Chapter 2 - DON’T TOUCH THE PORSCHEI did not move.
Neither did Marcus.
The difference was that I was calm.
He was waiting for obedience.
“I need the vehicle identification number,” I said.
“You need to leave the display.”
“I represent the registered owner.”
Marcus smiled.
Not because he believed me.
Because he thought the statement was entertaining.
“You represent the owner?”
“Yes.”
“Which owner?”
“The Vale Automotive Trust.”
His smile weakened for half a second.
Then returned.
“Do you have any idea what that is?”
“I do.”
“The Vale Collection is one of the largest privately managed supercar collections in the country.”
“I know.”
“You expect me to believe they sent a teenager with a backpack?”
“I’m eighteen.”
“That makes the story more convincing.”
A few guests laughed.
I looked toward the nearest security camera.
It faced the platform directly.
Good.
The interaction was being recorded.
“I’m asking you once more,” I said. “Please let me inspect the identification plate.”
Marcus’s expression hardened.
“You don’t ask for access here.”
“I just did.”
He stepped closer.
His expensive cologne could not hide the smell of champagne on his breath.
“Walk away before I have security remove you.”
“I would prefer security to join us.”
That answer surprised him.
People who misuse authority often depend on the other person fearing witnesses.
I wanted them.
Marcus lifted one hand and pressed it against my shoulder.
I remained still.
“Do not touch me.”
He increased the pressure.
“Move.”
“I said don’t touch me.”
Several phones appeared among the guests.
Marcus noticed.
Instead of releasing me, he made a worse choice.
He pushed.
My heel caught the edge of the display platform.
I fell backward onto the marble.
The backpack struck the floor first.
Then my elbow.
Pain moved through my arm.
The room became silent.
Marcus looked down at me.
For a brief moment, uncertainty crossed his face.
Then he pointed.
“You lunged toward the vehicle.”
“No,” a woman nearby said.
Everyone turned.
She wore a white evening gown and held a phone in front of her.
“He was standing still.”
A second guest nodded.
“You pushed him.”
Marcus glanced around.
“They didn’t see the beginning.”
I sat up slowly.
My elbow hurt, but it moved normally.
I checked the backpack.
The documents inside were protected by a rigid case.
My phone was undamaged.
I stood without accepting Marcus’s hand.
He had offered it only after realizing people were recording.
“Call security,” I said.
He folded his arms.
“You should leave while you still can.”
“I’m not leaving.”
“Then I’ll have you arrested.”
“For being pushed?”
“For attempting to interfere with a multimillion-dollar asset.”
I opened the camera application on my phone and photographed the Porsche’s display sign.
Then I photographed Marcus’s badge.
His face reddened.
“You cannot photograph employees without permission.”
“We’re in a monitored public event.”
I pointed toward the ceiling camera.
“Preserve that recording.”
Marcus laughed.
“You don’t issue instructions to this venue.”
“No.”
May you like
I dusted off my jeans.
“But the vehicle owner does.”
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