Cleo had been driving a taxi for two years, and during that time, she’d picked up all kinds of passengers. She’d driven the rowdy party-goers stumbling out of bars at 3 a.m., families rushing to catch flights, and businessmen who smelled like cocktails and regret.
Every day was a new story, a new face. She’d dried plenty of tears and learned to understand people before they even got in her cab.
But tonight was different. The yellow taxi’s headlights cut through the foggy streets as Cleo, who was eight months pregnant, steered her way through the empty downtown roads. She was tired—her back ached, and the baby inside her seemed to be doing flips against her ribs. It was hard, but she had to keep working; bills didn’t pay themselves, after all.
“Just a few more hours, my love,” Cleo whispered, rubbing her swollen belly. “Then we can go home to Chester.”
The baby kicked, and Cleo smiled. At home, her orange tabby, Chester, was probably stretched out on her pillow, shedding fur everywhere. These days, Chester was the closest thing she had to family.
Thinking of home, though, brought back painful memories. Five months ago, she had raced up the stairs to their apartment, heart pounding with excitement, ready to surprise her husband, Mark. She’d planned everything perfectly—a candlelit dinner, his favorite lasagna, and a tiny pair of baby shoes wrapped in silver paper.
“We’re having a baby, honey!” she had said, sliding the package across the table.
Mark had stared at the shoes in silence, his face draining of color.
“Say something,” Cleo had begged.
“I can’t do this, Cleo.”
“What do you mean, you can’t?”
“Jessica’s pregnant too… with my child. Three months along.”
The candles had flickered low as Cleo’s world fell apart. Jessica. His secretary. The woman he’d sworn was “just a friend.”
“How long were you cheating on me?”
“Does it matter?” Mark had said.
It hadn’t. Within a week, Mark was gone, and within two weeks, he’d emptied their joint account. Cleo was left alone, eight months pregnant, working double shifts just to scrape by.
“Your father might have forgotten about us,” she whispered to her baby, trying not to cry. “But we’re gonna make it. You’ll see.”
That night, three weeks before her due date, something unusual happened. Cleo was driving down the street when she spotted him—someone stumbling along the highway.
It was just before midnight, and the streetlights glimmered through the misty rain. The man moved slowly, dragging his leg, his right arm pressed against his chest. His clothes were torn, and his dark hair stuck to his face, wet and grimy. He looked hurt, scared, and lost.
Cleo instinctively placed her hand on her belly, her heart racing. She was so close to home, to the comfort of Chester and her bed, but something about the man’s struggle stopped her. She shouldn’t stop—especially not tonight, not when she was eight months pregnant—but she couldn’t leave him like this.
“Please don’t,” Cleo whispered to herself. But before she knew it, she had pulled over.
She rolled down the window just a crack. “Are you okay? Do you need help?”
The man froze, his eyes wide with fear, his face bruised and bleeding. “I just need to get somewhere safe,” he said, his voice shaking.
A car sped down the street behind him, its engine roaring. The man’s head snapped up in panic, and he tried to run but stumbled.
Without thinking, Cleo unlocked the door. “Get in! I’ll take you to the hospital.”
He climbed into the backseat and collapsed. As Cleo pressed the gas pedal, the headlights of the car chasing them flashed in her rearview mirror.
“They’re still coming,” he panted. “Thank you. Most people wouldn’t stop.”
Cleo’s heart hammered as she weaved through the streets, taking sharp turns to lose their pursuers. The car behind them kept following, but Cleo didn’t panic. She knew the streets.
“Who are they?” Cleo asked, her grip tight on the wheel.
“They won’t stop until they catch me,” the man replied. “Please, faster!”
Cleo gritted her teeth, her pregnancy slowing her every movement. “Hold on,” she warned.
She made another sharp turn, heading into a parking lot, scraping the car under a lowered gate. The other cars couldn’t follow.
“Two years of dodging drunk passengers who don’t want to pay,” Cleo said, checking the rearview mirror. “Never thought those skills would come in handy tonight.”
The man noticed her wincing. “You’re pregnant,” he said softly, guilt in his voice. “I’m sorry. I’ve put you both in danger.”
Cleo just looked at him in the mirror, meeting his eyes. “Sometimes the biggest risk is doing nothing.”
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, they reached the hospital. Cleo stopped the car, but before the man could get out, he grabbed her arm gently.
“Why did you stop?” he asked, his good eye searching her face.
Cleo paused, thinking about how the world had been so cruel to her. “The world’s not kind to taxi drivers these days, especially not pregnant ones working alone at night,” she said quietly. “I promised myself I wouldn’t become someone who ignores people in need… someone too scared to help.”
The man nodded slowly. “You didn’t have to do this. But what you did tonight… it’s beyond your understanding.”
Cleo stared at him, her heart pounding, before she gave a small smile. She stepped out of the cab and walked away, but her mind kept replaying the strange encounter. What did he mean?
The next morning, she was jolted awake by the sound of engines. Her cat, Chester, jumped off the bed and stared at the window, his fur standing on end.
Cleo fought her way out of bed and froze. Outside her modest house, there was a parade of black SUVs—at least a dozen of them. Men in dark suits moved with military precision, setting up a perimeter around her house.
“Who are these men?” Cleo gasped, terrified. “Did I help a criminal last night?”
A knock interrupted her thoughts. Peering through the peephole, Cleo saw three men. One wore an expensive suit, another had an earpiece, and the third was all too familiar.
No way, Cleo thought. It was the man from last night.
She opened the door with shaking hands.
“Ma’am,” the man in the suit bowed slightly. “I’m James, head of security for the Atkinson family. This is Mr. Atkinson, and his son, Archie, whom you helped last night.”
Cleo blinked, confused. The man from last night was now standing before her, clean and wearing a suit that probably cost more than her taxi fare in a month.
“Mr. Atkinson?” Cleo stuttered, her heart racing. “But… but last night—”
James smiled, bowing again. “We owe you more than you know.”
As Cleo stood there, still trying to process what was happening, she realized something: her life had just changed forever.
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