The silence in the showroom was so heavy it could have shattered the crystal chandeliers overhead. The manager’s desperate, trembling bow froze him in place. Tiffany’s arrogant sneer instantly dissolved into an ashen, breathless stare, her designer red dress suddenly looking less like a power outfit and more like a massive target.
Mrs. Hayes didn’t even break her stride. She paused only at the towering glass doors, the Miami sun catching the understated white watch on her wrist—a custom timepiece worth more than the entire floor’s inventory.
“Mr. Vance,” Mrs. Hayes said, addressing the sweating manager without looking at him. “The lockdown is permanent. Liquidate this branch by midnight.”
Tiffany finally found her voice, a pathetic, trembling squeak. “You… you can’t! That Ferrari is reserved for my top client! I earned that commission!”
Mrs. Hayes slowly pivoted, her expression terrifyingly serene. “Your client? You mean the offshore shell company you’ve been using to launder inventory?”
Tiffany’s jaw dropped. Her knees practically buckled against the marble floor.
“That red Ferrari wasn’t waiting for a VIP,” Mrs. Hayes continued, her voice slicing through the dead-silent room like a scalpel. “You flagged it in the system as ‘damaged in transit’ so you could buy it yourself at a seventy percent markdown. Did you really think I wouldn’t notice a two-million-dollar bleed in my own ledger?”
The manager stumbled backward, looking at Tiffany in absolute horror.
Suddenly, flashing red and blue lights reflected off the showroom’s massive floor-to-ceiling windows, casting a harsh strobe over Tiffany’s terrified face. Sirens wailed outside.
“I didn’t just lock the inventory accounts,” Mrs. Hayes purred, adjusting her simple handbag. “I locked the exits.”
She flashed a razor-sharp smile. “Don’t touch my cars again, Tiffany. You’re going to prison.”