Chapter 3

Liam' s threat hung in the thick, humid air. He was looking at me, but he was seeing the scratch on his world of privilege, and he was furious. I, on the other hand, saw a clear path forward. The more he escalated, the easier this would be.

"I understand you're upset about your car part," I said, my tone deliberately calm and reasonable. It seemed to make him even angrier. "But the fact remains, your assistant caused the collision. She was driving recklessly."

Tiff, emboldened by Liam's rage, stepped forward again. "That's a lie! You pulled out right in front of me! I have witnesses!"

She gestured vaguely at the crowd, but no one seemed eager to back her up. They were more interested in the spectacle.

"Let's not get bogged down in the details," Liam said, his voice slick with menace. "Let's talk numbers. Tiff was being too generous. The custom splitter, the new paint job, the labor at a certified Ferrari dealership... we' re looking at close to two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Minimum."

A gasp went through the crowd. A quarter of a million dollars for a dent and a cracked piece of plastic. It was an absurd, punitive figure designed to crush me.

Tiff smirked. "That's right. And that doesn't even include compensation for my trauma. Let's call it an even three hundred thousand."

They stood there, a united front of wealth and entitlement, looking at me expectantly. They thought they had me trapped. They expected me to break down, to beg, to plead.

I did something else.

"Okay," I said.

The word was quiet, but it landed with the force of a physical blow. Liam and Tiff both stared at me, their smug expressions faltering.

"What did you say?" Liam asked, clearly confused.

"I said okay," I repeated, a little louder this time. "Three hundred thousand dollars. I'll pay it."

A wave of confused murmurs rippled through the onlookers.

"Is she crazy?"

"Where is she going to get that kind of money?"

"She must be bluffing."

Tiff recovered first, a greedy light shining in her eyes. "You heard her! She agreed to it! Everyone is a witness!"

Liam was still suspicious, his eyes narrowed as he studied my face. "You're agreeing to pay three hundred thousand dollars, just like that?"

"Just like that," I confirmed. I then paused, letting the silence stretch. "However," I added, "that just settles my debt to you. We still haven't discussed your debt to me."

I gestured to my own car, the Red Flag H-1, with its scraped fender and a noticeable dent above the wheel well.

"You still have to pay for the damages to my vehicle."

Liam followed my gaze and then burst out laughing. It was a loud, ugly sound, full of mockery.

"You want me to pay for the damage to that?" he scoffed, waving a dismissive hand at my car. "A ten-dollar can of spray paint would probably increase its value. I'll do you a favor and not charge you a disposal fee for having that hunk of junk towed to a scrap yard."

Tiff joined in, her laughter just as grating. "Seriously! What even is that thing? A government surplus auction special? Does it even run on gasoline, or do you have to pedal it like the Flintstones?"

The crowd chuckled along with them. I was the punchline to their joke. The poor woman in the ugly car trying to get money from the rich, handsome CEO.

I waited for their laughter to die down. My expression remained neutral, but inside, the plan was solidifying. Every insult, every act of condescension, was just another nail in their own coffin.

"It might not look like much to you," I said, my voice even. "But looks can be deceiving. This car is special."

"Oh, is it?" Liam said, wiping a tear of mirth from his eye. "How special? Did your grandpa build it in his garage?"

"Not exactly," I replied. I walked over to the driver-side door and ran a hand along the frame. "For one thing, it has a serial number. A government-issued serial number, etched right here into the chassis."

I pointed to a small, discreet plate near the door hinge.

"And you see this emblem?" I tapped the small, almost unnoticeable red flag symbol on the grille. It was no bigger than a quarter. "In my line of work, that little red flag means something. It means this vehicle is a protected government asset."

I looked directly at Liam, then at Tiff. Their smiles had vanished. A seed of doubt had been planted. They didn't understand what I was saying, not yet, but the certainty in my voice, the mention of the government, had finally pierced their bubble of arrogance.

"You see," I continued, my voice dropping slightly, becoming more serious. "The question isn't whether I can afford to pay you three hundred thousand dollars. The question is, can you afford to pay for the damage you did to this car?"