Caught in the Rearview

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For three years, Sharon was my world. And for three years, she thought my job as a valet driver was a dead end.

That night, she told me she was going to a friend's party and would grab a cab home. I didn't need to pick her up.

At 10:30 PM, a ride request popped up on my phone. I accepted it, just like any other.

I arrived at the location, opened the car door, and slid into the driver's seat.

I glanced in the rearview mirror and saw thema man and a woman tangled together in the backseat. The woman was completely wasted, draped over him. The mans head was down, his hand already inching its way up the hem of her skirt.

She tilted her face up, inviting his kiss, her cheeks flushed with a drunken, alluring red.

She didn't recognize me.

Her movements caused a silver necklace to slide against her collarbone. The same one Id fastened around her neck on our third anniversary.

She once told me it was the best gift she had ever received.

I pulled out my phone and deliberately called her.

A ringtone echoed from the backseat. She flinched, glanced at the screen, and immediately flipped the phone face down on the seat. She buried her face back into the man's neck without even looking up.

The phone rang six times, then went to voicemail.

I called again. Voicemail again.

The third time, she reached out and declined the call. Clean. Decisive. Like swatting away a telemarketer.

I slipped the phone back into my pocket, my hands gripping the steering wheel so tight my knuckles turned white.

The man in the back finally looked up and barked at me, "Hey, driver! The hell are you looking at? Eyes on the road! We've been driving for twenty minutes and we've only gone two miles. You trying to rip us off by taking the long way?"

I said nothing.

Sharon giggled, patting his chest. "Honestly, Rick," she purred, "I don't know how the app assigns these guys. This one drives like a snail." She didn't bother lowering her voice. "And he keeps staring at my chest. So gross."

She said it with a laugh, in a tone Id heard for three yearsthe same dismissive, airy tone she used when complaining about delivery boys or incompetent waiters. As if she were talking about a stray dog in her way.

"The AC," Mr. Wallace barked again. "Set it to 78. You deaf? And what's with the shaking? Did you bribe someone for your license?"

I adjusted the temperature to 78 degrees. Still silent.

"I'm talking to you! You mute or something? Where's the customer service?"

Sharon chimed in from the back, her voice lazy. "What do you expect from a valet driver? Don't lower yourself to his level, Rick. These bottom-feeders, they have no class. Just let him drive. Don't expect him to understand a thing about decency."

Bottom-feeders.

The word slipped from her lips, as casual as if she were talking about the weather.

Mr. Wallace grinned, satisfied. His arm tightened around her waist, his thumb tracing slow circles on her hip through the fabric of her dress. She didn't flinch, just leaned into him.

I kept my eyes glued to the road ahead, not saying a word, and brought the car to a smooth stop in front of the hotel.

Mr. Wallace got out first. He stood there, pulled a few crumpled bills and some coins from his pocket, and flicked them at my face.

The bills fluttered off my forehead. The coins clattered against the dashboard, one of them rolling into the crevice of the seat.

"Buy yourself a pack of smokes," he said, dusting off his hands as if he'd touched something filthy. "And think about your life. With skills like yours, you should be delivering pizza. Calling you a professional driver is an insult to the profession."

Sharon stepped out of the car in her high heels. She paused by my window, leaned down, and spat.

The saliva landed on my sleeve, blooming into a small, dark stain.

Then she took Mr. Wallace's arm, and together they pushed through the hotel's glass doors and disappeared inside.

I sat there, motionless.

Then I leaned down, picking up the crumpled bills from the floor mat, one by one. I dug the last coin out from between the seats and clenched it in my fist.

I opened the dashcam app and replayed the footage from the interior camera. The quality wasn't perfect, but it was good enough. Her face. His hands. And that necklace, glinting in the dim light, swinging back and forth. All of it, crystal clear.

I saved the video to my phone.

Then, I sent a text to my company's head of legal:

Pull every financial record for a Mr. Rick Wallace from the last two years. I want the most detailed report you can find.

Three years. From the first time she complained my job had no future, to tonight, when she called me a bottom-feeder in my own rearview mirror.

All this time, I had been waiting for her to say something different.

I never got it.

The legal team got back to me the next day. The tone of the message was cautious.

Mr. Wallace had an expense report disbursement flagged for a significant amount, signed off and transferred to a private account. I stared at the name of the account holder for a long time.

Sharon.

I set the phone down on the table and went to the kitchen for a glass of water. It was cold, but I couldn't feel it going down.

I sat back down and pulled up her calendar for the past three years, looking at every entry marked "Working Late," "Company Party," or "Sleepover at a friend's." I cross-referenced them with Mr. Wallace's travel records. The first one was a match. The second, a match. The third, fourth, fifthalmost every single one lined up, with a time difference of no more than fifteen minutes. It was like clockwork.

She used to send me "group photos" from these events. I'd never looked closely at them before. Now, zooming in, I saw one was taken in a hotel hallway. Reflected in a mirror behind her was the partial figure of a manthe tie, the cufflinks, the same suit Mr. Wallace had posted on his social media that day.

Three years.

I saved all the screenshots into a new folder.

My father had been hounding me for days. Our chain of luxury car dealerships was expanding to a third city, and the West Coast division needed someone to take charge. He'd called and launched right in, "How much longer are you going to play around driving cars for other people? Do you have any idea how much work is piling up here waiting for you?"

"Just give me a little more time," I said.

He paused. "Is this still about that woman?"

I didn't answer.

He sighed, his voice softening. "Your mother told you from the start that girl had shallow eyes. We tried to stop you, but you insisted on learning the hard way. I guess you've finally had enough."

"Dad, I'll head back as soon as I wrap things up here. For now, send Alex over."

He was quiet for another moment before agreeing. "Fine. I'll have Alex there tomorrow."

After hanging up, I got a text from Sharon. She was "working late" at the office again tonight. She asked if I'd eaten and told me not to wait up, that she'd be very late. She ended it with, "Be good and wait for me at home," followed by a kissy-face emoji.

I texted back, "Okay."

Then I put on my jacket, went outside, and hailed a cab, giving the driver the address of her "office."

When I got there, the entire building was dark. Not a single light on.

I found a spot on the curb across the street and sat down. Ten minutes later, Mr. Wallace's car turned the corner and pulled over. Sharon walked up from the other direction, her steps quick, and slipped into the passenger seat.

The windows rolled up.

The car just sat there. It didn't drive away.

I turned on my phone's video camera and aimed it at the car.

Ten minutes.

Thirty minutes.

An entire hour.

The car remained parked under the streetlight, the engine running, the vehicle shaking. Not violently, but with a steady, unmistakable rhythm.

I saved the recording, stood up, dusted myself off, and took a cab home.

She got back at one in the morning, sighing about how "exhausting" her work was. She tossed her purse on the couch, changed into her slippers, and went to shower. When she came out, hair still damp, she propped herself up in bed and started scrolling through her phone, a look of deep relaxation on her face.

It wasn't the look of someone tired from work. It was the look of someone utterly satisfied.

She looked up and saw I was still awake. "Why are you still up? Don't you have to work tomorrow?"

"Couldn't sleep," I said.

She just hummed in response, said nothing more, and turned off the light. Within three minutes, her breathing was even and slow.

I wondered, how many of her "late nights" over the past three years had been spent in that car?

I sent a text to Alex: Get here tomorrow. We need to talk.

When Alex arrived the next day, his first words were, "Sir, have you finally come to your senses?"

I pushed my phone across the table to him. The screenshots of the financial records from legal. The hour-long video. The dashcam footage. I showed him everything, one piece at a time.

He watched it all in silence, then pushed the phone back to me.

"What's your plan?"

"The company gala," I said. "It all ends there."

The week before the gala, Sharon's behavior toward me changed completely. She was suddenly the perfect, doting girlfriend.

Id wake up to hot coffee and a pastry from my favorite bakery already on the nightstand. Id come home from work to find the apartment spotless, my clothes folded neatly on the bed, my slippers placed perfectly by the door.

At night, she'd lean against my shoulder while we watched TV, tracing circles on my chest with her finger, looking up at me with a soft smile. It was exactly like when we first started dating.

I knew what she was doing.

She planned to bring me to the gala, and she needed me to play my part. She needed me to be stable, obedient, and to not cause any trouble.

She needed me to be the same fool I'd been for the last three years.

And so, I played along. I smiled as I took the water she offered, asking, "What's gotten into you? You've been so nice to me lately." She wrapped her arms around my neck, her face close to mine. "Because I love you, silly."

The necklace hung around her neck, sparkling under the lights.

That weekend, she dragged me to the mall and picked out a shirt for me at a department store. It was on sale, but still cost a few hundred bucks. As she paid, she remarked to the cashier, "He just doesn't care about these things. If I don't stay on top of him, he'll wear the same old t-shirts everywhere."

The cashier gave a polite, noncommittal smile, her eyes flicking over to me. I knew that look. It was the look that said she thought I wasn't worth the money Sharon was spending.

On the drive home, she gave me a list of instructions for the gala. Don't talk too much. Don't mention my job. If anyone asks, just say I'm "exploring a career change." Don't engage with anyone at Mr. Wallace's table because "they're on a different level, you won't keep up." Don't offer any toasts, don't stare around the room, just sit there and be quiet.

She delivered these commands matter-of-factly. It wasn't a discussion; it was a briefing. Like a patient but condescending parent teaching a dim-witted child how to behave in public.

I sat in the passenger seat, nodding. "Got it."

Pleased, she patted my hand with a smile, then looked down to reply to a text. She angled the screen away, but I saw the contact name in the reflection of the car window: "Rick," followed by a red heart emoji.

The night before the gala, she went out, claiming she had to help set up the venue.

I didn't follow her this time. I had all the evidence I needed.

I called Alex and had him double-check the file he'd prepared: the dashcam video, the hour-long recording of the car, the detailed financial audit from legal, and the transfer agreement signed with Sharons name. Everything was compressed into a single presentation file, ready for the big screen.

"Sir, are you sure you want to do this at the gala?" Alex asked.

"I'm sure."

He was silent for a beat. "Understood. Leave it to me."

Sharon came home after midnight, sighing her usual "I'm so exhausted." She showered, slipped into bed, and turned to me before falling asleep. "Tomorrow, wear a tie," she instructed. "No sneakers. And stick close to me. I've already given Mr. Wallace a heads-up, so just keep your mouth shut and you'll be fine."

"Okay," I said.

She turned off the light. Her breathing steadied almost immediately.

The morning of the gala, she woke up early. She put on makeup, wore a new dress, and stood by the door waiting for me.

As I walked over, she picked up my tie. She stood on her toes, her focus absolute as she looped it around my neck, pulled it tight, then adjusted the knot.

"There," she said, patting my chest with a smile. "Don't embarrass me."

I looked down at her.

I wanted to say, "I won't."

But in the end, I just nodded.

Because the one being embarrassed tonight wasn't going to be me.

As we entered the ballroom, Sharon's grip on my arm was tight. She walked quickly, as if trying to hide me from view.

A female colleague walked toward us, her eyes scanning me from head to toe. "So, this is your boyfriend?" she asked Sharon, loud enough for everyone to hear. "The valet driver?" She wrinkled her nose, not bothering to hide her disgust. "He kind of reeks of cheap."

Before Sharon could answer, someone else chimed in with a laugh. "Come on, Sharon. Mr. Wallace thinks so highly of you. Why would you bring a valet driver to an event like this? You're just embarrassing yourself."

A few people around them chuckled. Sharon just pulled me forward, her pace quickening, her fingers digging into my arm. She wasn't protecting me; she was afraid I'd say the wrong thing.

After his opening speech, Mr. Wallace made his way through the crowd. His eyes landed on me, and he stopped.

In front of everyone, he boomed, "Well, well. This must be Sharon's boyfriend. The driver, is it?"

He looked me up and down, shook his head, and turned to his sales director with a condescending smile. "See this? Sharon has terrible taste in men. A top sales champion dating a valet driver. She's cheapening her own brand. And here I thought she was a smart woman."

The director forced a laugh and mumbled his agreement.

Mr. Wallace turned back to me, clapping a hand on my shoulder. It wasn't a friendly pat; it was a power move. "Listen, kid. What kind of future can you have as a driver? Life's short. Don't hold Sharon back. She'll have a miserable life with you."

I remained silent.

Sharon kept her head down, saying nothing.

Her brother, Brandon, pushed through the crowd with a drink in his hand. "Hey, future brother-in-law!" he shouted. "Oh, wait. Not sure if that's gonna happen!"

He looked around, making sure he had an audience, and raised his glass. "My sister is this company's sales champion, right? And she's with a valet driver. Is she out of her mind or what?"

The crowd roared with laughter. Someone muttered, "She could do better," while others just shook their heads, enjoying the show.

Brandon turned to me, his smile gone, replaced by pure contempt. "Look, dude, I'll be blunt. You don't deserve her. What do you possibly have to offer? Money? Connections? All you've got is a driver's license. You're a bottom-feeder, trash from the lowest rung of society, and you'll never climb out. Don't you get it?"

Another wave of laughter.

This time, Sharon spoke. "That's enough, Brandon." But her voice was flat, as if commenting on the weather. She then turned away to clink glasses with a colleague.

She didn't even glance at me.

I sat there, my hands on my knees, my drink untouched.

I thought about every time she'd said, "Can't you be more ambitious?" I thought about her in the backseat, sneering, "Bottom-feeders do what bottom-feeders do." I thought about Mr. Wallace throwing loose change at my face. I thought about his car, parked on the street for an hour, engine running. I thought about the screenshot from legal, with the recipient's name: Sharon.

Sharon's mother stood up then, her voice shrill enough to cut through the chatter. "What can a worthless driver like you give my daughter? A big house? A luxury car? Your entire monthly salary is less than the commission she makes on a single sale!"

Her finger was practically in my face. The people around us were laughing openly now.

Just then, Alex walked in through a side door.

He ignored everyone, calmly walked to the corner of the stage, and plugged a cable into the port for the main projector screen.

The screen lit up.

The first image: the business license for a chain of luxury car dealerships. In the box for "Owner," was my name.

The second image: the corporate hierarchy chart. Mr. Rick Wallace's name was listed under "General Manager."

My name was above his.

The room fell silent.

Rick Wallaces face, in that one second, went bone-white.