"Would you let me drive you home?" Claire asked hesitantly, her voice barely above a whisper. "Please?"
"I don't want to impose. But thank you for offering," Clifford said with a warm smile.
"It's not an imposition at all. I'd genuinely like to," she insisted. "You've been so helpful today, and I'm heading into the city anyway. Please—consider it my way of saying thanks."
He hesitated, then nodded. "If it's truly on your route, then yes. Let me grab my belongings."
Claire hurried to the SUV and instructed the driver to take her things home without her.
She'd make her own way back later.
Minutes later, she was behind the wheel of her blue Fiat, with Clifford settling into the passenger seat.
The drive toward the city was quiet at first. Clifford had finally retrieved his sunglasses and now studied her discreetly from behind the dark lenses.
She had striking features—not conventionally beautiful perhaps, but there was something compelling about her.
Her figure was elegant, and he found himself noticing the graceful curve of her dark lashes.
Were they naturally that dramatic, he wondered, or enhanced somehow?
It puzzled him that they'd never crossed paths before.
He knew most of the student body, at least by sight. Yet Claire had somehow remained invisible to him until today.
Claire felt his gaze and when she risked a quick glance in his direction, their eyes locked.
She quickly bit her lip and returned her attention to the road, focusing intently on the thickening traffic.
She forced herself to think only about driving, to ignore the presence of the man beside her.
What a missed opportunity, she thought ruefully.
She'd admired him from afar for so long, and now that he was finally here, she couldn't think of a single thing to say.
Clifford noticed the way she caught her lower lip between her teeth, how she used her lashes like a curtain to avoid his eyes.
Shy, he concluded. Genuinely shy. She wouldn't risk another glance his way.
Perhaps not the most beautiful woman he'd met, but undeniably attractive.
To break the growing tension and spare her further discomfort, he spoke.
"You're an excellent driver—for anyone, really."
"Thank you," she murmured, still not looking at him.
"I'm headed to Eastmere. What about you?"
"Nova Ridge."
"Right. And your surname was Hartwell, you said?"
She nodded.
"That name is familiar." He paused, pieces falling into place. "Of course—the way you dress, the two luxury vehicles, all those possessions.
I should have realized. You're *that* Hartwell. The Fisl Corporation family." He shook his head slowly.
"Why did you do that?" Claire asked, confused. "Shake your head, I mean."
Clifford exhaled. "Listen, Claire," he said, turning to look at her properly. His expression had grown serious.
"You seem like a genuinely kind person. Quiet, thoughtful, a bit shy.
I don't play games with people like you, so I need to be honest. We've only just met—exchanged a few words, a couple of glances. I like you.
I'd like to know you better. But as much as I'd enjoy seeing you again, I'm not sure I should suggest it."
He paused. "You're wealthy—the only daughter of one of the most powerful business families in the region. I know who you are.
And I'm just a scholarship student from Eastmere. I'm sorry to be blunt, but I noticed your reaction when I mentioned where I live.
There's a gulf between our worlds, Claire. No matter how much I might wish otherwise."
Claire fell silent, his words hitting her like cold water. She hadn't anticipated such directness, and it left her momentarily speechless. She'd noticed Clifford long ago—admired him from a distance, watched him command attention in debate competitions, observed how he moved through campus with quiet confidence.
He was president of the debate society, active in numerous organizations. Everyone knew him.
Until today, when she'd literally stumbled into his path, she'd believed he'd never notice her.
Her heart hammered against her ribs so forcefully she was certain he could hear it.
She'd never imagined that her father's wealth—the thing that had always gotten her everything she wanted—would become the very barrier to what she now wanted most: the chance to know this man better.
Unable to articulate the turmoil inside her, she kept her eyes fixed on the road ahead.
"You're not saying anything," Clifford observed, a hint of amusement creeping into his voice.
At twenty-three, Claire remained sheltered in many ways.
As an only child, she'd been indulged beyond reason. Whatever she desired, money provided—except experience with situations like this.
She'd had boyfriends, certainly, but her life had been carefully curated, protected. Even now, she relied heavily on her mother's guidance for major decisions.
But this—this decision felt like hers alone to make.