Indignation flared in Eleanor’s chest. She marched over, her posture rigid. "Excuse me!" she barked, her voice echoing in the concrete structure. "What exactly do you think you're doing?"
The man looked up, his expression calm and slightly amused. "I'm checking an email," he replied smoothly, his voice deep and measured. "Is there a problem?"
"The problem is that you are trespassing," Eleanor sneered, looking him up and down with obvious disdain. "And you are leaning on a vehicle that clearly doesn't belong to you. I know everyone in this building. Are you a lost delivery boy? Or are you casing the garage?"
The man chuckled softly, putting his phone in his pocket. "I can assure you, ma'am, I am not lost. And I'm exactly where I need to be."
"Step away from the Ferrari immediately," she demanded, her voice rising. "I don't know how you got past security, but I am not going to stand here while some street thug tries to hotwire a guest's car."
Marcus Vance—though Eleanor did not yet know his name—shook his head. "Ma'am, with all due respect, you're making a massive assumption. This is my car."
Eleanor let out a sharp, mocking laugh. "Your car? Please. Do you expect me to believe that a man dressed like a teenager on a skateboard owns a half-million-dollar supercar? I am calling the police. Don't move."
She pulled out her phone and dialed 911, keeping her eyes fixed on him as if he might bolt. "Yes, hello? I am at the Sterling Tower executive garage. There is a suspicious individual here who is attempting to steal a Ferrari. Yes, he's aggressive. Send officers immediately."