“That’s not how this works.”
“Then we won’t be buying the car.”
Emily looked disappointed, but she did not protest.
Frank stood.
Trent seemed genuinely surprised.
“Wait,” he said. “You’re walking over eight hundred dollars?”
“I’m walking over a price that changed after we showed interest.”
“It’s eight hundred dollars.”
“It could be eight dollars.”
Frank picked up Emily’s tote from the floor and handed it to her.
“The amount isn’t the issue.”
Trent’s frustration sharpened. “You’ve taken almost an hour of my time.”
Frank looked at him.
“Marcus spent time with us first.”
“Marcus doesn’t close deals.”
“Maybe because people keep sending him to refill coffee.”
A flush rose beneath Trent’s collar.
Emily stepped away from the desk.
They had taken only two steps when a woman’s voice called across the showroom.
“Frank?”
The sound stopped him immediately.
He turned.
A woman in a navy suit stood near the showroom entrance holding a leather portfolio against one hip. She was in her early fifties, silver beginning to show at her temples, posture straight and confident. Her name was Diane Mercer, general manager of Ashford Motors West.
Frank knew her well enough to recognize the surprise on her face before the professional composure returned.
“Diane,” he said. “Good to see you, too.”
She crossed the showroom quickly.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, smiling. “I didn’t know you were coming in.”
“Personal errand.” Frank placed a hand lightly on Emily’s shoulder. “This is my granddaughter, Emily.”
Diane’s expression brightened. “Emily. I’ve heard about you for years.”
Emily looked at Frank. “You have?”
“Your grandfather talks about you at every foundation meeting.”
Trent had gone completely still behind them.
Diane turned toward him.
“Were you helping Mr. Dalton?”
The color left Trent’s face.
“Mr. Dalton?” he repeated.
A sales manager at the tower looked up sharply.
Diane nodded, unaware for the moment that anything unusual had happened.
“Yes. Frank Dalton.”
Trent’s eyes moved from Diane to Frank and back again.
“Dalton,” he said faintly. “As in the foundation?”
Diane’s smile began to fade as she sensed something wrong.
“Mr. Dalton is one of our company’s senior investors, Trent,” she said. “And founder of the Dalton Veterans Foundation.”
The showroom seemed to quiet around them.
Frank had never liked rooms doing that.
He could feel employees suddenly becoming aware of where he stood. The receptionist straightened. The sales manager behind the glass rose from his chair. Someone near the coffee station stopped mid-sentence.
Marcus, returning from the service lounge with the empty tray, paused several yards away.
Emily looked at her grandfather, then at Trent.
Trent’s mouth opened, but no sound came out at first.
Frank felt no satisfaction.
That was the part people rarely understood about these moments. Recognition did not erase what had happened. It only changed who was embarrassed by it.
“Diane,” Frank said calmly, “we were shopping for Emily’s first car.”