Borrow My Car Daily? Enjoy My Divorce Papers

I reached out for the car door, intending to pull it shut. Charlotte, however, abruptly lunged over, knocking my hand away with her body. Then, she plopped down into the passenger seat.

The broth of the chitlin stew in her hands sloshed violently, spilling all over the passenger seat, which was made of handcrafted, custom-stitched Dornish calfskin. The pungent, greasy liquid slowly seeped into the crevices of the leather. My expression hardened in an instant as a nauseating odor permeated the cabin.

Looking at the grease on the seat, instead of offering an apology, she casually whipped out a tissue and wiped it a couple of times. "Oh, come on. It's just a little spilled broth. It's no big deal. I'll give you ten dollars later so you can get it rinsed at a car wash."

Right after saying that, she kicked off her stiletto heels and propped both of her stocking-clad feet right up on my custom dashboard, which was hand-carved from a single piece of precious rosewood.

She continued, "Anyway, stop dragging your feet and start driving already! I have to clock in at 9:00 am. If I'm late, can you even afford to compensate me for my perfect attendance bonus?"

As I stared at the ruined haute couture seat, I was so angry that I jeered. Without saying another word, I got into the driver's seat and started the car.

Charlotte snorted. "If you had just cooperated from the start, we wouldn't have had an issue. Oh, by the way, make a right turn at the intersection ahead. I need to grab a cup of coffee before you drop me off at work."

She seriously took me as her personal chauffeur.

I stepped on the gas, and the car rolled out of the underground garage. However, instead of heading toward the city center, I drove straight out of the neighborhood gates and veered into a secluded side road.

"Hey, you're going the wrong way; this isn't the way to the city center!" At last, she realized something was off and sat up straight.

I slammed on the brakes, and the car came to a halt in front of a dilapidated auto repair shop.

"Get out," I spat.

Charlotte froze. "What's the meaning of this? Why did you drive me to the middle of nowhere?"

"You soiled my car, so I'm getting it cleaned now. Either roll your ass out of here yourself, or I'll kick you out!" My eyes were as cold as ice.

Charlotte was intimidated by my presence, but she soon found her arrogance again. "You wouldn't dare! Believe it or not, but I'll have my husband find someone to ruin you! My husband's—"

I couldn't be bothered to listen to her nonsense. I unbuckled my seat belt, walked around to the passenger side, yanked the door open, seized her by the arm, and dragged her out.

Charlotte let out a shriek as she tumbled onto the ground. The chitlin stew in her hand completely toppled over the sequined dress she was so proud of. "Just you wait, you crazy bitch!"

Ignoring the furious curses she hurled after me, I got back into my car, stepped on the gas, and sped away.

…

That evening, I had just returned home when the front door was shoved open.

My husband, Elliot Mercer, stormed in, beside himself with rage. Without even changing out of his shoes, he marched straight up to me, pointed a finger right at my nose, and bellowed, "Olivia Callahan, what the hell did you do today?"

Lounging on the couch, I met his gaze coldly. "What did I do?"

"Stop playing dumb! Did you or did you not dump Charlotte halfway on the road? Do you have any idea whose wife she is?"

The veins on his forehead bulged, and he almost looked deranged with rage. "Her husband is Julian Blackwell! He's the client-side CEO for that eight-million-dollar project I've been chasing for the past six months. Mr. Blackwell called me personally just now and ripped me a new one, saying my wife bullied his!"

He yanked off his tie and hurled it on the ground. "Olivia, are you deliberately trying to ruin my future?"