“Fix My Engine and I’ll Marry You,” I Mocked the Mechanic—Then He Exposed the Man Trying to Kill Me…
“No.”
“No.”
But my lawyer did.
His text came through seconds later.
Maintenance tech registered as James Peterson. Bank records show a $75,000 wire transfer last month from a shell company tied to Marcus Webb’s private investment group.
There it was.
Not enough for court.
Enough for war.
I didn’t shout.
I didn’t throw the phone.
I simply copied the message, forwarded it to my lawyer, and said, “We keep digging.”
Nate looked at me.
“You’re too calm.”
“No,” I said. “I’m finally awake.”
That evening, he asked me to come by the closed shop.
Not for the car.
For something else.
Behind Davies Automotive was a cracked asphalt lot, a chain-link fence, and a picnic table.
At that table sat a little girl in a purple hoodie, coloring with serious concentration.
Pale face.
Dark eyes.
Tiny hands.
Nate softened the second he saw her.
“Stella,” he said. “This is Clare.”
The girl looked up.
“You’re the princess with the magic car.”
I blinked.
“I’m not a princess.”
“That’s what a princess hiding from bad guys would say.”
Nate sighed.
“She has strong theories.”
Then Stella coughed.
A wet, frightening sound.
Nate moved instantly, checking her pulse, her breathing, her color.
The tenderness in his hands hurt to watch.
“She has a heart condition,” he said quietly.
Stella smiled at me.
“My heart is broken for real. Not sad-broken. Doctor-broken.”
I had faced billion-dollar lawsuits without flinching.
That sentence nearly took me down.
Stella showed me her notebook.
“My good things list,” she said. “Daddy. Mr. Patches. Chocolate ice cream. Rain stopping. People who fix broken things.”
Then she looked at me.
“What’s on yours?”
I had no answer.
Not my company.
Not my penthouse.
Not my bank accounts.
Not the car someone had turned into a weapon.
“I don’t know,” I admitted.
Stella looked devastated.
“Everybody needs a good things list.”
Nate watched me.
And I realized why he had brought me there.
Not to shame me.
To show me what was worth protecting.
That night, I opened a note on my phone.
Good Things.
Number one: my mother braiding my hair before school.
Number two: people who fix broken things.
Number three: little girls who believe lists can save you.
Then my lawyer called.
His voice was ice.
“Clare, Marcus just filed an emergency board memo questioning your mental fitness. He’s claiming paranoia, reckless spending, and emotional instability.”
I looked at Nate.
“What else?”
My lawyer inhaled.
“He’s calling a vote to remove you as CEO after the gala.”
Marcus hadn’t just tried to kill me.
He was preparing to steal my company while calling me crazy.
And now I knew exactly how to make him expose himself.
PART 3
“My COO tried to kill me, called me insane, and then invited me to an award gala so he could watch me be publicly removed.”
I said it out loud in Nate’s garage.
No tears.
No shaking.
Just the truth, sitting between us like a loaded gun.
Nate leaned against the toolbox.
“Then we don’t stop the gala.”
I looked at him.
“We use it.”
He nodded.
“The person behind this thinks you’re isolated. Unstable. Too proud to ask for help. So let him believe that.”
Marcus Webb had spent years underestimating me.
He thought because I was cold, I was careless.
Because I lived alone, I had no witnesses.
Because I trusted almost no one, I had no one.
He was wrong about the last part.
Detective Lena Chen arrived thirty minutes later with two officers, my personal attorney, and a warrant request already drafted.
She was sharp, unimpressed, and had the calm face of a woman who had heard rich people lie for a living.
“Let me understand,” she said. “You want to attend a public gala while a man who may have attempted to murder you is present?”
“Yes.”
“That is a terrible idea.”
“It’s the only place Marcus will feel safe enough to get arrogant.”
Chen looked at Nate.
“And you’re encouraging this?”
“I’m encouraging a trap with police backup, hidden cameras, and enough documentation to make sure nobody buries it.”
He slid a folder across the table.
Inside were printed diagnostics, photos of stripped wires, GPS logs, spyware signatures, badge access records, and bank transfer traces.
Nate had built the case like he was rebuilding an engine.
Piece by piece.
No emotion.
No missing bolts.
Chen flipped through it.
Her expression changed.
“This is good work.”
Nate shrugged.
“Bad systems leave patterns.”
My lawyer added the final piece.
“We also subpoenaed Marcus’s shell company records through an emergency civil action. The bank flagged another payment scheduled tonight.”
“To whom?” I asked.
“David Chang. Former Montgomery cyber engineer. Fired eight months ago for unauthorized system access.”
My blood went cold.
David had once built parts of our vehicle software platform.
He knew every back door.
Marcus had motive.
David had skill.
Together, they had almost killed me.
The plan was simple.
Let gossip spread.
Nate would “accidentally” tell three mechanics he had cracked the case and found the proof inside my car’s onboard memory.
Jack Davies would repeat it.
By lunch, every garage in Seattle would know.
By dinner, Marcus would hear.
By midnight, someone would come for the evidence.
And we would be waiting.
The only part I hated was disappearing.
Nate made me check into a small hotel under a fake name, pay in cash, and leave my phone at my lawyer’s office.
“Survival isn’t weakness,” he told me.
“I don’t run.”
“You do if running keeps you alive long enough to win.”
That sentence stayed with me.
At 11:08 p.m., my burner phone rang.
Nate.
“They’re here.”
I sat upright in the dark hotel room.
