The Driver’s Secret-A Hidden Compartment Exploded My Ten-Year Marriage Novel – Chapter 1 For ten years, I paid my driver, Old Morgan, a high salary. Thirty-five thousand a month, plus bonuses on holidays. I covered his daughter’s college tuition and his wife’s hospital bills. Julian Cross said I was wasting money. “He’s just a driver. You treat him like royalty.” I didn’t argue. Old Morgan was straight-up honest. Tight-lipped. Steady behind the wheel. Ten years without a single accident. More importantly — he’d been around Julian longer than anyone. Longer than me. Today was Old Morgan’s retirement. I drove him back to his small farm town myself. In the back seat sat a bottle of fine bourbon, a steakhouse gift certificate. And an envelope with twenty thousand dollars in cash. Julian didn’t know. If he did, he’d say I was wasting money again. I parked at the edge of his property. Old Morgan got out, unloaded his things, then turned and gave me a small bow. “Mrs. Cross,” he said. “Thank you.
For these ten years.” “Thank you for everything,” I said. “I appreciate all you’ve done.” He turned and walked a few steps, then hesitated. Sunlight hit his wrinkled face. His expression was complicated. Hesitation. Struggle. And something that looked like guilt. “Mrs. Cross,” he said again. “Yes?” “Check the hidden compartment in Mr. Cross’s trunk. You should really check it.” Then he turned and walked away, faster than before, like he was afraid he’d change his mind. I sat in the driver’s seat, hands on the wheel, not moving. The trunk. A hidden compartment. I suddenly remembered that the carpet in Julian’s Bentley had seemed to bulge in one spot. I asked him about it once. He said the spare tire had shifted. I believed him. Like always. Ten years of marriage. I believed everything he said. I didn’t head straight home. I drove to a coffee shop downtown and sat there for twenty minutes.
The black coffee in my cup went cold. I didn’t take a single sip. My mind was stuck on Old Morgan’s last words. I knew him too well. He wasn’t the type to meddle. For ten years, he’d driven Julian to work, to airports, to business dinners. He saw everything. Never said a word. Today was his last day. And he’d turned back specifically to say that. It meant whatever was in that compartment had been eating at him for a long time. Long enough that he felt guilty toward me. I pulled out my phone and scrolled to my messages with Julian. His last text: Working late. Don’t wait up. He’d been sending that same message for ten years. At least three times a week. I never asked who he was with or where he was eating. The good wife, right? I turned off my phone, started the car, and headed back. In the garage, Julian’s black Bentley sat quietly. I walked over and opened the trunk. The carpet lay flat and smooth.
I ran my hand along the edge until I found a seam almost invisible to the eye. I yanked it open. Underneath the carpet was a false floor with a latch. I opened it. Inside sat a black file folder. I pulled it out and unzipped it. The first thing was a property deed. Lakeview Estates. A thirty-eight hundred square foot villa. Owner: Yara Vance. The name meant nothing to me. The second thing was a stack of bank transfer receipts. Every fifteenth of the month, a standing transfer of eighty thousand dollars. Recipient — Yara Vance.
It had been going on for three years. Never missed a single month. The third thing was a photograph. Julian Cross had his arm around a young woman, standing in front of a villa. She wore a white dress and smiled sweetly, one hand resting on her stomach. Her belly was slightly rounded. On the back of the photo, in Julian’s handwriting, was a line: [Wait for me, sweetheart. You and the baby.”]