The moment we stepped onto the luxury automotive floor, I felt it. That full-body jolt of culture shock radiating off my family like static cling on a cashmere sweater. This wasn't a dealership—it was a cathedral built to worship horsepower and bank accounts. The kind of place where even the floors flex on you. Polished marble so expensive, it probably had a mortgage.
Everything gleamed like it was allergic to fingerprints, and I swear the marble floor was judging our Payless shoes in real time.
Mom froze like she'd just wandered into the Queen's private vault. Her nurse-brain immediately tried to put a price on everything, failed, and quietly panicked.
Her nurse instincts kicked in, eyes scanning the showroom like she was triaging a trauma ward—except instead of broken bones, she was processing six-figure price tags.
"Peter," she whispered, like we were trespassing in a billionaire's garage. "We don't belong here."
