Chapter 2 - The Woman the Industry Buried
Christian did not make his breakfast meeting.
For a man who had threatened civilization over arriving late, he accepted that with surprising calm.
At 3:40 a.m., he sat in the same diner booth with Clarina, Greg, and a lawyer he had woken by phone.
Albert kept pretending to clean.
Nobody believed him.
Christian’s attorney introduced herself as Naomi Price.
She was small, silver-haired, and had the exhausted eyes of someone paid to prevent wealthy men from becoming lawsuits.
She looked at Clarina.
“Mr. Adler tells me he made a verbal public offer of two million dollars.”
“He did.”
“Witnesses?”
Clarina looked around.
Three truckers raised their hands.
Naomi closed her eyes.
“Of course.”
Christian said, “Pay her.”
Naomi ignored him.
“Ms. Wells, you requested payment split between a medical account and escrow.”
“Yes.”
“No employment condition?”
“No.”
“No publicity release?”
“No.”
“No confidentiality?”
“No.”
Naomi looked at Christian.
“You heard her.”
“I have excellent hearing.”
“Not when people tell you not to throw sugar dispensers.”
Albert quietly swept harder.
The documents were prepared before dawn.
Christian signed.
So did Clarina.
By 5:05 a.m., the hospital account had a confirmed incoming transfer.
Clarina stared at the email until the letters blurred.
Toby’s experimental treatment had been a number she carried in her chest every waking hour.
Now part of it was covered.
Her first instinct was relief.
Her second was fear.
Money that arrived too quickly never felt safe.
Christian noticed.
“It’s real.”
“I know.”
“You look like you expect it to vanish.”
“Things do.”
His expression shifted.
“You want coffee?”
“I work in a diner.”
“That wasn’t an answer.”
“No.”
He sat across from her.
The black Valkyrie waited outside with its engine off again.
Clarina had told him not to drive it.
He listened.
Another surprise.
“You said Templeton buried you,” Christian said.
“He didn’t do it alone.”
“Tell me.”
“No.”
His jaw tightened.
“I’m about to vote on whether he runs a company I partially own.”
“Then do your own diligence.”
“I am.”
“You’re interrogating a waitress at five in the morning.”
“I’m interrogating the woman who diagnosed my car by sound and identified a component that supposedly doesn’t exist.”
Clarina looked away.
He lowered his voice.
“I can find your history in six minutes.”
“Then why ask?”
“Because records tell me what institutions decided. I’m asking what happened.”
That answer irritated her because it was good.
She gave him the short version.
Cosworth project.
Thermal warnings.
Riker’s deadline pressure.
Prototype fire in Spain.
Altered logs.
Emails stripped of context.
Termination.
Lawsuit.
Industry blacklist.
Christian listened without interrupting.
When she finished, he asked, “Did anyone get hurt in the fire?”
“A test driver burned his arm getting out.”
“Name?”
“Luis Mendoza.”
“Where is he?”
“No idea.”
“Did he testify?”
“Internal review. Closed.”
“Settlement?”
“I was told yes.”
Christian looked at Greg.
Greg was already typing.
Clarina’s anger flared.
“Stop.”
Greg froze.
Christian frowned.
“What?”
“Don’t investigate Luis because I said his name.”
“You just told me—”
“I told you what happened to me. That is not permission to drag a man into your war.”
Christian stared.
Then nodded once.
“Greg, stop.”
Greg closed the tablet.
Clarina hated how much that mattered.
At six, Albert told her to go home.
Not kindly.
“You caused enough excitement.”
Clarina removed her apron.
“I’m scheduled until seven.”
“You’re done.”
She looked at him.
“Am I fired?”
He hesitated.
Christian looked up.
Albert saw him.
“No.”
Clarina stepped closer to Albert.
“Then say what you mean without checking the billionaire’s face.”
Albert’s jaw tightened.
“Go home. Paid.”
“Fine.”
She collected her bag.
Christian stood.
“I’ll drive you.”
“No.”
“It’s raining.”
“I noticed.”
“You’re carrying two million dollars in legal obligations and walking toward a bus stop.”
“The money is in escrow.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Yes.”
She put on her coat.
“No.”
He looked almost offended.
Greg whispered, “She says no a lot.”
Clarina glanced at him.
“Practice noticing.”
Outside, the rain had softened.
Christian followed her only as far as the awning.
“Ms. Wells.”
She turned.
“Tomorrow’s board vote.”
“What about it?”
“If Templeton becomes CEO, he’ll control records tied to your case.”
“My case ended five years ago.”
“Maybe yours did.”
She stared.
He held up the torn silver label in a plastic evidence sleeve Naomi had provided.
“This appeared inside a car sold as new seven months ago.”
Clarina’s skin prickled.
“Someone reused rejected hardware.”
“Or moved old inventory.”
“Either way, illegal if certification documents say otherwise.”
Christian nodded.
“So I’m postponing the vote.”
She laughed without humor.
“Because a waitress told you to?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“Because a former powertrain engineer showed me a physical anomaly I can verify.”
That distinction mattered.
She hated that too.
At home, Clarina found Toby awake on the couch.
Seventeen now.
Too thin.
A knitted cap covering hair lost from treatment.
He smiled.
“You smell like rain and gasoline.”
“You’re supposed to be asleep.”
“You’re supposed to be poor.”
She froze.
“What?”
He held up his phone.
A video.
Some trucker had posted Clarina blindfolded beside the Valkyrie.
Title:
WAITRESS FIXES BILLIONAIRE’S $3.5M CAR BLINDFOLDED — WINS $2 MILLION.
Views: 187,000.
And climbing.
Clarina sat down.
“Oh no.”
Toby grinned.
“You’re famous.”
“I’m unemployed by sunrise.”
“You’re already a waitress.”
“Thank you.”
He laughed.
Then coughed.
The sound cut through her.
Clarina sat beside him.
“I sent money to Hopkins.”
His smile faded.
“How?”
“The stupid car.”
“You took it?”
“I earned it.”
He studied her face.
“Is this from the old stuff?”
“Yes.”
Toby leaned back.
“Then maybe that’s good.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because people who buried you once don’t enjoy finding out you’re still alive.”
Her phone rang.
Unknown number.
She almost ignored it.
Then answered.
“Hello?”
Silence.
Then a man’s voice.
Older.
Spanish accent.
“Clarina Wells?”
Her stomach tightened.
“Yes?”
“My name is Luis Mendoza.”
She stopped breathing.
The prototype driver.
“I saw the video.”
Clarina stood.
Toby watched.
Luis continued.
“They lied to you about my settlement.”
“What do you mean?”
“I never blamed you.”
Her hand shook.
“Luis—”
“I tried to tell the investigation who changed the actuator.”
Clarina closed her eyes.
“Who?”
Luis exhaled.
“Riker Templeton was in the garage the night before the fire.”
A pause.
“And he wasn’t alone.”
“Who was with him?”
“The man who owns the company now.”
Clarina’s blood turned cold.
“Christian Adler?”
“No.”
Luis’s voice dropped.
May you like
“Adler’s partner.”
“Gregory Hutton.”
