No Mercy for the Merciless

From the back cover

My volunteer work was simple, a quiet act of kindness.

For two years, I drove underprivileged students to their SATs, finding genuine joy in helping.

Then my phone buzzed, and a sharp, high-pitched voice introduced me to Tiffany.

She wasn't just demanding a ride; she was demanding a luxury SUV for five, not three, and a perfectly pristine car.

"Make sure your car is clean. We don' t want to show up to the most important exam of our lives covered in dog hair or smelling like old takeout."

Her voice dripped with an entitlement that left me breathless, and I knew this was different.

I brushed aside the unease, telling myself it was just one difficult person.

But from the moment they sauntered out, laughing, holding expensive coffees, the verbal jabs began, culminating in Tiffany grabbing my steering wheel on the highway.

The car swerved violently.

A truck narrowly missed us.

"What is wrong with you? You could have killed us!" I yelled, my body shaking with rage.

"Me? You' re the one who can' t drive! You almost got us killed!" she shrieked back, her eyes wide with indignation, not remorse.

To my horror, Jessica, one of the others, nodded in agreement with Tiffany's outrageous lie.

The unfairness of it all made me sick.

My good deed had been twisted into an obligation, and I was being made the villain.

My husband' s calm voice echoed in my head: "Don't give them a single thing they can use against you. Be polite, be professional…"

I decided I would be a robot.

A chauffeur.

No emotion, just function.

I would finish this, and then wash my hands of them forever.