“He read a brochure,” Chloe said to Tyler, waving her hand dismissively. “Or he heard one of the mechanics talking out back. It doesn't matter. The tag says Hold for A.P. Aaron Pierce. He’s a tech executive who came in last week. His financing fell through yesterday afternoon. The car is fair game, Tyler. If you want it, it’s yours.”
I felt a cold knot form in my stomach. She was guessing. She saw the initials A.P. and simply assigned them to a recent client whose deal had failed. She had no idea who I was.
I reached into my right pocket and let my fingers brush against the heavy, cold metal of my keys. Attached to my keyring was a custom-molded solid silver fob, engraved with a single, elegant letter E. Marcus, the owner of Apex Motors, had personally mailed it to my home three days ago with a handwritten note saying the car was finally ready for my final inspection.
I considered pulling the key out. I considered pressing the unlock button, watching the car’s headlights flash and the doors unlock, and watching the color drain from Chloe’s face. It would be the easiest way to end this.
But as I looked at her—at the absolute contempt in her eyes, at the way she had instantly deemed me worthless because of the fabric on my back—a quiet, stubborn anger took root in my chest.
If I showed her the key, she would apologize. She would instantly transform into the fawning, desperate salesperson she was currently being for Tyler. She would bow and scrape, not because she respected me, but because she respected my money.
I didn't want her fake respect. I wanted to see exactly how this dealership operated when they thought no one of importance was watching. I wanted to see what Marcus’s business had become.
“I am not leaving,” I said softly, releasing the silver key in my pocket and letting my hand rest at my side.
“Fine,” Chloe snarled. She looked past my shoulder, a triumphant smirk spreading across her lips. “Then they will make you.”
I heard the heavy, rhythmic thud of tactical boots against the marble floor before I saw them. I turned slightly. Two large security guards, dressed in sharp black suits with earpieces trailing down their necks, were marching swiftly down the main aisle toward us. The taller of the two, a man with a thick neck and a grim expression, took the lead.
“Chloe,” the tall guard said as he approached, his eyes already locked onto me. “Is this the guy?”
“Yes, Davis,” Chloe said, her voice suddenly trembling slightly, adopting a tone of exaggerated distress. “He’s been harassing my client and refusing to leave. When I asked him to step back, he acted aggressively toward me.”
I stared at her in utter disbelief. “Aggressively? I have not moved from this spot.”
“He tried to grab my arm,” Chloe lied flawlessly, looking at the guard. “I want him out. Now. If he resists, call the police.”
Tyler picked up his crumpled twenty-dollar bill from the hood of the car and shoved it back into his pocket. “Yeah, the old guy is unhinged. Get him out of here so we can do some paperwork.”
Davis stepped right into my personal space. He was at least six-foot-three, towering over my shrinking, aging frame. I could smell stale coffee and peppermint gum on his breath.
“Alright, buddy,” Davis said, his voice a low, threatening rumble. “Party’s over. You’re going to turn around, walk out those front doors, and you are never coming back onto this property. Do you understand me?”
“You are making a mistake,” I said, keeping my voice remarkably calm despite the violent hammering of my heart against my ribs. “You need to contact Marcus right now. Call his office.”
Davis laughed, a harsh, humorless sound. “You want to talk to the owner? Yeah, I don't think so. Mr. Vance doesn't deal with transients. Now move.”
He didn't wait for me to comply.
Davis reached out, his massive hand clamping down hard on my left shoulder. The grip was shockingly tight, his thick fingers digging painfully into my collarbone through the thin wool of my cardigan. The sudden, forceful contact sent a sharp spike of pain shooting down my arm, aggravating the arthritis in my joint.
I gasped slightly, my balance faltering on the slippery floor. As I stumbled backward, my hand jerked out of my pocket.
The movement dislodged my keyring. It slipped from my fingers, hitting the marble floor with a sharp, ringing clatter. The heavy silver fob with the engraved E bounced twice and slid across the polished floor, coming to a stop directly between Tyler’s expensive leather boots.
“Look at that,” Tyler sneered, looking down at my keys. “He dropped his trash.”
Davis tightened his grip on my shoulder, forcefully turning my body toward the front entrance.
“Walk,” the guard commanded, shoving me forward.
The physical shock of being shoved threw my senses into chaos. My orthopedic shoes squeaked loudly as they slid across the marble, trying to find purchase. Davis didn't let go of my shoulder; instead, his grip shifted, grabbing the fabric of my cardigan and the back of my shirt, bunching it up in his massive fist.
I was being manhandled. At seventy-two years old, after a lifetime of hard work, building a company from the ground up, and burying the only woman I ever loved, I was being dragged through a luxury showroom like a common thief.
A heavy, suffocating wave of humiliation crashed over me. I could see the other customers in the showroom turning to watch. A woman in a white trench coat pulled her husband closer, whispering behind her hand. The barista at the espresso bar had stopped steaming milk, watching with wide eyes.
Tyler’s booming laugh echoed behind me.
“Make sure he doesn't steal any of the complimentary mints on the way out!” Tyler called out, clearly reveling in the cruelty of the moment.