“Fix My Engine and I’ll Marry You,” I Mocked the Mechanic—Then He Exposed the Man Trying to Kill Me…

For the first time, he looked surprised

For the first time, he looked surprised.

I walked to my Valkyrie and opened the door.

Before I got in, I glanced back.

“The next time a rich woman kicks your creeper, Mr. Rhodes, tell her to go to hell sooner.”

His mouth twitched.

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

I drove away into the rain, furious that a mechanic had made me feel small.

But that night, in my penthouse, I set the spark plug on my desk.

And for the first time in years, I wondered if my life had an engine problem too.

Then, three weeks later, my car caught fire in my private parking garage.

And Nate found the wires that proved it wasn’t an accident.

PART 2

“Someone stripped these wires by hand, Clare. Your car didn’t catch fire. It was set up to burn with you inside.”

Nate said it quietly.

That made it worse.

We were standing in the underground garage beneath Montgomery Tower, the air still sharp with smoke and melted plastic.

My Valkyrie’s hood was open.

The engine bay looked like someone had dragged a torch through its nervous system.

Building security stood twenty feet away with a fire extinguisher.

My assistant Jennifer kept calling.

My board kept texting.

My hands stayed perfectly still.

That was how I survived public humiliation.

No crying.

No panic.

I observed.

I memorized.

I prepared to destroy.

Nate held up his phone and showed me the photo.

Two wires, stripped clean, twisted together.

“They’re from different systems,” he said. “They should never touch.”

“Who could do this?”

“Someone with access.”

“My garage is secured.”

“So was your car.”

That hit harder than I expected.

I had spent fifteen years building walls.

Security badges.

Private elevators.

Lawyers.

NDAs.

Bank alerts.

Background checks.

A penthouse with bulletproof glass and a panic room I pretended was just a wine cellar.

And still, someone had reached into my life and wired death under my hood.

Nate looked at me.

“You need police.”

“I need proof first.”

“You have proof.”

“No,” I said. “I have smoke, wires, and a mechanic’s opinion. The person behind this is smart. Powerful. If I call the police too early, they’ll bury it before we can find them.”

His jaw tightened.

“This isn’t a boardroom fight.”

“Everything is a boardroom fight when rich men want your chair.”

He stared at me.

That was the first time I saw fear in his eyes.

Not fear of me.

Fear for me.

“Then we do this right,” he said. “Tow it to Davies. I’ll document every inch. Photos. logs. diagnostic records. No shortcuts.”

I nodded.

“Good.”

“And you stop driving anything connected to your company.”

I almost smiled.

“You give orders now?”

“When someone is trying to kill you, yes.”

The flatbed arrived.

As they loaded my car, I watched the garage cameras above us.

One blinked red.

Recording.

My mind clicked.

“Security footage,” I said.

Nate followed my gaze.

“Get copies before anyone deletes them.”

I called Jennifer.

“Pull the last ninety days of garage access logs. Every badge. Every contractor. Every maintenance worker. Send copies to my personal lawyer, not company legal.”

Jennifer paused.

“Company legal reports to Marcus Webb now.”

Exactly.

Marcus.

My COO.

My father’s favorite executive.

The man who smiled at charity galas, called me “brilliant” in public, and told investors privately that I was unstable, isolated, and overdue for replacement.

A cold line formed inside me.

“Send it to my personal lawyer,” I repeated.

Then I hung up.

Nate watched me carefully.

“You think you know who it is.”

“I think I know who wants my chair.”

By midnight, my Valkyrie was back in Bay 7.

By morning, Nate called me.

“Come to the shop. Now.”

His voice was rough.

Like he hadn’t slept.

When I arrived, he was sitting on the floor beside my disassembled car, surrounded by wiring harnesses, diagnostic tablets, and coffee cups.

His eyes were red.

His hands shook slightly from exhaustion.

“What did you find?” I asked.

He turned his laptop toward me.

A map of Seattle filled the screen.

A blue dot pulsed at Montgomery Tower.

“That’s your car’s location history,” he said. “Every trip. Every stop. Every meeting. Someone installed spyware in your vehicle system.”

The room tilted.

“How long?”

“Weeks. Maybe months.”

I sat on a rolling stool before my legs betrayed me.

“They knew where I went?”

“Yes.”

“Who I met?”

“If you drove there, yes.”

“My routine?”

“Yes.”

My voice dropped.

“They were studying me.”

Nate nodded.

“And whoever did it knew advanced vehicle architecture. This wasn’t some angry ex-employee with a screwdriver.”

My phone buzzed.

Jennifer.

I answered on speaker.

“Tell me.”

Her voice trembled.

“The garage footage from the night before the fire is missing.”

Nate looked up sharply.

“Missing how?” I asked.

“Deleted from the building server. But your personal lawyer called. He says the cloud backup still exists because of your insurance rider.”

For the first time all day, I smiled.

“Send it to me.”

Ten minutes later, Nate and I watched the footage.

A man in a maintenance uniform entered the garage at 11:42 p.m.

He wore a cap low over his face.

He spent forty-three minutes beside my car.

At one point, he looked directly into the camera.

Paused.

Then smiled.

Nate froze the image.

“Do you know him?”