Imported marble columns framed the entrance, hedges were trimmed to geometric perfection, and a wide gravel driveway crunched beneath the tires of the rarest cars money could buy.
In the center of that luxury stood a gleaming silver Rolls-Royce Phantom, its hood raised like a wounded animal. Steam drifted from the engine, and the tension in the air was thicker than the heat.
Daniel Bennett, a billionaire investor famous for both his wealth and his temper, stood before the car, face flushed with rage. His custom-tailored suit remained flawless, but his composure had vanished. Two bodyguards in black suits hovered nearby, wary of becoming targets of his anger.
“This is ridiculous!” Bennett barked. “I pay a fortune for maintenance and this car dies right before my meeting with the German investors? Call the service team—now!”
One guard checked his phone nervously. “Sir, they say it’ll be at least two hours. There’s a pileup on the interstate.”
Bennett swore under his breath. Missing the meeting could cost him millions.