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

Marcus’s head snapped toward Gerald.

“Defaulted?” Marcus gasped under his breath. “Mr. Crestmont, you told the executive committee our reserve balances were fully funded!”

Gerald didn't answer. Sweat was beading across his forehead, dripping onto his crisp collar.

“How much is the outstanding balloon balance on their floorplan financing, Nathan?” Ariana asked into the phone.

“The inventory line is underwritten by our regional private bank,” Nathan answered without hesitation. “Nineteen million, four hundred thousand dollars across thirty-two chassis. Due on the fifteenth of this month.”

Ariana looked directly at Marcus.

“That’s sixteen point four million on the showroom floor,” she said calmly. “And three million sitting in the detailing bay out back.”

Marcus took two steps backward, his hands trembling as he reached for the edge of the glass partition to keep his balance.

“You... you own our floorplan lender?” Marcus whispered.

“I don't just own your lender, Mr. Hale,” Ariana replied, sliding her phone into her sweatshirt pocket. “I own the dirt beneath your polished shoes.”

Gerald stepped forward, his hands clasped together in desperate supplication.

“Miss Blake, I beg of you. If you call in the floorplan note, our lines of credit freeze across all three regional dealerships. The banks will seize our dealer license by five o'clock today.”

“Then you should have trained your general manager to recognize that money doesn’t always wear a tailored suit,” Ariana said, her tone ice-cold.

She turned to Daniel.

“What is your base salary here, Daniel?”

Daniel straightened his back. “Forty-five thousand base, ma'am. Plus commission.”

“As of ten minutes ago, you’re the interim general manager of this facility,” Ariana stated. “Your base is two hundred and fifty thousand, effective immediately.”

Daniel’s jaw dropped.

Marcus let out a ragged, strangled cry of pure outrage.

“You can’t do that!” Marcus shouted, pointing an accusatory finger at Ariana. “I have an employment contract with Crestmont Motors! I have twenty percent profit participation! No customer walks in off the street and replaces executive staff!”

“You don’t have an employment contract with Crestmont Motors anymore, Marcus,” Gerald whispered, his voice completely defeated.

He turned to his manager with burning, desperate fury.

“You’re fired, Marcus. Clean out your desk. Right now.”

Marcus froze, his eyes bulging. “Mr. Crestmont! You can't fire me over some arrogant billionaire playing dress-up!”

“Get out of my showroom before I have the police remove you for trespassing!” Gerald roared, his hands slamming down onto the nearest desk.

Marcus stood paralyzed in the center of the showroom, surrounded by twenty-eight luxury vehicles he had claimed as his empire, watched by an elderly couple who were now smiling openly at his ruin.

He looked at Ariana, his face contorted in an ugly mixture of venom and humiliated despair.

“You planned this,” Marcus hissed between his teeth. “You wore those rags on purpose. You came here to destroy my career.”

Ariana didn't flinch.

“I came here to buy an Arden V12,” Ariana said quietly. “You destroyed your career all by yourself.”

Before Marcus could take another step toward the exit, the heavy glass doors swung open again.

Two uniformed officers from the Scottsdale Police Department stepped through, their radios crackling on their shoulders.