Marcus was already on edge when he spotted the filthy young man in cargo pants kneeling near the imported Italian cypresses. A smudge of dirt. A flaw in his $50,000-a-day illusion.
Desperate to project absolute dominance in front of his wealthy guests, Marcus marched over, violently shoving the worker back. The heavy silver Rolex on Marcus’s wrist caught the young man’s cheek, slicing the skin. Blood beaded instantly.
“You’re just a filthy landscaper,” Marcus roared, his voice echoing across the pristine terrace. “You’re nothing!”
The young man kept his head bowed, looking utterly submissive as he wiped a streak of crimson from his face.
Before Marcus could bark another threat, the heavy purr of a V12 engine shattered the midday silence. A pitch-black Rolls-Royce Phantom tore up the gleaming limestone driveway, violently slamming on its brakes. Marcus froze.
A man in a sharp black suit stepped out. Marcus immediately plastered on his best networking smile, ready to greet whoever this VIP was, but the man walked right past him.
He stopped dead in front of the bleeding landscaper and bowed at a deep, perfect ninety-degree angle.
“Sir.”
Marcus’s jaw practically detached from his skull.
The young man didn’t say a word. He simply raised a dirt-caked finger and pointed directly at Marcus.
The man in black straightened, his eyes locking onto the fresh gash on the young man’s cheek. The air turned to ice. “Sir, who hit you?”
Slowly, the driver turned to Marcus, adjusting his suit jacket with terrifyingly calm precision. When he spoke, his voice boomed loud enough for every investor on the terrace to hear.
“You just assaulted the owner of this estate. You have ten minutes to get off his property.”
The young man finally looked up, his submissive posture vanishing into raw, commanding authority.
“Actually,” the young billionaire said, wiping his cheek, “make it five. And tell your investors not to worry—I’m buying your bankrupt company tomorrow for pennies.”