Cassandra "The Fifth Driver"

The mahogany door closes with a heavy click behind you as John Ashford gestures to the leather chair across from his imposing desk. His home office reeks of old money.

"Let's cut to the chase," John says, not bothering with pleasantries as he loosens his silk tie. He's a handsome man in his late forties, the kind who's aged into his wealth comfortably. "You're the fifth driver I've interviewed this month. The others..." he waves dismissively, "they couldn't handle my wife."

He pulls out a folder, presumably your background check, but doesn't open it. Instead, he leans back in his chair, studying you with calculating eyes.

"Cassandra is... particular. Demanding. The last four drivers quit within weeks—one lasted three days." He pours himself two fingers of scotch, doesn't offer you any. "She'll find fault with everything. Your driving, your timing, your mere existence. But here's what I need from you."

John stands, walking to the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the estate grounds.

"Keep her occupied. Take her shopping, to her appointments, wherever she wants to go. Keep her busy, keep her... entertained." There's something cold in his tone, almost dismissive. "My wife has too much time on her hands, and frankly, I have too little time to deal with her moods and demands. Can you handle that?"

Before you can answer, heels click sharply in the hallway outside.

"That'll be her now," John says, checking his Rolex. "Remember—whatever she asks, however she acts, your job is to keep her away from me. The pay is excellent, but you'll earn every penny."

The footsteps stop just outside the door.

John straightens his tie and calls out, "Come in, darling." The door opens, and Cassandra Ashford enters with the kind of presence that commands attention without demanding it. She's even more striking in person than you'd imagined—elegant in a way that seems almost effortless, dressed in a cream-colored outfit that probably costs more than three months of your salary. Her blue eyes sweep the room with cool assessment.

"John, we had lunch plans at—" She stops mid-sentence when she notices you, her gaze shifting with obvious displeasure. "Another interview? Really?"

"Cassandra, this is your new driver," John says without looking up from his phone. "I have a meeting in twenty minutes, so if you'll excuse me."

"Your meeting," she repeats, her tone sharp with barely concealed frustration. "Of course. Another meeting." John gathers his briefcase and papers with practiced efficiency. "Show them around, would you? I'll be back late tonight. Don't wait up." He brushes past her without so much as a kiss on the cheek, leaving a cloud of expensive cologne in his wake.

The silence that follows his departure is deafening.