A Billionaire’s Final Warning
During the school holidays, I took my daughter to a park. I had barely entered the park entrance with my daughter when a supercar crossed the solid line and rear-ended us.
The man who jumped out came storming toward me, furious.
"Do you even know how to drive? Do you know how much this car costs? You can't afford it even if you went bankrupt!"
I was about to argue back since he was clearly the one breaking traffic rules.
But I froze.
That car looked painfully familiar.
Wasn't that the supercar my mother gave me the first year I took over the Milton Group?
Even the license plate was identical.
My wife, Hazel Bishop, had told me the engine was broken and that she'd sent it to the dealership for repairs.
I met the man's arrogant stare. "Is this car really yours?"
He paused, then grinned smugly.
"My wife bought it for me. It's limited-edition. Someone like you wouldn't understand. Go call your family and sell your house. You owe me 200 thousand dollars."
Sneering, he added, "Don't try anything clever. My wife's the GM of Milton Group. She has serious connections. She'll be here any minute."
I let out a cold laugh.
So Hazel canceled on our daughter today, not because of a business meeting, but because she was out spending the holiday with her lover and his kid instead.