Manager Told A Woman In Worn Sneakers To Leave—Until She Asked What The Whole Showroom Cost!

The older man was holding an espresso cup and an unread legal brief.

His nameplate read GERALD CRESTMONT — DEALER PRINCIPAL.

“What is the commotion out here, Marcus?” Gerald called out, his silver hair neatly combed back. “I could hear your voice through the soundproof glass.”

Marcus immediately smoothed his lapels, his condescending posture shifting into polished deference.

“Mr. Crestmont,” Marcus said quickly, extending an open hand toward Ariana. “I apologize for the disturbance. We have an unauthorized vagrant loitering inside the premiere V12 display.”

Gerald adjusted his rimless glasses, his gaze drifting from Marcus to the woman standing beside the black coupe.

Ariana didn't shift her stance.

She kept her worn sneakers planted firmly on the cold marble.

“She’s refusing to leave the premises,” Marcus continued, raising his chin. “I was just about to have the plaza patrol remove her.”

Daniel stepped forward again, his face flushed. “Mr. Crestmont, she asked a simple question about the facility’s valuation. Mr. Hale has been hostile since she walked through the doors.”

“Daniel, clean out your locker if you speak out of turn again,” Marcus warned through clenched teeth.

Gerald didn't look at Daniel.

He looked at Ariana’s faded jeans.

Then he looked at her face.

A strange, frozen stillness came over Gerald’s expression, the warmth draining from his features so rapidly that the espresso cup trembled in his fingers.

“Mr. Crestmont?” Marcus prompted, frowning. “Should I call plaza security now?”

Gerald set the saucer on the hood of a nearby silver convertible with a sharp clink.

“Where did you say you parked, Miss?” Gerald asked, his voice suddenly gravelly and cautious.

Ariana pointed a finger toward the front glass.

Parked in the loading zone was an unwashed, ten-year-old silver Honda Civic with a cracked side mirror.

Marcus laughed aloud.

“See?” Marcus sneered, shaking his head. “A five-hundred-dollar beater parked directly in our VIP intake lane. She’s an absolute waste of showroom resources.”

Ariana reached into her pocket once more.

She pulled out a matte-black titanium card with no raised numbers, embossed with a single silver emblem: a geometric compass rose above three stylized lines.

She slid it across the glass desk, stopping it right beside the Arden’s window sticker.

Gerald’s breath caught in his throat.

His fingers hovered over the metal card as if it were wired to high-voltage electricity.

“Where... where did you get this?” Gerald whispered.

Ariana met his eyes with cold, clinical indifference.

“I asked your manager a question,” Ariana said quietly. “What is the price of this entire building?”

Marcus rolled his eyes, stepping between them. “Mr. Crestmont, don't entertain this lunacy. It’s a novelty prop from the internet.”

Gerald’s arm lashed out, shoving Marcus backward with enough force to stagger the younger manager against the car's fender.