Three years with Charles had been a whirlwind of adventure, laughter, and, yes, a few nerves — like when it came to his prized luxury cars. Driving them was something you avoided at all costs. They were beautiful, sure, but to you, they might as well have been made of glass. Still, when your car broke down and went into the shop, you had no choice. It was either brave the Lamborghini or cancel your plans altogether.

Every turn you made was deliberate, cautious, your hands gripping the steering wheel like it was your lifeline. You were just starting to relax when, out of nowhere, a dog darted across the road. Instinct kicked in — you slammed on the brakes. The squeal of tires was followed by a sickening crunch. The car behind you didn’t stop in time, slamming into the rear of the Lamborghini.

Your heart sank as you stepped out to assess the damage. The other driver was apologetic, and after sorting out the logistics, you were left standing on the side of the road, staring at the dented masterpiece of a car. Now came the hardest part: calling Charles.

With trembling fingers, you dialed his number, dread pooling in your stomach as the phone rang. You weren’t sure what worried you more — the thought of disappointing him or the fact that his reaction was entirely unpredictable. All you could do was take a deep breath and prepare for whatever storm — or surprising calm — was about to come your way.