He did not know that Elliot Foster had pulled out of his office garage in a black Rolls-Royce Cullinan. He did not know Elliot had already called his attorney, his head of human resources, and the dealership's security contractor. He did not know his knuckles were white around the steering wheel, or that his jaw had tightened in the exact way it did in boardrooms right before someone's world collapsed.
Derek knew none of this. All he knew was that Tuesday was going perfectly. Problem handled. Staff entertained. Second espresso on the way.
He crossed his ankles at the glass desk, lifted a porcelain cup stamped with the dealership's gold crest, and took a long, satisfied sip.
Eight minutes away, a black Rolls-Royce was cutting through midday traffic like a blade through silk. The man behind the wheel was not coming to buy a car.
The black Rolls-Royce Cullinan pulled into the lot at 1:23 p.m. and stopped directly in front of the showroom entrance. The engine remained running, hazard lights pulsing.
Every head near the windows turned.
Elliot Foster stepped out. He wore a black suit without a tie, the top button of his shirt open. He moved fast, not frantically but deliberately, with the stride of a man who already knew exactly what he was about to do.
He did not lock the car. He did not glance at the building. He walked straight to the Chevy.
Theodore was still on the tailgate. He saw his son and started to rise.
"Elliot, listen. You don't have to..."
Elliot wrapped his arms around his father right there in the open lot, in full view of the glass walls and everyone behind them. He held on for a long time.
Theodore's hand came up slowly and rested on the back of Elliot's head, the way it had when the boy was small enough to carry.
"I'm okay," Theodore whispered.
"You're bleeding."
Elliot pulled back and looked at Theodore's wrist, his scraped knuckles, and the swollen knee straining against the faded khaki. Something in Elliot's jaw tightened until the muscle twitched.
"It's nothing, son. Let's just go home."
"We're not going home, Dad."
Elliot turned toward the showroom.
"We're going inside."
The glass doors slid open. Elliot entered first. Theodore followed one step behind, still favoring his right leg.
Derek had been watching the Rolls-Royce through the window since it parked. He was already on his feet, already tugging his tie straight, already activating the smile he reserved for six-figure conversations.
He crossed the showroom with his hand extended and his voice warm and eager.
"Mr. Foster, what a wonderful surprise. Welcome back, sir. How can I..."
"Where is he?"
The smile cracked.
"I'm sorry?"