“I know.”
“Do not threaten litigation in the showroom.”
“I know.”
“You say that now.”
Darius smiled faintly.
“I want records preserved.”
“Good.”
“I want to know whether this is one decision or a pattern.”
“Also good.”
“And Rachel?”
“Yes?”
“Make sure nobody contacts Julian.”
“Why?”
“He may be completely innocent.”
Rachel paused.
“You’re learning patience.”
“Do not make me regret calling.”
She laughed.
“I’ll draft preservation language and hold it.”
The dealership was twenty-six minutes away.
Darius spent most of the drive looking out the window.
Caleb’s Lamborghini mattered to him.
Not because of the money.
Not even primarily because it was a gift.
It represented something he had wanted to celebrate.
His son had grown up surrounded by wealth and somehow retained enough skepticism toward it that an exotic car embarrassed him.
Darius respected that.
But the vehicle itself had already become secondary.
What bothered him was how little friction the decision appeared to require.
Grant Mercer had not called WFG Holdings.
Had not asked whether the buyer wanted to release the allocation.
Had not initiated a formal cancellation.
He simply clicked MANAGER HOLD.
That suggested comfort.
People were clumsy when violating principles for the first time.
They hesitated.
They overdocumented.
They asked for advice.
Comfort came from repetition.
Darius wanted to know what Grant had practiced.
At 11:39, the black sedan carrying Darius turned into the dealership.
Caleb saw it through the glass.
So did Julian.
Julian’s face changed before anyone else understood why.
He had been standing near the Urus with Peter Lang while pretending not to listen to Caleb’s continued conversation with Grant.
Peter was explaining optional wheel protection.
Julian stopped hearing him.
Darius Whitmore entered through the main doors.
No entourage.
No visible security detail.
Dark charcoal suit.
White shirt.
No tie because he had removed it in the car.
Julian had sat across from him at board meetings for six years.
He had watched Darius question a $400 million capital plan without once raising his voice.
He had watched him remove one divisional president after discovering manipulated safety data.
He had heard Darius say more than once:
“A contract is your behavior written before the pressure arrives.”
Julian looked at the Lamborghini.
Then at Grant.
Then back at Darius.
“Oh, hell.”
Peter smiled nervously.
“You know him?”
Julian stepped away from the car.
“Yes.”
“Friend?”
“No.”
Julian buttoned his jacket.
“He chairs my board.”
Grant noticed the movement.
He turned.
His eyes landed on Darius.
Nothing.
No recognition.
Then he saw Julian.
The confident prospective buyer had moved almost six feet away from the Lamborghini.
Grant frowned.
“Mr. Cross?”
Julian did not answer.
Darius walked directly to Caleb.
“You all right?”
“I’m fine.”
“Anyone touch you?”
Caleb gave him a look.
“Dad.”
“I’m asking.”
“No.”
“Good.”
Maya approached.
“Mr. Whitmore?”
“Darius is fine.”
“I’m Maya Brooks.”
“I know.”
“You handled the delivery.”
“Yes.”