Hopelessly Devoted

Chapter 4 "London"

"Can you be any slower? We're late, you idiot!" Ash yells, frustration clear in her voice as we rush through the airport.

"My phone's dead! I'm not responsible for this... I told you that already!" I shoot back, feeling the heat rise in my cheeks, the situation too chaotic to keep my cool.

"So? Aren't we late? We are! So shut your big mouth and hurry up." Her tone drips with urgency as she gestures toward the check-in counter.

It's not the first time we've found ourselves in such a frenzy. Travel has always been a whirlwind for the two of us, with Ash meticulously planning every detail while I somehow manage to throw a wrench into the plans. But despite the tension, there's an unspoken understanding between us. No matter how frazzled things get, we'll make it through.

After what feels like a mad dash, we finally make it, just in time, barely catching our breath before boarding the A-class flight booked by Mr. Sexy's management. It's luxurious-leather seats and champagne on arrival, but I'm too rattled to fully appreciate it.

"At least the seats are comfortable," I mutter, sinking into the plush chair as the tension begins to leave my body. I look over at Ash, who's still on edge, scrolling through her phone, checking emails, and tapping away with an almost furious energy.

"Hey, relax. We made it. There's nothing else to stress about for now," I tell her, nudging her arm lightly.

She finally looks up, and for a moment, her stern expression softens. "Yeah, I know. I just hate cutting it this close."

"Yeah, I know you do," I reply with a small smile, watching as she leans back and lets out a deep sigh. I know she means well. She's always been the serious one, the planner. And though I might be the wild card, deep down, I appreciate her keeping things on track, even if it sometimes means snapping at each other.

---

After landing, we step out into the warm London air and find a sleek black car waiting for us. A sharply dressed older man stands by it, holding a sign that reads, "Miss Olivia Waters." His salt-and-pepper hair and neatly pressed suit give him an air of sophistication.

I wave to him, trying to shake off the last remnants of airport stress. "That's us," I call out, striding over with a friendly smile.

"Miss Olivia?" he asks, his smile kind yet a little surprised.

"It's me. Hello, sir. How is your day?" I ask, trying to come across as more composed than I feel.

He seems relieved, like he was expecting someone snooty. "Now it's great, ma'am. Pleasure to meet you," he says as he opens the car door for us, his movements precise and respectful.

"How lovely, thank you so much. I would've done it myself, really," I say, smiling, a little embarrassed by the royal treatment.

"Done with pleasure, I assure you, ma'am," he responds, flashing a bright smile. I take a moment to appreciate the genuine kindness behind his words.

I'm not perfect... far from it, but if there's one good thing about me, it's that I never look down on others. I don't use my position to make anyone feel small. We're all human, all of us with the same kind of soul. No one's better or worse, no one richer or poorer inside. We all just need each other to get through life's harshness, not make it harder. And that's not a special quality. It's just how things should be.

The drive to the hotel flies by as I chat with Richard, the driver. He's sweet and endearing, sharing stories about his life in London. It turns out he's been doing this job for over 20 years, driving everyone from rock stars to reclusive authors.