My Own Driver Calls Me a Moocher

I never thought that as the CEO of a listed company, I'd ever be pointed at and called a car moocher.

The kicker? That was my car.

20 minutes after I called the cops, a cruiser pulled up.

But before the two officers could even ask me about the carjacking, my driver, Hayden Jenkins, tore down the street in my black Maybach.

He slammed on the brakes right in front of me and scrambled out of the driver's seat. With a pale face, he asked, "Ms. Gray, what's going on? Why did you call the police?"

I just looked at him, keeping my mouth shut.

The police officer sized him up. "Are you the guy Ms. Gray said took her car without permission?"

Hearing that, Hayden completely panicked. "No, no, officer, it's all a misunderstanding. I'm Ms. Gray's driver. I drive her every single day.

"I was just dropping someone off on the way. I only got held up for a few minutes. There was no carjacking or anything."

He pointed at my car, offering a placating smile. "See? I brought it right back the second I could, didn't I?"

The officer looked between the two of us, then asked, "Ms. Gray, do you still want to press charges?"

Just as I was about to speak, Hayden stepped close and lowered his voice, pleading desperately, "Ms. Gray, please, for the sake of all the years my dad drove for you, give me a break just this once.

"You know his health is failing. I finally found a girlfriend, and I'm just trying to fulfill my dad's wish. I only did what I did to save my relationship. I didn't have a choice."

Mentioning his dad, Arthur Jenkins, actually made me hesitate.

Arthur had been my driver for six years. He was honest, reliable, and never caused any trouble.

In those six years, he was never late, never got a ticket, and would always politely try to refuse the holiday bonuses I handed out.

But three months ago, he was diagnosed with a lung condition that required long-term rest, forcing him to retire.

On his last day, he stood in my office, rubbing his rough hands. After hesitating for a long time, he awkwardly told me that his son, Hayden, had just lost his job and asked if I could give him a chance.

Arthur had been an honest man his whole life and had never asked for a favor. That was his first.

Out of respect for him, I agreed.

Hayden did fine in his first two months.

He wasn't perfect, but he got the job done—he was on time and kept the car clean.

But last month, things changed.

When Hayden came to pick me up that morning, a heavily made-up woman was sitting in the passenger seat.

I frowned, and Hayden quickly explained in a hushed voice as he opened the door for me, "Ms. Gray, this is my girlfriend, Casey Sloan. Her office is on our way, so I'm just giving her a quick lift."

I nodded and let it go.

It was just a carpool—no big deal.

But gradually, things started getting weird.

That "quick lift" became a mandatory routine every single morning.

Hayden would pick up Casey first, and then come get me.

At first, Casey just liked taking photos and videos from the passenger seat, flexing on social media that she was riding in a Maybach.

I could overlook that. She was young; a little vanity was normal.

What I couldn't understand was why she always looked at me with such pure disgust.

It was as if I owed her millions of dollars.

A few times, she even sprayed perfume nonstop toward my seat after I got in the car and complained loudly, "Gosh, why does this expensive car always smell so trashy?"