Arthur pocketed his phone and smiled warmly at Marcus. "No need for a reception, Marcus. I prefer to see how a business runs when the bosses aren't looking. It tells you exactly what kind of culture you're buying."
Arthur finally turned his gaze back to Julian, whose mouth was opening and closing like a landed fish.
"It seems you have a very efficient gatekeeper," Arthur noted, his voice smooth and devoid of malice, which somehow made it worse. "He was just explaining to me that I belong at a used hatchback lot."
Marcus wheeled around, glaring at Julian with a fury that could melt steel. "Julian. My office. Now. Pack your desk."
"Sir, I—I thought he was a vagrant," Julian stammered, his bespoke suit suddenly feeling two sizes too small. "I was protecting the merchandise!"
"A true salesman sells the dream to anyone who walks through the door, son," Arthur said gently, patting the hood of the Aston Martin. "Because you never know who is holding the keys."
Julian turned and walked toward the back offices, his footsteps echoing hollowly against the immaculate marble, leaving the showroom to the man who owned it all.
The polished marble floors of Apex Luxury Automotive gleamed under the recessed halogen lights, reflecting the sleek, aerodynamic curves of the world’s most expensive vehicles. Julian, the showroom’s top salesman, adjusted his bespoke silk tie and scanned the floor. He prided himself on his ability to size up a wallet from fifty paces. A Rolex Daytona meant a quick sale; scuffed loafers meant a waste of time.
When an elderly man shuffled through the double glass doors, Julian’s internal alarm bells rang. The man, who looked to be in his late seventies, wore a faded flannel shirt, threadbare corduroy trousers, and muddy work boots. He held a crumpled canvas cap in his calloused hands, gazing in quiet awe at a pristine, midnight-blue Aston Martin DBS.
Julian sighed, intercepting a junior salesman before the kid could waste his breath. "I'll handle the window shopper," Julian muttered.
He approached the old man with a practiced, icy smile. "Can I help you find the exit, sir? The public bus stop is two blocks down."
The old man blinked, his pale blue eyes mild. "I was just admiring the DBS. It’s a beautiful machine. What’s the torque on the V12?"
"More than you need to worry about," Julian replied, stepping between the man and the car. He made a show of inspecting the paint for imaginary smudges. "Look, we operate by appointment for serious clientele. We can't have people wandering in from the street to treat this like a museum. You're making the actual buyers uncomfortable."
The man glanced around the entirely empty showroom. "I see. I just wanted to get a feel for the floor."
"You've felt it. Now I'm going to have to ask you to leave before I call security," Julian said, his voice dropping to a menacing whisper. "Go look at used hatchbacks somewhere else."
"I understand," the old man said quietly. He didn't look angry, merely disappointed. He pulled a battered older-model smartphone from his pocket and dialed a number. "Marcus? Yes, I'm downstairs. Could you come out for a moment?"
Julian scoffed. "Calling your ride? Wait outside."
Less than thirty seconds later, the heavy oak door to the executive mezzanine burst open. Marcus Vance, the General Manager of the dealership, practically sprinted down the glass staircase. He was sweating, his face pale as he bypassed Julian entirely and extended both hands toward the old man in a desperate, trembling greeting.
"Mr. Sterling! I am so sorry, I didn't know you were arriving today," Marcus stammered, bowing slightly. "The acquisition paperwork only cleared this morning. We would have prepared a formal reception."
Julian’s smug expression dissolved into sheer, unadulterated horror. Mr. Sterling? As in Arthur Sterling, the reclusive billionaire whose private equity firm had just purchased the entire regional network of luxury dealerships?
Arthur pocketed his phone and smiled warmly at Marcus. "No need for a reception, Marcus. I prefer to see how a business runs when the bosses aren't looking. It tells you exactly what kind of culture you're buying."
Arthur finally turned his gaze back to Julian, whose mouth was opening and closing like a landed fish.
"It seems you have a very efficient gatekeeper," Arthur noted, his voice smooth and devoid of malice, which somehow made it worse. "He was just explaining to me that I belong at a used hatchback lot."
Marcus wheeled around, glaring at Julian with a fury that could melt steel. "Julian. My office. Now. Pack your desk."