ARSHILA — POV
I'm back in the driver's seat and this time it feels personal.
Eshan drops into the passenger side like he's walking into a haunted house. He yanks the seatbelt so hard it snaps across his chest and then grabs the handle above the door.
White knuckles.
Princess behavior.
That pisses me off immediately.
"Babe," he says, already stressed. "Please don't step on the gas, okay. I'll teach you slowly."
I nod like an angel. I even smile. Inside, I'm already planning his funeral.
I press the button. The engine wakes up, low and mean. The vibration runs up my arms and settles in my chest like a dare. I ease my foot down, gentle this time, and the car rolls forward.
"Yes," Eshan says quickly. "Yes, that's it. See? You're doing great."
The praise hits something feral in me.
I press a little harder.
The engine growls louder. My pulse spikes. My mouth curves without permission.
"Okay," he says. "Okay, easy. Easy—"
I press again.
"Don't—DON'T—HIT THE FUCKING BRAKE."
I panic. My foot slips.
Wrong pedal.
Again.
The car surges forward and we scream in harmony as it clips a signboard, metal shrieking, plastic exploding like cheap fireworks. We skid to a stop crooked and offended.
Silence.
Eshan unbuckles and launches himself out of the car like it's on fire. "Fuck you," he snaps, pacing. "You tried to kill me twice."
I get out slower, ears ringing, heart racing. "I told you I don't know how to drive."
He stares at me, hand on his chest like he's checking for life. "Then don't. Don't learn. Please. You will kill people."
That does it.
"Fuck you too," I shoot back, heat crawling up my neck.
Razmir is laughing so hard he has to bend over. I spin on him immediately. "You. Teach me."
He straightens, eyes bright. "You already crashed a car."
"That was an accident."
He considers it. Shrugs. "Fine. I'll teach you."
Eshan points at him like he's warning a civilian. "Don't, bro. She will kill you."
I flip Eshan off without looking and slide back into the driver's seat. Razmir gets in beside me, calm but alert, like he's defusing a bomb.
We don't make it far.
I stall. Then jerk. Then stall again.
Razmir's jaw tightens. His patience thins fast and it shows. The vibe shifts. My chest sinks with it.
I stop the car and step out, frustrated and hot and done. "Why is everyone shouting at me?"
No one answers fast enough.
I snap.
"Did you all come out of the womb with a fucking driving license? No, right? You were beginners too. So shut your asses up."
Dead silence.
Then Rafaen steps forward.
"I'll teach you."
I blink. "You will?"
I squint at him. "What if I crash and you die and we lose our fucking crown prince?"
He moves closer, voice calm, eyes steady. "I don't mind."
That shuts me up.
I glance at Zayan without meaning to. He's watching me with that blank face, no smile, no softness, just those dark eyes that see too much. Something twists low in my stomach.
No. I'm not asking him. If these idiots are impatient, he'll be worse.
Rafaen gestures to the car. "Get in."
I do.
He's patient. Painfully so. Explains everything slow, steady, no shouting. My shoulders drop inch by inch. I start to relax.
Too much.
The wheel slips from my hands. The car spins. I panic and stomp again.
Wrong pedal.
We go airborne for half a second that feels illegal. We both curse like sailors. I slam the brake finally and the car lands hard, angry, alive.
I sag forward and press my forehead to the wheel, shaking. I wait for the yelling.
It doesn't come.
Rafaen's hand lands on my back. Solid. Warm. "Are you okay?"
I look up slowly.
"It's fine," he says. "You're fine. That wasn't a big mistake."
That hits harder than any shout.
I grin, adrenaline still buzzing, hands ready to try again. That's when there's a knock on the window.
Rafaen rolls it down.
Zayan.
"Get off," Zayan says flatly.
Rafaen frowns. "Why?"
"You don't need to risk your fucking prince Title," Zayan says. "Get off."
Rafaen lifts a brow. "What if I don't mind?"
Zayan tilts his head. Slow. Dangerous. "But I do."
Rafaen exhales, amused, and opens the door. He leans in and murmurs, "I'll teach you if he gets angry."
I nod.
Zayan slides into the passenger seat and buckles up immediately. That makes me snort.
"Are you scared?" I ask.
"Of you?" he says. "Yes."
I roll my eyes. "I didn't ask you to teach me. Rafaen will do it."
He looks at me, expression unreadable, voice low. "Start the car, wife."
My fingers tighten on the wheel.
Oh. This is going to be war..
Zayan exhales like he's about to teach a wild animal algebra.
"We start from the basics," he says, calm to the point of irritating. "This is a sports car. You're a billionaire wife. You're not touching a manual.for now . But you are learning what does what."
I blink at him.
Actual teaching?
No yelling. No "hit the gas." No chaos.
Suspicious.
He points, slow and deliberate. "This is gas. This is brake. This is the gear selector. You don't stab them. You talk to them."
"Talk," I repeat. "To a car."
"Yes," he says flatly. "Because you've been assaulting them."
I bite my lip to keep from laughing.
He continues anyway, voice steady, patient in a way that feels illegal coming from him. "Foot here. Pressure like this. Ease off like you're not trying to murder anyone."
That lands.
I nod, serious now.
"Okay," he says. "Now. Slowly. Gas."
I press.
The car moves.
Not a jump. Not a scream. Just… movement.
My eyes widen. "Oh."
"Yes," he says. "That's what correct feels like."
I grin despite myself and add a little more.
"Good," he says. "Now brake."
I brake.
Smooth.
I stare at my feet like they just performed witchcraft. "Why didn't anyone explain it like this before?"
He glances at me. "Because they're idiots."
We go again.
And again.
I mess up once. Brake too late.
"It's okay," he says instantly. "Again."
No irritation. No sigh.
Again.
I overcorrect the wheel.
"Again," he repeats.
Again.
Again.
Time melts weirdly. The field empties out at some point. Engines fade. Laughter disappears. It's just us and the car and the smell of burnt rubber cooling into something softer.
I mess up again.
Zayan rubs his temples.
"If you make that mistake one more time," he says evenly, "I'm making you sit on my lap and driving with you."
My brain blue-screens.
Excuse me?
"What," I say, dumb.
He doesn't look at me. "Posture correction."
"That is not a thing."
"It is," he replies. "For you."
My foot slips.
Wrong pressure.
The car jerks.
He closes his eyes.
Long.
Controlled.
"Again," he says, through his teeth.
I try. I really try. My focus sharpens. Hands steady. Foot gentler.
We move clean.
I glance at him, heart doing something stupid. He's watching the road, jaw set, attention locked in. No smile. No tease.
Just commitment.
It hits me sideways.
This man could've yelled. Could've scared me. Could've taken control.
Instead he's giving me space to fail.
I screw up again anyway.
Tiny mistake. Barely.
He exhales slowly.
"That's it," he says. "Lap."
My mouth opens. "You cannot be serious."
He turns to me then. One brow lifted. "Start the car."
Heat floods my face.
This is not fear.
This is something worse.
I grip the wheel.
And for the first time all night—
I don't fuck it up.
------
Days start stacking without asking permission.
Same field. Same burned rubber ghosting the air. Same cars lined up like they're judging me.
Different teachers. Different kinds of hell.
Eshan gets first shift sometimes. He slides into the passenger seat already smirking like this is payback. He taps the dash. "Okay, menace. Show me what you learned. Slowly. Slow means not attempting vehicular homicide."
I roll my eyes and move anyway. Clean start. Smooth brake.
He squints. "Wow. Character development."
"Shut up," I say, smiling despite myself.
He starts teasing on purpose. Fake gasps. Overdramatic clutches to the handle. "Oh my god, the speed. We're doing twelve. I might pass out."
I jerk the wheel just enough to scare him.
He yelps. I laugh so hard I almost stall.
Progress.
Razmir's days are chaos in a different flavor. He hops in with zero seatbelt urgency and vibes like a menace. "If we die, we die," he says cheerfully. "Go."
I mess up and he cackles. I stall and he claps. I nail a turn and he whoops like I just cured a disease. He keeps calling me "Speed Racer" and "Future Lawsuit."
Somehow it works.
Rafaen is… dangerous in a quiet way. He speaks low. Steady. Tells me where to place my hands like it's sacred information. He praises without making a thing of it. Every "good" lands warm and heavy in my chest.
I drive better with him.
That pisses me off a little.
Most days, though, it's Izar or Zayan.
Izar corrects everything with military precision. Straight spine. Exact pressure. No bullshit. He glares at mistakes like they're personal insults.
Zayan never does.
He just watches. Lets me try. Lets me fail. Lets me try again.
One night I joke, half-nervous, "At this rate I'm gonna cause a fucking traffic jam."
He smirks, lazy and lethal. "You already do. Just not with cars."
I almost miss a gear.
Then he does the unthinkable. He brings out a manual.
I stare at it like it's alive. "You're joking."
"Everyone learns manual first," he says. "You did everything backward. Figures."
"I will destroy this car."
He shrugs. "I'll buy another."
That shouldn't be hot. It is.
I grind gears. I stall. I swear. A lot.
He doesn't rush me.
"Again," he says. Always calm. Always there.
Something shifts in me. The fear thins. The adrenaline sharpens. My hands stop shaking. My instincts start waking up like they've been waiting.
One night, it clicks.
The engine responds. The clutch obeys. The road opens.
I laugh out loud, wild and breathless.
Zayan glances at me, proud but trying not to show it. "There she is."
I push harder. Cleaner. Faster.
The field blurs. My pulse roars. The car listens.
I grip the wheel, grin feral, heart pounding with one thought burning bright and loud.
I will show you, fuckers.