At that moment, a skinny figure approached from the edge of the property. It was Ethan, the fourteen-year-old son of the estate’s groundskeeper. His oversized gray coveralls were stained with oil and grass, and his boots had seen better days. His hands, though young, were rough from work.
He’d been trimming shrubs near the entrance when he heard the engine cut out. The sound had caught his attention—not a catastrophic failure, but something else. He walked closer, curiosity outweighing caution.
When Bennett noticed him near the Phantom, he reacted sharply.
“Hey! Stay away from that car!” he snapped. “Don’t you dare touch it with those filthy clothes.”
Ethan stopped but didn’t shrink back. He glanced at the open engine, then at Bennett.
“I just wanted to help, sir,” he said calmly. “It’s not broken. It’s just… getting the wrong air.”
The words hung in the air. Then Bennett laughed—a harsh, mocking sound.
“Getting the wrong air?” he repeated. “So now the gardener’s kid is an expert on a half-million-dollar machine?”
The bodyguards laughed too, relieved the anger wasn’t aimed at them.