Chapter 8: The Real Kevin Vance

The final straw landed on Kevin Vance’s exquisitely untroubled life not with a whisper, but with the shrill, insistent buzz of his phone. He was in the middle of closing a deal on a new Patek Philippe, the pinnacle of a successful afternoon, when the caller ID once again flashed an unknown number. He had already been bombarded by calls from Sterling Motors salesmen—Todd, Barry, some other nervous kid. He had shouted, he had threatened, and he had assumed the matter was closed.

He answered with a snarl. "What?"

"Mr. Vance? This is Sandra from Mr. Henderson's office at Sterling Motors," a flustered voice said. "Mr. Henderson wanted to follow up on your earlier conversation regarding the written report you requested—"

"What are you talking about?" Kevin exploded, standing up from the jeweler’s plush armchair. "I didn't request a damn thing! I told you people to stop calling me!"

"But sir… your call with Mr. Henderson an hour ago? About the service issues and the sales team?"

It was the final, incomprehensible insult. They weren't just harassing him; they were inventing conversations. Someone at that dealership was playing a game with his name, and Kevin Vance was not a man who enjoyed being a pawn. A cold, clean rage, the kind only the truly privileged can afford, settled over him.

"You tell Henderson I'm on my way," he hissed, and ended the call. He threw a black credit card on the counter. "Box it up. I'll be back for it later."

He didn't wait for a reply. He strode out into the afternoon sun, his mind a storm of fury. He got into his Sterling Sentinel—his car, the one they were apparently trying to sell out from under him—and tore out of the parking lot, aiming the sleek black missile of a car directly at the source of his problems.

He burst through the gleaming glass doors of the Sterling Motors showroom like a thunderclap. The serene atmosphere of quiet negotiation and new-car smell evaporated. Heads turned. A young salesman approached with a hopeful smile that died the instant he saw the look on Kevin's face.

"I want Henderson," Kevin barked, his voice echoing off the polished marble floors. "The General Manager. Get him. Now."

From his glass-walled office, Mr. Henderson saw the commotion. He saw the expensive clothes, the luxury car keys dangling from an angry fist, the unmistakable air of someone who owned the world and was currently displeased with his purchase. He braced himself. This had to be him. The nightmare client from the phone. He smoothed his tie, pasted on his most reassuring manager’s smile, and strode out to meet the storm.

"Mr. Vance," Henderson said, extending a hand that was pointedly ignored. "I'm Mr. Henderson. I'm glad you came in. I believe we have a few things to discuss."

He was expecting the deep, gravelly voice of 'Old Money Disdain.' Instead, he got the sharp, indignant bark of a young man who had never been told 'no.'

"Damn right we do," Kevin snapped. "What is wrong with you people? Who gave you permission to harass me? I've had a dozen calls from your sales floor. Now your office is calling me about conversations I've never had! Are you running a car dealership or a boiler room?"

Henderson’s smile faltered. The complaint was all wrong. The man on the phone had been angry about service, about the quality of the interaction. This man was angry about the existence of the interaction.

At that moment, Chloe Martinez, carrying a tablet with the now-infamous Vance file open, walked out of the service wing corridor. Henderson waved her over, a desperate look in his eyes. "Ms. Martinez, this is Mr. Vance. He's here about the issues we discussed."

Kevin’s eyes locked onto Chloe. "You. You're the one who was supposed to fix my email last year."

Chloe nodded, her heart sinking. "Yes, Mr. Vance. I did."

"Well, you failed," he spat. "Because the madness has only gotten worse."

"Let's step into my office," Henderson said, trying to regain control and move the spectacle out of the public showroom. He led the way, with Chloe and a fuming Kevin trailing behind.

Inside the office, Henderson sat behind his large desk, a king on a threatened throne. "Now, Mr. Vance," he began, "I want to get to the bottom of this. I spoke with you, or someone I believed to be you, not more than an hour ago."

"You absolutely did not," Kevin retorted. "I was across town buying a watch. I haven't spoken to anyone from this dealership since I yelled at some idiot salesman yesterday."

A chill snaked its way down Henderson's spine. Chloe, sensing the disconnect, stepped forward, tablet in hand. "Mr. Vance, if I could just verify the contact information we have on file for you. The phone number we have ends in... 5050. Is that correct?"

Kevin scoffed. "No. Not even close. Mine ends in 2400. Has for ten years."

Henderson went pale. "But... I just dialed 5050. Someone answered. He said he was you."

"Then you spoke to a liar," Kevin said, his eyes narrowing.

Chloe’s fingers trembled slightly as she scrolled on the tablet. "And the email address? Is it ‘[email protected]’?"

Kevin stared at her as if she'd sprouted a second head. "What? No! It's [email protected]. It's been on my business card since I was nineteen. Where in God's name did you get that email from?"

Suddenly, the vague, nagging memory of that polite, anonymous man from a year ago clicked into place for Chloe. The man whose email had been incorrectly linked to the account. Her blood ran cold.

"Mr. Henderson," she said, her voice barely a whisper as she turned the tablet to face him. "Look."

He leaned forward, his eyes scanning the screen. He saw the incorrect email. The incorrect phone number. And beneath them, the long, insane history of the past year. The digital history of a ghost.

"Sir," Chloe said to Kevin, her voice regaining its professional calm despite the chaos erupting in her mind. "Did you book a service appointment for a 'courtesy car wash' at two-fifteen in the morning last March?"

"What? No!"

"Did you request our top-of-the-line loaner vehicle for an 'upholstery spot-check' in July?"

"Are you insane?"

"Did you submit an online inquiry to trade in this vehicle for an Italian V12 two days ago?"

"I love this car!" Kevin shouted, slamming his hand on Henderson's desk. "I would never sell it! What is going on here?"

The truth began to dawn on them, not in a gentle sunrise, but like a flash of lightning illuminating a nightmare landscape. The whole thing was a fabrication. The arrogant customer on the phone, the scathing surveys, the sales appointments that had torn the showroom apart—none of it had been the real Kevin Vance.

They had been tormented, played, and systematically dismantled by a phantom. A digital doppelgänger who had been born from a single clerical error a year ago and had since grown into an avenging spirit, using their own systems to wage a one-man war against them.

The full weight of the situation crashed down upon Henderson. The man he had just tried to blame for everything—Chloe—was innocent. The men he had berated—Todd and Barry—were victims of an elaborate hoax. And the man he was now facing, the real Kevin Vance, was not just an angry customer. He was the scion of one of the most powerful and litigious families in the state.

Kevin’s anger had transformed. It was no longer the hot rage of personal inconvenience, but the cold, deadly fury of a man whose identity had been stolen and used to make a mockery of him.

"So let me get this straight," Kevin said, his voice dangerously low. "For over a year, you have allowed some random person to impersonate me, using your systems to run wild. My name has been attached to this... this circus. You've harassed me. You've wasted my time. You've demonstrated a level of incompetence that is frankly staggering."

He stood up, adjusting his cuffs. The shouting was over. The time for threats had arrived.

"My father is Harrison Vance," he said, the name hanging in the air like the promise of an execution. "He will be very, very interested to hear about the gross negligence and data security failures at Sterling Motors. You haven't just lost a customer today, Henderson. You've made an enemy. Expect to hear from our lawyers."

He turned and walked out of the office, not storming, but moving with the chilling calm of a man who knew he was about to bring the entire world down on their heads.

Henderson collapsed back into his chair, his face the color of ash. The ghost was real. And it had just led a titan to his door. Panic, pure and undiluted, finally set in. They were in ruins.