"Who let this Black kid in here?"
Harland didn't look up. Craig pushed his chair back. The garage reeked of money and failure: six months, two million dollars, a dead Porsche.Preston stood in the doorway—fifteen years old, worn-out sneakers on a floor worth more than his home."I can help."Harland stepped closer. "A two-million-dollar car, kid. Not your mother's kitchen. One scratch and she'll never pay it off.""Not on a maid's salary," Craig smirked. "She scrubs toilets upstairs. Maybe the kid's here to mop."Laughter bounced off steel. Lorraine gripped his arm. "Preston, please. Let's go."The boy didn't move. "I know what's wrong with the Porsche, sir."Harland's smile vanished. "You don't even know what a Porsche is."But what no one in that garage understood—not the mechanics, not the billionaire in the corner—was that this fifteen-year-old had spotted the answer.