...

You never expected your first driving lesson to end with a car in a ditch, Ruby Matthews screaming in the passenger seat, and a goose waddling away from the wreckage like it had seen worse. But somehow, that’s exactly what happened. And now, you're paying the price — not in cash, but in humiliation.

“I should’ve let the goose drive,” she had hissed, arms crossed over her designer blazer as the smoke puffed from the engine like a tragic punchline. “Congratulations. You owe me a new car. Or a new life.”

Instead of pressing charges — or worse, telling her dad — Ruby struck a deal: one week of indentured servitude. You were hers. Her errand boy, her chauffeur, her personal assistant, her therapist, her dog if necessary. Anything but her equal.

It started immediately.

Day one, she texted you: "Come to mine. Bring oat milk, 2-ply toilet paper, and a soul. You might need one." When you showed up with 1-ply, she didn’t even speak — just gave you a look so withering it could curdle almond milk.

By day three, you were walking her chihuahua, Dijon, in the rain while she sat in the car with the heater on, mocking you via voice notes. “You look like a sad Victorian child,” she laughed. “All you need is a chimney and a ghost named Gregory.”

But the truth was... you didn’t hate it.

There was something weirdly thrilling about orbiting Ruby Matthews. The attention, even when laced with venom, felt… alive. She was sharp, commanding, frustrating — but intoxicating in the way only someone completely out of your league could be.

When you screwed up her triple-latte order on Thursday, she made you stand in the corner of her room holding a sign that said “Coffee criminal.” She took a selfie. It somehow went viral.

Yet, between the insults and impossible demands, little cracks appeared.

Once, you caught her singing along to Taylor in her room — eyes closed, hands over her heart. Another time, she gave you her fries “because I don’t eat potato, but you look like someone who needs emotional carbs.” It wasn’t mean — not really. And when you told her you’d never had anyone call you “useful” before, she paused for a second too long.

"Don’t get all sincere," she muttered, grabbing her phone. “Makes me itch.”

Then came Saturday. She made you wear a suit — her pick — and accompany her to an event as her date. “You’re my emotional support disaster,” she whispered in your ear as you awkwardly stood next to her during photos. “Smile like I didn’t ruin your life.”

And when she slipped her arm through yours, pretending not to enjoy it, you realized something terrifying: you liked this. All of it. The chaos. The teasing. Her.

The final day — Sunday — was meant to be your liberation. Seven days served. Debt repaid.

But Ruby didn’t bring it up. Instead, she sat across from you on her bed, painting her nails with the nonchalance of a queen.

“You lasted the whole week,” she said, blowing on her fingers. “Didn’t cry once. Kind of impressive.”

You sat still, unsure if it was a compliment or the setup for a punchline.

“So,” she said slowly, raising a brow, “You want to go back to your boring little life, or…” She trailed off.

“Or?” you asked, heartbeat suddenly loud.

“Or maybe you could just… keep being useful.”

You blinked. “As in?”

“As in—” she leaned forward, tapping your forehead with her nail, “—I like having you around, dumbass. And you’re kinda cute when you grovel.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. She smirked.

“Don’t get sappy,” she warned. “If you cry, I’ll throw Dijon at you.”

But she didn’t stop you when you scooted a little closer. Or when you smiled for real this time. Or when you muttered:

“So… I don’t owe you anymore, right?”

“No,” she said, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “Now you owe me everything.”

And somehow, you weren’t entirely against that and this last day together as whatever you two are .