Sweet Romance13 min read
You Called a Car — and Got My Whole Life
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"I called a car. It brought my boss."
"You're late," he said.
I stared at Max Pfeiffer sitting in the back of the Rolls, under the starry ceiling, as if the world had paused. "…"
He raised one eyebrow. "Are you actually late, Juliana?"
"I—" I swallowed. "I guess."
He laughed soft, like a bell. "Then you owe me breakfast, not a fine."
That morning started like any other: my phone scared me, my heart raced, and my fingers hit the app too late. I had no idea the car would be his. I had no idea saying one word would fold my whole life into him again.
We knew each other since a small, sunlit classroom beside the river.
"Stop that," he had said once in third grade, tugging my braid.
I slapped him then. Hard. It sounded like a small, decisive clap and it stuck—two lives tied by an absurd, childish moment.
In elementary school he was my deskmate. I bent down to tie my shoe; he held my nape and wouldn't let me stand.
"Let go," I hissed.
He would smirk and say, "Why would I?"
By middle school he pulled the window open so the wind would make me sneeze and laugh. By high school he sat behind me on the first day, like he always knew where I would be.
"You thought I'd go to private school?" he teased once, his eyes all boyish mischief.
"Don't be stupid," I told him. "I'm studying on my own."
He laughed. "Then study hard so we can go to the same university."
He said it like a plan. He followed the plan in his own way. He worked nights with books, day with friends. He copied my homework sometimes, then he would beat me on tests. He wasn't magic; he was stubborn.
"You're top because you make me try," he told me once, with a half smile.
I hated how he made everything—my anger, my pride, my small victories—feel like a shared thing.
Years later he went abroad. I thought distance would settle us into polite memory. It did not.
At three in the morning, his voice on my phone woke me.
"Check the field outside," he said.
I blinked, lifted my head. Through my window, a helicopter hovered like a startling punctuation mark. A ladder dropped, blades whirled, and the campus fell quiet with every head turned to look.
He had flown in for "a bowl of city wontons" and to say, "I missed the midnight snacks here."
"You're so extra," I told him.
He said, "I wanted to see you."
That necklace he handed me under flickering night lights—simple chain, a small charm—wasn't usual. He had given me snacks, books, stationery; never jewelry like that.
"Happy birthday, Juliana," he said.
"I thought you were in America."
"I missed the wontons," he said, and then, softer, "I missed you."
After graduation I avoided his company. I turned down his job offers. I was stubborn too. I wanted my life to be mine. I got a job. I told myself being broke was an education.
Then, on my first day, my new company was swallowed by his.
"Welcome aboard," Max said, smiling from his office chair like he had been waiting to do it since elementary school.
I almost threw my lunch at him. "You had to be my boss, didn't you?"
He folded his hands like a child who had won a small game. "You were late."
"You docked my full attendance bonus."
He shrugged. "You can work for it."
"Then what do you want from me?" I demanded.
He looked at me, eyes like slow-moving rivers, and said, "Cook for me."
I blinked. "What?"
"Do my lunch once," he suggested. "That's your penalty."
"I'm not a chef," I said.
"Buy whatever. I'll pay."
In the supermarket I pushed a cart and spent his money on everything expensive. He watched, resting his chin on the cart's handle like a prince bored by a feast.
"What are you doing with lobster and instant noodles?" I asked, laughing.
He picked up a box I didn't recognize and popped it into the cart. "For us."
"You always do this," I murmured.
He raised an eyebrow. "Do what?"
"Come into my life like a gust and then pretend it's no big deal."
He smiled in a way that felt like a secret. "Maybe I'm always a gust."
That night we drank until the stars blurred. He shut his eyes and leaned on the table. I tried to carry him home. His phone slid into my hands; the screen unlocked with my birthday. He had used it as a joke once, years ago, and then never changed it. In the blinking screen a message jumped up.
"Tomorrow, room 806. See you, Xiao Rou."
I froze. "Who is Xiao Rou?"
He mumbled, "Old friend."
I didn't believe "old friend" was enough. A few days later she walked into our office, sunglasses, cap, famous like summer lightning.
"You're Juliana?" she asked, smiling and removing sunglasses. Her face was a polished billboard. "I'm Sofia Fischer. Your new friend."
Sofia wasn't subtle. She was a bright storm. She told me, "Max talks about you all the time," and my stomach did the stupid flip it had always done around him. She was a top star, and she told me she loved him.
I was dizzy and fell for the trick of it: my friendship, his secrecy, the sudden claim of "boyfriend." I felt like an audience watching a play in which I wasn't told I had a role.
Then a stranger came into my life—the man from magazines, a director with a sharp suit.
"Do me a favor," he said in a quiet table in a cafe. "Be my girlfriend for a show." He put three credit cards on the table: one, three, and five million. "One year. All you have to do is stand next to me when I say to."
I laughed. "You want me to be your fake girlfriend?"
"Yes." He was calm. "Think of it as acting. It's easy money."
"You can't buy me."
He smirked. "You will when your rent is due."
I nearly walked out, but he leaned forward and said, "Your rival is Sofia Fischer. Her former lover is Max. Put them in one room and watch fireworks. It's good TV. It's also good for you. Think."
"You're cruel," I said.
"Real life is cruel," he answered.
I stared at the plastic of the cards and found myself, strangely, counting how many bills would solve months of leaking pipes and cold noodles.
"You're the devil in a suit," I muttered.
He smiled and left the cards. I returned them. "No. I'm not your prop."
But I lied to myself later when I took the first card and tucked it away. I told myself I would not be bought, but the world humbler than pride sometimes asks you to accept help. I said I wouldn't be used, and then I said I could use control.
Then came the dinner that tore and stitched everything raw.
"Is she your girlfriend?" Sofia said, tone light only by the practiced grace of a star.
Fleming Carson's setup had put me opposite them at a table. It was all choreography: a director, two stars, and me. The air was heavy like wet silk. Arguments started like knives—sharp, quick.
Max sat across from me, slicing steak with the slowness of a man who wanted to see people burn quietly.
"You're my friend, right?" I whispered.
"Always," he said, eyes never leaving his plate.
"Then stop crossing my leg," I hissed under the table.
He stilled, then let his knee brush mine with a small, deliberate pressure. The movement was a question, a claim, and it made my breath split into tiny, hot pieces.
The table erupted in a mess of accusations. Sofia stood, hair like a halo. "You ruined us," she spat at Fleming.
"She?" Fleming said, looking at me. "You call that ruin? I call it art."
They fought. We all watched. I couldn't breathe. I fled like a coward. I ran down the path, shoes thumping, heart like a trapped thing.
He followed.
"Stop following me," I said finally, collapsing near a fountain.
"You're bleeding," he said, like it was the only thing that mattered.
"Then leave me bleeding," I cried.
He stepped closer and kissed me like it had never been anything but necessary. It was rude and right. He tasted like beer and honesty.
"Why'd you set me up?" I asked later, voice small against his chest.
"I didn't set you up," he murmured. "She tested me. I didn't like the test."
"Then why is there a message about room 806? Why did she come here?"
He held my hand like it mattered. "She was curious. She thought—"
"She thought what?"
"That I didn't notice her. She wanted to tease me." He scooped me up like the hillside hadn't been lethal. "I told her to be careful."
He told me the truth in small, piecemeal gifts: he had stolen me chances in school, he'd pushed milk into my bag during exams, waited on planes to bring me tiny things. He told me what I already knew—he cared in the only clumsy ways he knew how.
"I like you," he said one night on the roof, stars vanishing into the city glow. "I like you a lot."
"Why bother," I asked.
"Because you're stubborn," he said. "And because when you're angry, it feels small enough for me to handle."
Three heart-pounding moments showed up like lanterns in the dark: when he smiled for the first time at me in years; when he took off his jacket and offered it without saying "I said you were cold"; and when he caught my hand under the table like a secret.
We built a life from little things: grocery carts, burnt pasta, late-night talks. He wasn't a perfect man; he was a man who learned to be brave in small acts. He tried to keep me safe from the cheapness of the world, but he couldn't always keep me from the worms that crawled in it.
The wedding came months later. Fleming Carson and Sofia Fischer decided to marry in a small backyard ceremony. It was supposed to be a private joy. The invites said "talent show" and "everyone prepare." It should have been harmless fun.
Instead, I planned a reveal that would not be quiet.
I had a secret backup, one small favor from Evelyn Tarasov, his secretary-turned-confidante, who had seen drafts and messages. She gave me emails. She gave me video snippets. She gave me the cold, flat evidence that a man had tried to buy my silence and that the "girlfriend" act had been staged.
The backyard was lit with fairy lights. People laughed, toasted, and sang. The newlyweds sat like gods on a little throne. Max watched from the side, hands folded—his face like a calm sea.
"Let's do the lottery," Sofia said, hand flicking a napkin.
They had a silly game: draw a card. The groom would win all gift money if he picked one, and the loser cleaned the yard. I held a broom without thinking, ridiculous red tickets clutched in my palm.
When they announced the "lucky winners," everyone cheered. Max handed me a broom with his special crooked smile. My fingers closed on it like on a promise.
Then I asked for the microphone.
"Wait, Juliana—" Max started.
I lifted the mic. The chatter softened like someone drawing a curtain.
"I thought this would be a happy night," I said. "But I found things I couldn't let be hidden."
Sofia's laugh faltered. Fleming's smile turned tight. Guests leaned forward. Cameras clicked.
"Fleming," I said, looking straight at the director, "you offered me cards to be your girlfriend. You tried to pay me five million to perform a lie."
A rustle. The murmurs sharpened.
He stood. "That's not fair—"
"Fairness is not my job tonight," I said. I was quiet but clear. "I have your messages."
I pressed play. The small speaker chittered and a voice, cool as chrome, said, "One year. It's not forever. Just stand next to me."
Fleming's face drained of blood. He tried to grab the device.
"Don't," I said.
"Stop this," Sofia cried, voice a mix of fury and fear. "She's lying."
"Am I?" I said. I set another clip. It was a recorded call. "Three months ago you said, 'Make her jealous. Make Max react.' Who are we fooling?"
Sofia's face moved from blank pride to something like surprise, then to outrage. She turned to the guests and tried to smile, a mask slipping.
"You're trying to ruin my wedding," she hissed.
"But you were willing to play a part," I said. I knew I hurt her. I didn't want to, but I also did not want silence.
The crowd closed around us, phones lifted. Someone shouted, "Show the receipts!" Another said, "Is this gossip?"
I read the emails. The curt lines, the ones that asked for choreography, the ones that offered payment—each line was a nail. "You can see our contract," I said. "You can see the transfers."
For the next ten minutes everything turned into slow motion and then speed. Fleming transformed before us:
- First: he was smug. "This is theater," he claimed, raising hands like a man who still believed in the theater of his power.
- Then: shock, because the images on pockets and phones betrayed him.
- Then: bright, frantic denial. "I never said—" he began.
- Then: anger, his voice flared up. "You are malignant!"
- Then: collapse. His shoulders sagged. "Please," he mouthed, like a child.
Sofia—once bright, practiced, trained to control every muscle—fell through stages too:
- Pride, like a queen waving.
- Confusion, as if the script skipped her line.
- Denial: "It's edited!"
- Bargain: "It was an experiment!"
- Panic.
Guests reacted in waves. Some were stunned. A few filmed everything and uploaded it mid-argument. A woman near the grill whispered, "I can't believe it." A man in a suit crossed his arms and watched like a judge. A teen recorded with both hands and laughed nervously.
A table of the groom's old college friends hovered between shock and glee. Someone declared, "Drama." Someone else dropped their glass; the sound cut loose like a gunshot.
Max stood up slowly. His face was stone, then warmth. He walked to the center, took the mic, and the garden fell into an odd hush.
"You invited people to make them perform," he said, voice low. "You thought people would be props. You thought truth was negotiable. You were wrong."
He turned to Fleming. "You wanted to buy a moment with money. You bought a lie. You will have to pay for truth now."
Fleming tried to speak, to claim artistry, but people were already talking. Sponsors' phones were already ringing. The PR manager's face went white. Someone began to shout, "Take off the rings!"
Sofia screamed his name and then fell silent when the first messages from brand managers flashed across their handlers' phones—pulling sponsorship, suspending endorsements. The sound of withdrawal was more terrible than flames: it was a thawing.
Fleming's colleagues edged away. A cameraman I had once met in the lobby pointed his lens at him, not for praise but for the business of the scandal. Heads turned, whispers became a chorus:
"They're over."
"He staged it."
"She was paid."
Sofia's smile cracked open. She looked for Max and found me. Her features wandered through every expression—hurt, anger, guilt, disbelief. Then she tried to say something to the crowd. "I didn't—"
A woman near the bar snapped, "You wanted all eyes. Now you have them."
Fleming's bravado evaporated. He pleaded with anyone who would listen. "It was for the art! It was—"
"Art," Max repeated. He didn't shout. He let the single word fall, heavy and flat. "Isn't it funny that art now needs a purchase order?"
Evelyn stepped forward then. She had been a quiet presence, and she unfolded a small printed sheet. "These are the transfers," she said simply. "I handled scheduling. He asked me to hide these. I refused."
The crowd's reaction was like a live wire. Phones clicked to record, but now the cameras stayed steady, hungry for detail. A sponsor in a navy suit whispered with his wife and they got up and left. Two gossip bloggers high-fived, saying, "This will trend."
Fleming's face finally showed the last thing: a rawness like a man coming apart. He fell to his knees, not in prayer but in shock.
"Stop!" he begged. "Please—this is my life!"
"Then live in it," a woman shouted. "And accept people's judgments."
Someone clapped—once. Then another person began to shout, "Shame!" A few echoed it. Phones filmed Fleming's pleas and Sofia's cold silence. He tried to apologize; she shoved him away.
"No," Sofia said, voice thin. "No cameras."
But the cameras were already on. People who had once admired them pivoted. They scrolled, they posted, they shared verdicts faster than any court.
Fleming's colleagues folded like cards. One by one they found reasons to leave the party early—calls to make, urgent meetings, "we'll deal with this in the morning." The groom who had invited me to perform was suddenly alone on his throne, surrounded by empty champagne flutes that tasted like ash.
Fleming's reaction went from fury to bargaining to terror. He covered his face briefly, then stood and moved to the gate. Someone posted a video: "Director begs for mercy at wedding scandal." It spread. People recorded him being escorted to his car. He tried to hold on to his dignity, but dignity doesn't travel well in the light.
Sofia's ruin was quieter, but sharper. Her managers called. Offers paused. A brand that had been filming a commercial in her backyard took its equipment away by sunset. The star who once owned attention watched it whisper away.
As for the guests, they reacted in little real human ways: one woman wept into her napkin; a teenager cheered in a way that looked too pleased; an elderly aunt shook her head as if the world had made less sense; a pair of friends took a selfie with the ruined couple behind them.
Fleming's collapse at the gate was cinematic: he tried to reason, then reached out to Sofia, who pulled away as if his hands burned. He stumbled, then steadied. His public unmasking was a slow stripping of armor.
No one dragged him to jail. No one physically punished him. But the city did something worse: it looked away. Contracts vanished into silence. People stopped answering calls. Fame is a finely balanced thing; one scandal tips it.
When they trucked away their boxes the next morning, the headline read something like: Star loses favors, director loses deals. Sofia's PR team issued an apology statement that sounded as if the human heart had been stitched with staplers. Fleming released a statement that read like an actor trying to memorize a role: "My experiments go too far." He begged the internet for grace.
I stood in the yard with the broom in my hand—the same broom with the hidden red tickets. Max came and took the tickets out, unfolded them, and laughed with a strange light in his eye.
"You always manage to keep drama interesting," he said.
"Can't you just say 'thank you'?" I asked.
He smiled, not smug now, but tender. "Thank you."
After the public unraveling, things changed. Sofia's calls thinned. Fleming's phone was a desert. Sponsors would not risk the ripple. People who once applauded him now said, "What a shame." The people who had been complicit in hiding truth found themselves on the outside of sentences.
A few weeks later Sofia released a statement, eyes rimmed with red, admitting that they had both been foolish, that they had let art and ego mingle. She lost some deals but not all; some people forgave her because she was still talented and because the world has pockets for redemption. Fleming disappeared from the talk shows. His emails went unanswered.
The punishment was not violent, but it was thorough. It was social and merciless in small ways: empty calendars, no chairs at the table where chairs used to be, messages that never came back. The public watched and judged and sometimes forgave. The important thing was that the people who had thought they could buy truth found themselves bankrupt of it.
For me, the punishment wasn't for satisfying a hunger for revenge. It was a bright, messy clearing of things that had been left to fester.
"Did you plan any of this?" Max asked me one night, out on the old roof where we used to study.
"No," I said. "But I couldn't let them keep lying."
He grinned. "You look good holding a broom."
I snorted. "You look good saving the world."
He leaned in and kissed me. It felt like coming home.
Epilogue: At their wedding, a broom had been shoved into my hands, and inside it, red tickets folded into a circle. It had been a joke then. It became a token later. We kept it on a shelf: a small reminder that sometimes the messy tasks—cleaning, sweeping, holding—reveal the truth.
"I guess the broom is lucky," I said once.
"Maybe it's the luck of cleaning things up," Max answered.
I smiled. He tucked the broom under a lamp and turned off the lights. The last thing I heard that night was the faint scrape of wood on tile and his quiet breath beside me.
The End
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