Part 3Reborn Heir in the Trap Car

It was the driver.

He leaned against the brick wall, tossing a set of keys in his palm. His face was carved into an affable, paternal smile that didn't reach his flat, dead eyes.

"Thought you boys might've gotten turned around," the driver said smoothly. "Took so long, I figured I’d come make sure nobody fell in."

Zach’s knees buckled. If Tyler hadn't clamped a hand around his bicep, he would have collapsed onto the damp gravel.

Tyler bit down on his tongue until he tasted copper, forcing his lips into a wide, breathless grin.

"Thanks, man! Yeah, we... we left our phones in the car, so we were actually just trying to figure out which door led back to the lot!"

The three of them stood there, trembling like wet dogs under the gray autumn sky, trapped beneath the driver’s heavy, unblinking gaze.

As they walked back to the vehicle, flanked closely by the driver, Zach muttered under his breath, his knuckles white with rage.

"Unbelievable. The driver leaves the car, and Bennett sits right there with twenty minutes to walk away, completely oblivious. I swear, the devil protects his own."

The heavy rear door swung open.

I was sitting precisely where they had left me, legs crossed, arms folded, tapping my foot against the floor mat in pure, theatrical irritation.

"Did you fall into the sewer?" I snapped, glaring at them. "I’ve been sitting here breathing stale air for twenty minutes."

The doors slammed shut. The child-safety locks engaged with a heavy, pneumatic clack.

The Escalade purred back to life, rolling down the ramp and merging back into the highway traffic.

We were right back on the rails toward the slaughterhouse.

Zach swallowed hard, desperately leaning toward the front console, trying a different angle.

"Nice rig, man," Zach said, his voice paper-thin. "Must cost a fortune to maintain an Escalade. Why do long-haul livery driving? Isn't it exhausting?"

The driver chuckled, a hollow sound. "Bills don't pay themselves. Livery work pays when nothing else does."

Scott chimed in, trying to build an alliance of shared misery. "My dad drove a yellow cab for fifteen years. Crushed his spine. I hated seeing him come home broken every night."

The driver glanced at Scott in the mirror, his fingers tapping an erratic rhythm on the leather-wrapped steering wheel.

"The economy’s in the gutter," the driver murmured, his tone darkening. "What else was I supposed to do? Last winter, my division head promised me a senior vice-president track. I bought this truck to celebrate. Took out a high-interest loan. And what did I get for Christmas? A termination letter and an escort off the property."

His grip on the wheel tightened until the knuckles went waxy.

"Ten years at that firm. Missed my daughter’s birthdays. Worked eighty-hour weeks. And the moment the board wanted to pad their quarterly margins, they dumped me like medical waste. Now I’ve got this car note, zero severance, and no prospects. So tell me—what the hell else was I supposed to do?"

His voice rose with every sentence, his boot pressing heavier on the gas pedal. The speedometer climbed past eighty-five, the engine humming an aggressive, strained whine.

My roommates had intended to bond over shared class struggle. Instead, they had stepped straight onto a landmine.

Tyler panicked. Seeing the driver’s rage boiling toward corporate elites, he turned his head and looked directly at me.

"Corporate layoffs are so heartless," Tyler stammered loudly, aiming every word like a flare. "Bennett, your family controls dozens of multinational holdings. Do your dad’s companies pull ruthless stunts like that?"

I looked at Tyler.

My eyes were dead and empty. I saw the trap he was laying—deflecting the driver’s simmering, murderous class resentment entirely onto my shoulders.

He wanted the driver to hate me. He wanted me to be the lightning rod.

Tyler shrank slightly under my gaze, but held his ground, waiting for me to walk into the fire.

I smiled. A cold, razor-thin smile.

"If an employee gets laid off, it’s because their contract allows it," I said, leaning back into the headrest with deliberate, aristocratic insolence. "My family honors contracts. Nobody forced those people to sign their offer letters."

The cabin went dead silent.

"If a worker stops generating value and expects a multi-million-dollar payroll to carry them out of sentimentality, they’re delusional," I continued, inspecting my fingernails. "Capitalism isn't a soup kitchen. My family doesn't run charities."

The only sound in the car was the muffled roar of the tires on asphalt and the electronic chime of the GPS warning of an excessive speed violation.

The driver didn't speak. His hands were frozen on the wheel, squeezing so hard the leather groaned.

Scott looked like he was about to faint. He tried to laugh, a dry, choking rattle. "Well... I mean, you can’t look at it purely like numbers, Bennett. If someone gives ten years of their life, they helped build the company..."

"And they were compensated for those ten years," I cut in dismissively. "Every two weeks, direct deposit. If they feel aggrieved, they can hire an attorney and file a civil suit. But my family employs three entire floors of white-shoe litigators in Manhattan. If someone wants to pick a fight with the Montgomerys, they’d better make sure their family’s savings and their own physical health are sturdy enough to survive the countersuit."

Dead silence fell over the vehicle.

In my palm, the titanium worry-stone clicked. Snap. Snap. Snap.