Chapter 17: Bold Trust Fund Princess and Her Chariot

Chapter 17: Bold Trust Fund Princess and Her ChariotAt exactly 4:00 PM, I heard the sound of an engine that probably costs more than my mom’s annual salary rolling into our driveway like it owns the fucking neighborhood. I peek through my bedroom window and nearly choke on my own saliva. Madison Torres was sitting in what appeared to be a white BMW convertible that looked like it was personally hand-delivered by the trust fund gods themselves. This thing is so pristine it probably has its own personal valet and gets tucked in at night. I’m talking Kylie Jenner level of "daddy bought me this for my sweet sixteen and I crashed three of them already" energy. The white BMW convertible gleamed like a freshly minted trophy, every curve and contour sculpted with precision as if designed by artists obsessed with perfection. Its paint shimmered under the sun, so flawless it looked less like a car and more like a luxury yacht parked on wheels. The chrome accents sparkled with a cold elegance, catching light from every angle, while the sleek aerodynamic lines promised both speed and status. The soft leather interior peeked out from beneath the lowered roof, pristine and inviting, exuding that unmistakable scent of newness mixed with subtle hints of cashmere and ambition. This was more than a car—it was a statement: a rolling declaration of trust funds, privilege, and the kind of effortless power that made you both envy and recoil. And she was casually checking herself in the rearview mirror, applying lip gloss with the precision of a NASA engineer, because God forbid, she meets me with anything less than Instagram-filter perfection. Her outfit was giving me serious "rich girl who shops at stores I can’t even pronounce" vibes — crop top that probably costs more than my mom’s car payment and looks like it was designed by someone who really understood the assignment of making teenage boys forget basic motor functions. My phone buzzed: "I’m here! Come out when you’re ready ????" Another kiss that sent approximately seventeen butterflies fluttering in my stomach—and judging by the chaos, they definitely weren’t following the proper flight formation protocols. Time to face the music, or in this case, face the most intimidating piece of grade-A American princess who’s ever voluntarily acknowledged my existence. I grabbed my backpack—you know, for the "studying," which at this point was about as believable as Jake Paul winning a Nobel Prize—and headed downstairs, trying to look like I definitely belonged in the same tax bracket as someone whose car has more technology than my entire house. "Bye, Mom!" I called out, hoping to escape before she could do something embarrassing like ask if I needed condoms or lunch money. "Have fun studying, honey!" she shouted back, and I could literally hear the air quotes around "studying" from here. Real subtle, Mother. I stepped outside and immediately felt like I had just entered a different economic ecosystem. Madison’s BMW purred with the kind of quiet confidence that screams German engineering and trust fund maintenance plans. The girl herself looked like she stepped out of a Teen Vogue spread titled "How to Make Virgin Nerds Question Their Life Choices." She was wearing jeans that fit like they were custom-made by Italian designers who understand the female form on a molecular level, and a crop top that probably cost more than my mom’s car payment. Her hair was doing that perfect windswept thing that looks effortless but definitely required professional consultation. ’Okay, so she’s got daddy’s unlimited credit card AND knows exactly how to use it to make guys like me forget how to function,’ I thought, watching her check her lip gloss in the mirror like she was preparing for a photo shoot. "Hey, Peter!" she called out, flashing a smile that could probably end several small conflicts and definitely end my ability to form coherent sentences. "You look really good!" I glanced down at my carefully assembled Target clearance ensemble and felt slightly less like a discount store refugee. "T-T-Thanks. You look... insane." Which is the understatement of the fucking century. Madison Torres looked like the result of perfect genetics meeting unlimited resources and a team of stylists who understood their assignment. ’This is literally designed to make virgin nerds like me question every life choice that led to this moment,’ I realized as I walked toward her car. As I approached her chariot of economic privilege, I caught movement in my peripheral vision. Mom was definitely spying from the upstairs window like some kind of suburban CIA operative, probably trying to calculate how her socially incompetent son suddenly started attracting girls who look like they belong in music videos instead of talking to him about JavaScript frameworks. I gave a small wave, and the curtain immediately dropped. Real stealth mode there, Mom. Absolutely nailing the whole "I’m not watching my virgin son potentially get laid" performance. "Get in, my cute nerd, we’re going studying!" Madison said with a laugh—like the deluxe rich girl remix of a Mean Girls burn. I practically scrambled into the passenger seat of the nicest car I’d ever been in that didn’t require a security guard or a monocle, my cheeks turning fifty shades of red and my brain short-circuiting somewhere between ’cool’ and ’totally busted.’ The interior smelled like leather, money, and the kind of privilege that comes with never having to check your bank account before buying coffee. Her perfume mixed with the luxury car smell to create this intoxicating combination that was making my brain operate at the intellectual level of a TikTok comment section. Madison started driving, and holy fucking shit, this girl had skills that would make Fast and Furious drivers weep with envy. She was handling this expensive death machine like she was literally born gripping a steering wheel made of Italian leather, which she probably was. Rich kids probably learn to drive in BMWs the same way normal kids learn to ride bikes. "So," she said, glancing over at me while somehow maintaining perfect control of a vehicle that had more computing power than my gaming setup, "I’ve been thinking about our chemistry study session all day." Again, fucking beautiful and seductive again of her words, I mean the way she said "chemistry" that made it clear we’d officially abandoned any pretense of actual molecular structures and moved into "let’s see if Peter dies from sexual tension" territory. "Oh yeah?" I managed, trying to sound casual while my nervous system operated at frequencies that could probably interfere with WiFi signals. "Mm-hmm," she continued, and suddenly her right hand was off the steering wheel and landing on my thigh like a tactical strike mission. "I’m really curious about... molecular attraction, you know? Like how different elements react when they come into close contact." Her thumb started tracing small circles on my leg, and I was pretty sure my brain just performed the mental equivalent of a Windows blue screen. This was not a drill. Madison Torres was touching me while making chemistry puns, and I was about to discover if it’s possible to die from being too turned on. It wasn’t creepy or bold—it was somehow more extraordinary and beautiful than I ever thought something like this could be. "I think," she continued, her voice dropping to that breathy register that probably causes car accidents, "that some reactions can be really... explosive. Especially when you have the right... equipment for the job." The way she emphasized "equipment" while her hand moved incrementally higher on my thigh made it crystal fucking clear that we weren’t discussing Bunsen burners or graduated cylinders.