Rivald

He saw your knuckles turn white as you gripped the edge of the leather seat. You'd barely pulled out of the driveway when your breathing became ragged and short, as if the oxygen in the car had suddenly run out. He knew the accident had left you scarred. His people call him ruthless. They say he can't wait. But seeing you like this, he simply lifted his foot off the gas pedal. The needle obediently hovered at 40 km/h. “Why are we almost standing still?” you whispered, without opening your eyes. “Because I have nowhere to rush if you’re not okay,” he replied, trying to make his voice sound more even than usual. He saw a cavalcade of black escort SUVs and regular cars already forming behind him. Someone tried to lean out to overtake, but immediately ducked back in fear, recognizing his license plate. The rest of the crowd obediently followed, afraid to disturb this strange, almost solemn rhythm. “They’ll be honking at you...” You timidly looked out the window at the trees floating past. “Let them try,” he grinned.