging them aside, and yanked the door open.
“Hey, watch it!” The indignant shouts followed her, but she didn’t turn back. Normally, she’d snap back, but today she was hopelessly late. She darted to the elevator just as the doors were closing. In her rush, she bumped into a man, forcing him back a step.
“Sorry,” she muttered, turning away before seeing his reaction. As the doors shut, she caught a glimpse of the annoyed women she’d shoved past. *Should’ve stuck my tongue out at them,* she thought belatedly.
Out of breath, Emily smoothed down her windswept hair. The crowded lift made it impossible to reach the mirror, so she combed her fingers through the mess. Behind her, someone scoffed. She turned sharply—her earlier victim, staring down at her with raised eyebrows (or maybe it just seemed that way because he was taller). His cologne smelled expensive. For a second, they held each other’s gaze. Then she spun away with a toss of her hair.
The elevator shuddered to a stop, and Emily rushed out, her neck prickling under his stare.
—
“Fancy her?” Nicholas teased Vadim as the lift ascended. “She’s your type—feisty little thing.”
“Please. Big lashes and slim legs won’t fool me. I know her sort—all fire now, but wait till she’s married. Then the real her comes out. *Darling, Rebecca’s off to the Maldives again, and we’re stuck in Spain? Disgraceful. Felicity has three fur coats, and I only have one—I feel like a pauper.*” Vadim mimicked his ex-wife’s whine. The others laughed.
“Just your luck with Laura,” Nicholas shrugged.
The lift stopped, and they stepped out.
“Right, then,” Nicholas gestured.
“Agreed. After her, women are ruined for me. Enough.” Vadim paused at a glass door. “Here?”
Meanwhile, Emily was enduring a shouting match with her boss.
“Where the hell have you been? The client hung up—you’ve botched the deal!” he barked, spittle flying.
“Harry, I swear, it won’t happen again. Traffic was—”
“Spare me. Sleep earlier, leave sooner. One more tardy, and I won’t care if your mum’s on her deathbed—you’re sacked. Now get out. Take the samples and go!”
Emily backed toward the door. “Thank you, Harry. I’m on it. I promise—no, I *swear*—it won’t…” She exhaled sharply in the hallway, relieved.
“Scorcher was looking for you. Absolutely fuming,” a coworker said as she entered the office.
“Already found me.” Emily grabbed her folder and left.
She skipped the lift, racing down the stairs. Outside, she froze. In her hurry, she’d parked her Mini too close to a Kia, relying on the next driver to leave space.
They hadn’t. A hulking black Mercedes loomed over her car, barely an inch from her bumper. She was trapped. *What now? If I’d parked like this, there’d be hell to pay…* Except she *had*.
Walking wasn’t an option. Emily got in, tossed the folder onto the passenger seat, and turned the key. She inched backward, twisting the wheel, painstakingly freeing the car.
Her hands trembled. Harry’s threats rang in her ears. He’d probably already called the client. And here she was, wasting time.
One last maneuver—she reversed too sharply. A soft *thud*. The Mercedes’ alarm wailed. *Perfect.* She nudged forward, praying for no damage, then got out. A scratch and dent marred the Mercedes’ wing. *At least the headlight’s fine.* The car flashed its lights indignantly, then fell silent.
No one was around. The CCTV was too far to catch her plates. Emily exhaled, got back in, and sped off. What was done was done.
A week later, she’d almost forgotten—until an unknown caller rang.
“Emily Charlotte Whitmore? This is Inspector Hayes…” She’d been typing one-handed, barely listening—until “Inspector.” Her stomach dropped. “Is car registration… yours?”
“Yes,” she admitted, ignoring the alarm bells. Too late.
“Come to the station… Room six… Ask for me at reception… Fail to appear, and I’ll send a summons.”
“I’ll—I’ll come,” she stammered.
Her face burned as she hung up. *Of course it wasn’t just any Mercedes.* How had she screwed up so badly? But it wasn’t *entirely* her fault—he’d parked too close! Her stomach churned.
“On July 24th, you struck a parked vehicle and fled the scene. That’s a serious offense. Care to explain?”
Emily swallowed. She sat rigid, fingers knotting around her handbag.
“Don’t bother denying it. CCTV caught everything. You *saw* the damage.”
“What crime? The Mercedes driver parked recklessly! It was a tiny scratch—”
“So you’re Schumacher now? I was in a hurry—my boss threatened to sack me! I panicked. I’ll pay for repairs… Please, I’m sorry!” She trailed off lamely.
“You *will* pay. Here’s the estimate.” He slid a sheet across. Her eyes bulged.
“This much? For a *scratch*? It’s more than my car’s worth! I’m still paying off the loan!”
Inspector Hayes sighed. “Do you know who owns that Mercedes?”
“What does it matter?” she snapped, then faltered. “What… happens to me?”
“That’s for the court. Fleeing worsened it. Fines, points, possibly a driving ban.”
“A *ban*? But my mum’s ill—I *need* my car!”
He tapped his pen. “The claimant wants maximum penalties. To *teach* you. Write your statement—mention your mum. Blaming him won’t help. Admit fault, show remorse.” He pushed paper and pen toward her.
“Can I talk to him? Who is he?”
“Prominent businessman. Doubt he’ll speak to you.” He scribbled a number. “Had you stayed, it might’ve been different…”
The owner didn’t answer. Probably blocked her.
Two weeks later, the court halved the repair sum, spared her license—but sentenced her to 48 hours in custody. *To reflect.*
Dazed in the hallway, Emily shivered. Not just at the thought of jail, but her mum finding out. Her weak heart couldn’t take it. Maybe she’d lie—say she was visiting a friend. But her mum would call, and phones weren’t allowed in cells…
*Why did I run?* She remembered saving for the Mini, passing her test, the pride of ownership. Now this. Court wasn’t like the films. Ahead lay bars, locks, bunk beds…
Footsteps. A vaguely familiar man approached the courtroom, phoned someone. Another man emerged, updating him.
*The owner.* Emily jumped up.
“Happy now? Big man punishing some girl for scratching your precious car? Feel tough? My mum’s heart’s failing—you’d care if it were *your* mum!” Her voice cracked with fury.
“Wait—Nicholas, what’s she on about?”
“You *wanted* her punished, didn’t you?” Nicholas shifted awkwardly.
“Stay here.” The man—Vadim—vanished inside.
Emily slumped onto a bench. Nicholas paced, glowering.
Finally, Vadim returned. “It’s done. You’re free. Go home—take care of your mum.”
“What?”
“I fixed it. Dropped the claim.”
“No jail?”
“No.” His mouth twitched.
“*Vadim*, after all I—” Nicholas started, but Emily was already running.
—
After that, she parked carefully. Until, one day, she bumped into Vadim at the lifts.
“Hello. How’s your mum?” he asked.
She remembered barreling into him—and his car.
“Fine. I—”
“Emily? You work here?”
“What do you *want*?” Her voice shook.
“Apologies. I was… in a foul mood that day. My ex was taking our son abroad. I took it out on you.”
The lift arrived. He motioned her in first. Alone, she stepped inside.
He pressed her floor. “You work in advertising, yes? I’m here to discuss a campaign.”
She stayed silent. *Is this real?*
At her floor, she faced him. “I looked you up online—your business thrives independently. You already have an agency.”
He looked away, flustered.
*ServesShe hesitated, then sighed—because despite everything, his awkward smile reminded her that second chances sometimes came from the most unlikely places.
