The Investment Banker's Interest
"Veronica manages billions on Wall Street. When her driver becomes more than transportation, she discovers the best investments are personal."
Money is just energy.
Managing it for thirty years taught me that. I'm Veronica—fifty-nine, senior partner at a firm that moves markets. Power in a pinstripe.
"Your car is ready, Ms. Price."
The new driver holds my door. Marcus Webb—professional, observant, looking at me like I'm not just a passenger.
"Thank you, Marcus."
"Always, ma'am."
The commute is my thinking time.
But Marcus changes that—conversation without presumption, observations without overstepping.
"You noticed," I say one morning.
"The merger? It was in your calls."
"You listen."
"I drive. Listening is part of the job." His eyes meet mine in the mirror. "Seeing is another."
What does he see?
The question haunts me. I'm used to being a figure—feared, respected, never known.
"What do you see, Marcus?"
"A woman who carries weight no one acknowledges." He navigates traffic smoothly. "Someone who deserves a destination, not just transportation."
The night runs late.
Deal closing, champagne flowing, but I feel hollow.
"Take me home, Marcus."
"The townhouse?"
"Somewhere I can breathe."
He drives to the waterfront. Parks with a view.
"Sometimes I come here," he admits. "When the city feels too much."
We talk for hours.
His story—former executive, burnout, choosing peace over prestige. My story—climbing forever, reaching the top, finding it empty.
"Why driving?"
"Because I move at my own speed now." He faces me. "Because I choose who I carry."
"And you chose me?"
"You chose me. And I'm starting to understand why."
The kiss happens at 3 AM.
Backseat of my own car, professional lines obliterated.
"This is complicated," I breathe.
"Life is complicated." He pulls me closer. "Simple doesn't interest me."
His apartment is modest, warm.
Everything my townhouse isn't—lived in, loved.
"I should feel strange here," I admit.
"Do you?"
"I feel more at home than I have in years."
"Then stay." He takes my hand. "Let me show you simple."
He undresses me slowly.
"You're beautiful," he whispers.
"I'm powerful—"
"You're beautiful." His mouth finds my neck. "Let power rest. Just be Veronica."
His hands worship me.
Finding where tension lives, releasing what I've held. When his tongue traces lower, I forget portfolios.
"Marcus—"
"Just feel." He settles in. "Let me appreciate you."
When he enters me, I'm liquid.
"So good," he groans.
"More. I need more."
"I'll give you everything. Just keep breathing."
Afterward, in his simple sheets, I cry.
"No one has touched me like that in years."
"No one has seen you." He wipes my tears. "I see you, Veronica. Stay where you're seen."
"Marcus—"
"Retire. Step back. Whatever you need to do." He kisses my forehead. "Let me drive you into something better."
The resignation shocks Wall Street.
The richest Black woman in finance, walking away. But Marcus has the car ready.
"Where to?" he asks.
"Wherever we want." I take his hand. "I finally have time."
The wedding is small.
A chapel, close friends, his family who welcomed me without question.
"To the woman who found a better return," Marcus toasts.
"To the man who drove me home," I counter.
We kiss while our future unfolds.
Some investments mature.
Some transform.
And some bankers discover that the best interest compounds in the heart.
Driven.
Delivered.
Devoted.