Chapter 2 - The Truth Behind The Promotion
As the taillights of Adrian’s Mercedes vanished around the corner, Earl Simmons stepped out of the back office carrying two steaming Styrofoam cups of black coffee. The old mechanic leaned against the frame of a classic Mustang, his bushy gray eyebrows furrowed in disgust. He had known Ryan since the boy was sixteen years old, long before Ryan’s family built Mercer Automotive Group into an empire spanning six states and worth billions.
"You gonna tell me I shouldn't say I told you so?" Earl asked, offering a cup.
Ryan took the coffee, feeling the heat seep into his chilled fingers. "You told me so, Earl."
"You spent five years playing blue-collar grease monkey because you wanted a woman who loved Ryan the man, not Mercer the billionaire heir," Earl scoffed gently. "Well, kid, you got your test results back. She looked at a clean suit and a fancy lease car and threw three years of loyalty straight into the dumpster."
Ryan gazed at the locked drawer. "Adrian claimed he influenced the board."
"Did he?"
"No," Ryan said flatly. "I hold fifty-two percent of the voting shares. My family trust controls the rest. Margaret Hale answers directly to me and no one else. Adrian Cole is a regional operations director who hasn't submitted an original quarterly report in eighteen months. He didn’t influence anything. In fact, Margaret flagged his division last month for suspicious supplier kickbacks."
"So what are you going to do?" Earl pressed. "Hide behind this toolbox while that slick fraud parades your girl around the company gala?"
Ryan turned, his gaze drifting over the worn red toolboxes, the oil-stained concrete, and the quiet sanctuary where he had found peace after his younger brother's tragic death. For years, the garage had been his refuge from boardrooms filled with backstabbing executives and synthetic smiles. But running away was over. If Claire believed the corporate world was defined by men like Adrian, she was about to learn a brutal lesson about who truly held the reins.
"Call Frank," Ryan murmured.
May you like
Earl’s eyes widened, a slow, wolfish grin spreading across his face. "Frank? Your father's old tailor in Chicago?"
"Tell him I need my charcoal three-piece suit pressed and delivered to the downtown penthouse by tomorrow afternoon," Ryan said, his voice shedding every trace of the easygoing mechanic. "And call Margaret. Tell her the Chairman will be attending the annual executive gala in person."
