Chapter 4Remote Killing My Stolen Porsche

Almost instantly, my phone began vibrating like an angry hornet.

Lauren. Three missed calls in ninety seconds.

On the fourth, I slid my thumb across the screen and put it to my ear.

Her voice ripped through the speaker, shrill enough to crack glass.

"Sean! Are you completely insane?!"

I said nothing.

"Kyle was in the middle of highway traffic! The car suddenly died on him—an eighteen-wheeler missed him by inches! Do you have a single drop of human decency left in your body?!"

"It is my vehicle," I replied, my voice disturbingly calm. "I have the legal right to secure my property. He operated it without my consent. In this state, that’s classified as unauthorized use of a motor vehicle. It’s a felony."

I could hear her hyperventilating on the other end, trembling with rage. "A felony? You’re threatening us with the penal code now? I am your fiancée! Kyle is my closest friend! Borrowing your car for four hours to make an impression—does that justify trying to kill him? Let me tell you something, Sean, if anything happens to Kyle today, you and I are finished!"

I let out a soft, humorless sound.

"He’s fine. Factory safety overrides throttle power progressively; it doesn't slam the brakes. But he was speeding in a vehicle he doesn't own. When highway patrol reaches him on that shoulder, he can explain the registration to them himself."

A sharp intake of breath.

Then came the tears. Rapid, theatrical, drowning in self-pity.

"How did you become so cruel...?" she sobbed. "Kyle has sacrificed everything for this startup. He just needed to walk into that room looking like a founder who matters. And you left him stranded in the dirt by the highway. How is he ever supposed to show his face in the venture community again? You’re just petty, Sean. You’re insecure, and you can’t stand watching anyone else succeed."

I didn't bother offering a defense.

"I've dispatched a flatbed from the dealership," I said evenly. "He can find his own way home. And the master key override? I’ll be dealing with that separately."

I hung up, cutting off the sound of her crying.

I turned to the service director. "Send the tow truck. Bring it back here for a comprehensive intake inspection. Drivetrain, paint depth, interior leather, electronic logs. Everything. If there's a scratch or a missing item, document it."

"Understood, sir."

I walked over to the floor-to-ceiling glass wall. Outside, the midday sun blazed against rows of gleaming enamel, but a bone-deep frost seemed to have settled into my ribs.

Three years together. Six months from our wedding date.

And I didn't even have the right to keep my own front door locked against her demands.