Sterling Motor Gallery occupied a corner property with glass walls tall enough to make ordinary pedestrians see themselves reflected against machines they could probably never afford. There was a white stone entryway, a reception desk with a floating bronze sign, and a row of discreet offices behind frosted glass. A valet in a dark green vest approached Christina as she parked her compact SUV beneath the covered entrance. He offered to take her keys and looked mildly surprised when she asked where visitors who preferred to park themselves should go.
"Right around the side, ma'am. Visitor spaces are marked in white," he told her. "Take your time."
She thanked him and followed the signs to a space near the service drive. Her little SUV was older than most vehicles in the lot and had a sun-faded rear bumper, but the engine still ran beautifully because William insisted on having it serviced on schedule. Christina checked the printout in her envelope one final time, smoothed her cardigan, and crossed the lot with the measured stride of a woman who had spent years walking from one hospital laundry cart to another.
Inside, the air smelled faintly of leather, espresso, and the kind of floral arrangement that was replaced before a single petal could wilt. A receptionist named Lena Brooks looked up from a tablet and smiled. She was a young Black American woman with tight curls pinned away from her face and a name tag that said CLIENT EXPERIENCE. Christina asked about the Porsche in the photograph, and Lena seemed pleased to have a specific question she could answer.
"We have it in the central display area," Lena said. "Would you like to sit down while I find a sales consultant?"
"I'd rather look at it first, if that's allowed."
"Of course it is. That's what it's here for."
Before Lena could accompany her, a tall white American man in a gray suit crossed the room and spoke sharply without looking at Christina. "Lena, the prospective Bentley customer is arriving in five minutes. Why isn't the private lounge prepared?" She told him that it was and that she was just helping a visitor. He glanced at Christina's cardigan, shoes, and modest handbag, then returned his attention to the desk as if the rest of the conversation had answered a question he had never needed to ask aloud.
"Make sure the real appointments get priority," he said. "I don't want the floor tied up by sightseers on a Saturday."
Lena's polite expression did not change, but a muscle beside her mouth tightened. She watched him walk away, then lowered her voice to tell Christina where the blue Porsche stood. She did not say what she wanted to say, partly because she needed the job and partly because the visitor had arrived expecting kindness rather than a warning about the management structure.