Chapter 2 - The Ignition Click
The next morning broke over the city in pale shades of cold gray.
By 6:30 AM, I was already sitting at the kitchen island, sipping black coffee in a sharp charcoal blazer. I looked immaculate, calm, and utterly unbothered.
At 7:15 AM, Nathaniel stepped out of the bedroom wearing a three-thousand-dollar tailored navy suit. He had spent twenty minutes styling his hair, aiming to project the image of a titan ready to take over the world. He looked at me sitting there, holding his head high with supreme disdain.
"I’m leaving," Nathaniel said coldly, buttoning his coat. "My attorney will contact you by noon regarding the divorce papers. Cordelia’s legal team is drafting a property settlement. Don't make this ugly, Teresa. You won't win against her money."
"I have no intention of making a scene, Nathaniel," I replied smoothly, taking a slow sip of coffee. "Have a productive day."
He sneered, disappointed that he hadn't provoked a reaction, and strode out toward the attached three-car garage.
Through the kitchen window, I watched him open the door of his prize possession: a silver Porsche 911 Turbo he had bought six months ago with a suspect "consulting bonus" from Marsh Development.
Nathaniel slid into the leather driver’s seat, adjusted his rearview mirror with a confident smirk, and pushed the ignition button.
Click.
Nothing.
He frowned, pressed his foot harder against the brake, and pushed the start button again.
Click-click.
The engine didn't even turn over. The dashboard lights didn't flicker. The entire electrical system was stone cold dead.
Nathaniel let out an angry curse, hitting the steering wheel with the palm of his hand. He tried three more times, his frustration boiling over, before popping the hood and stepping out into the garage.
He knew nothing about high-performance mechanics. He stared at the twin-turbo engine block like an ape staring at a computer terminal.
What he didn't know was that at 4:00 AM, while he was snoring off his bourbon, I had stepped into the garage with a non-conductive mechanical bypass key and remotely wiped the vehicle’s ECU immobilizer chip via the OBD-II diagnostic port. The car wasn't broken; its onboard computer simply no longer recognized his key fob as valid.
"Problem, Nathaniel?" I asked, stepping through the garage door holding my leather briefcase.
"The damn car won't start!" he snapped, wiping sweat from his forehead. "I have a mandatory 8:00 AM board meeting with Cordelia and her primary investors! I can't be late!"
"That is unfortunate," I said mildly, pressing the button on my own key fob.
Beside his dead Porsche, the engine of my sleek black Audi sedan purred to life with a quiet, powerful hum.
Nathaniel looked at my running car, then at his wrist watch. Panic was beginning to chip away at his pristine composure.
"Teresa," he said, adjusting his tone, trying to sound authoritative. "Give me your keys. I need your car."
"No," I said, walking around to my driver's side door.
"What do you mean, no?!" he bellowed, stepping into my path. "I am your husband! I have an eighty-million-dollar deal executing in forty-five minutes!"
"You were my husband until 12:47 AM," I corrected him, opening my door. "And as you so eloquently informed me last night, I am just a civil servant buried in paperwork. I wouldn't want my humble vehicle to embarrass a man who actually matters."
"Teresa, don't do this!" he pleaded, his face turning red. "Call an Uber for me then! My phone’s battery is at four percent because I forgot to plug it in!"
May you like
I looked at him with icy satisfaction. "Uber takes fifteen minutes in this neighborhood. You better start walking to the main avenue."
I slid into the Audi, threw the car in reverse, and backed out of the driveway, leaving Nathaniel standing in his three-thousand-dollar suit under the drizzle, screaming obscenities into the morning air.
