I Scratched My Boss's Car

The morning sun had no business being this bright. It bounced off the glass facade of Cole Enterprises like a promise, or maybe a dare.

"Okay, Stella. Breathe. You are a professional. You are an asset. You are..." Stella Park gripped the steering wheel of her 2012 Honda Civic, which rattled with a worrying cough as she idled at the entrance of the parking garage. "...You are going to be late if you don't park this rust bucket immediately."

She tapped her ID card against the scanner. A cheerful *beep* granted her access to the underworld of concrete and ambition. Her heart did a little traitorous flutter. First day. Junior Marketing Associate. It wasn't the corner office, but it was a foot in the door, and right now, that foot was wearing a sensible heel she’d bought on sale for twenty bucks.

The garage was nearly full. Rows of gleaming sedans and SUVs sat in silent judgment of her Honda, which currently smelled faintly of old coffee and desperation.

"Spot. I need a spot," she muttered, her eyes scanning the dim rows.

There. A space near the elevator. Perfect.

Directly next to it sat a predator.

It was low, sleek, and red—a violent, unapologetic shade of crimson that seemed to suck the light out of the surrounding air. It looked less like a car and more like a weapon designed to slice through the atmosphere.

Stella swallowed. "Okay. Nice car. Very nice car. Stay away from the nice car."

She pulled past the spot and shifted into reverse. The Honda’s transmission clunked in protest. She twisted in her seat, one hand on the passenger headrest, her tongue caught between her teeth.

"Easy does it," she whispered. The rearview mirror showed the red beast lurking in the shadows. " plenty of room. Loads of room. You drive a compact, Stella. You fit everywhere."

She eased off the brake. The car rolled backward.

*Closer.*

"Little more to the left..." She turned the wheel.

*Closer.*

"Perfect. Just slide right in..."

The Honda lurched. It was a small spasm, a hiccup in the engine she’d been meaning to fix for three months. The car jumped backward with a sudden burst of energy.

*SCREEEEEEEEECH.*
*CRUNCH.*

The sound was hideous. It wasn't a thud. It was the high-pitched shriek of expensive paint dying a painful death, followed by the sickening crumble of fiberglass.

Stella froze. Her foot slammed onto the brake, but the universe had already shifted. The silence that followed was heavy, suffocating.

"No," she breathed. "No, no, no."

She stared straight ahead through the windshield, her knuckles white on the wheel. Maybe she imagined it. Maybe it was just... a very loud rat.

She opened her door. Her legs felt like they were made of damp cotton as she stepped out.

She walked to the rear of her car.

The Honda’s bumper was dented, a battle scar to add to its collection. But the red car...

Stella put a hand over her mouth to stifle a whimper.

The passenger door of the red sports car was mauled. A jagged, ugly white scratch ran diagonally across the crimson panel, deep enough that she could see the dark primer underneath. Her license plate holder had snagged the metal, peeling it back like the skin of an orange.

She dropped into a crouch, staring at the destruction. "I’m dead. I am actually deceased."

"Whoa."

The voice came from behind her. Stella jumped, spinning around so fast she nearly tipped over.

A security guard stood there, his uniform straining slightly at the belly. He held a half-eaten donut in one hand and a walkie-talkie in the other. He wasn't looking at her. He was looking at the car with an expression of pure, unadulterated horror.

"Tell me this is a prank," Stella squeaked. "Tell me this is one of those hidden camera shows."

The guard looked at her. Pity, thick and heavy, filled his eyes. He swallowed his mouthful of donut. "Miss... do you know whose car this is?"

"A rich person's?" Stella offered weakly.

"That," the guard pointed a chubby finger at the wounded beast, "is a Ferrari LaFerrari. Limited edition." He let out a low whistle. "Mr. Cole had it flown in from Italy last month. One of fifty in the world."

The air left Stella's lungs. "Five... zero?"

"Fifty," the guard confirmed. He leaned in, inspecting the scratch. "Carbon fiber body. Custom paint job. You didn't just scratch a car, miss. You scratched a mortgage. A big one."

"How... how much?"

"Repair? Parts have to come from the factory. Paint matching..." He made a sucking noise through his teeth. "You're looking at fifty grand. Maybe eighty. Minimum."

Stella’s vision blurred at the edges. Eighty thousand dollars.

She had four hundred dollars in her checking account and a coupon for a free latte.

"And you said..." Her voice was a ghostly whisper. "Mr. Cole?"

The guard nodded solemnly. "Adrian Cole. The Chairman."

The world tilted.

Mr. Cole. The man who signed her offer letter. The man whose name was on the building. The man who, rumor had it, fired an executive last week for wearing the wrong shade of blue to a client meeting.

"I need to sit down," Stella murmured.

She slumped onto the dirty concrete floor of the garage, burying her face in her hands.

Eighty thousand dollars.
Chairman of the Board.
First day.

"He's going to end me," she whispered into her palms. "He's going to harvest my organs."

The guard sighed, his radio crackling to life on his hip. "I gotta call this in, miss. You better have your insurance card ready. Though I doubt Geico covers 'Act of God-level Stupidity'."

Stella looked up at the ceiling, waiting for lightning to strike her down and finish the job. It didn't comes. There was only the hum of the ventilation system and the gleaming red accusatory stare of the Ferrari.

She wasn't just fired. She was indentured.

"Hey," the guard said, keying his mic. "Dispatch? Yeah. We got a situation on Level B. Someone just kissed the Boss's Ferrari. Yeah. It's bad."

He looked down at Stella, shaking his head.

"Good luck, kid. You're gonna need it."