the expensive plates before Marcus had even wiped his hands.

“Big customer,” Dale muttered.

“Don’t screw this up.”

Marcus listened to the engine for less than a minute before he heard it: a failing tensioner and a worn idler pulley.

Annoying.

Not catastrophic.

Maybe six hundred dollars with labor if done cleanly.

Dale came out five minutes later with a printed quote for nearly five thousand.

Marcus stared at the page.

Steering components.

Hoses.

Emergency labor.

Half of it unnecessary.

“This isn’t right,” he said quietly.

Dale lowered his voice.

“It’s a fleet client.

They expect big numbers.”

“They need a belt system, not a robbery.”

Dale’s jaw hardened.

“You work for me.”

“I fix what’s broken,” Marcus said.

“That’s the job.”

Nia, who had come with the van, looked from one man to the other without interrupting.

Then she pulled out her phone.

Ten minutes later Claire walked through the open bay doors in a charcoal coat, calm as weather.

Dale’s whole posture changed.

“Ms.

Holloway,” he said, suddenly syrupy.

“We’re taking excellent care of your vehicle.”

Claire glanced at the paper in his hand, then at Marcus.

“Are you?”

Dale launched into jargon.

Marcus stood still.

Claire let him finish, then turned to Marcus.

“What does it actually need?”

Dale cut in.

“He’s one of my mechanics, but he doesn’t handle estimates.”

“I asked Marcus.”

So Marcus answered.

Tensioner.

Idler.

Belt.

One additional alignment check because the front right tire was wearing unevenly.

He explained why in plain English.

Claire listened like every word mattered.

Then she held out her hand.

Nia passed over the original dealership note.

Claire skimmed it and smiled without warmth.

“Interesting.

This matches Marcus almost exactly.”

Dale said nothing.

Claire folded the paper once.

“Your shop was on our shortlist for the pilot maintenance contract on the family mobility program.”

Dale went still.

“It isn’t anymore,” she said.

“Now hold on—”

“No,” Claire said.

“You hold on.

Because what I just watched was you trying to turn one van into a bonus while the man beside you refused to help.

That tells me everything I need to know about both of you.”

Dale looked at Marcus with naked anger.

“You think you’re better than this shop?”

Marcus surprised himself with how calm he felt.

“No.

I just think customers deserve the truth.”

“Then get out.”

The words cracked through the garage.

For a second nobody moved.

Dale pointed toward the door.

“If you want to side with clients over this business, you can leave with them.”

Marcus should have felt panic.

Rent.

Bills.

Sophie’s shoes for next school year.

Groceries.

All the usual numbers should have rushed him at once.

Instead he felt something cleaner.

Done.

Claire reached into her coat pocket and pulled out another envelope.

“That simplifies things.”

She handed it to Marcus.

Inside was a formal offer.

Director, Portland Mobility Garage.

Salary higher than he had ever made.

Health insurance.

Set hours.

A pilot program repairing donated cars for single parents and hourly workers who had no backup when transportation failed.

Marcus looked up at her, then back at the page.

“This is a joke,” he said.

“It isn’t,” Claire said.

“Last night I watched you get embarrassed and still act with grace.

This morning I watched you protect a