“I’ll give you my Ferrari if you can start it,” the billionaire sneered, surrounded by elegant guests as he gestured mockingly at the old man. What he didn’t know was that he was making a bet with the very man who had designed that same engine 40 years ago.

Sterling Hayes adjusted his $120,000 Rolex Daytona, surveying the grand salon of his Bel Air mansion with absolute disdain. At 38, he had built a real estate empire that made him one of the wealthiest men in Los Angeles, with a personal fortune of $800 million.

It had also made him the most ruthless and arrogant figure in the city’s high society. His 30,000-square-foot estate was an obscene monument to his ego, with Calacatta marble floors imported from Italy, art pieces that cost more than entire houses, and a garage showcasing 18 luxury vehicles, including three Ferraris, two Lamborghinis, and a McLaren he’d bought just for an Instagram post.

But what Sterling enjoyed most wasn’t his astronomical wealth; it was the sadistic power it gave him to humiliate those he deemed inferior. Tonight, his mansion was filled with L.A.’s elite—tech moguls, influential politicians, and celebrities—all gathered to celebrate the launch of “The Hayes Towers,” a luxury condo complex built on land where hundreds of low-income families had been displaced. It was a grotesque festival of opulence, where each glass of champagne cost more than the average family’s weekly groceries.

“Sterling, you have to show them your new baby,” declared Ricardo Villalobos, an oil magnate and one of his closest associates, gesturing toward the garage with a $2,000 glass of Dom Pérignon. “That red Ferrari 458 Spider you picked up last week is the talk of the country club.”

“Of course,” Sterling boomed, his laugh echoing through the salon as he reveled in the spotlight. “Come on, everyone. I’ll show you why I’m worth more than all your lives combined.”

The crowd, draped in designer suits and jewels that could fund a university, followed Sterling to the climate-controlled garage, a space more luxurious than most city apartments. LED lights illuminated a collection of cars that represented more money than most people would see in a lifetime.

“This beauty,” Sterling purred, stroking the hood of the red Ferrari as if it were a lover. “Cost me $400,000. 4.5-liter V8 engine, 562 horsepower, 0 to 60 in 3.4 seconds. It’s a work of Italian art only true connoisseurs can appreciate.”

The guests murmured feigned appreciation. For most, the cars were just status symbols.

“But do you actually know how to drive it?” quipped Patricia Guerrero, a hotel heiress, adjusting her $200,000 diamond necklace. “Or is it just for the ‘gram?”

“Of course, I can drive it,” Sterling snapped, annoyed. “Though, to be honest, these Italian engines are so temperamental, sometimes even I can’t…”

His sentence was cut short by the chime of the main gate, a discordant sound that sliced through the party’s ambiance. Sterling scowled. “Who could that be? It’s 11 PM.”

“Probably some beggar,” sneered another guest. “They always wander into this neighborhood.”

A cruel smile spread across Sterling’s face. “You know what? This is perfect. Let’s give our guests some real entertainment.”

He strode to the front door, his entourage trailing behind him. When he opened it, the scene was a perfect contrast to his narrative of superiority. Standing under the golden porch light was a man in his early seventies. His white hair was unkempt, his beard untrimmed. His clothes were clean but worn—faded jeans carefully patched, a work shirt that had lost its color, and leather shoes that, though polished, showed years of honest wear.

What was most striking about the man was not his apparent poverty, but the unshakable dignity he radiated. His blue eyes were clear and intelligent, and his hands, though calloused from decades of labor, moved with a precision that hinted at specialized technical skill.

“Excuse the intrusion, young man,” the old man’s voice was soft but firm. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. I was just wondering if you might have some food to spare. I haven’t eaten in two days and I thought perhaps…”

Sterling’s laugh cut him off like a whip crack. “Perfect! Absolutely perfect!” He turned to his guests, his smile pure venom. “Look at this, everyone! The universe has sent us free entertainment!”

The guests tittered, some out of genuine cruelty, others from social discomfort. The old man stood his ground, but his eyes hardened slightly.

“Wait, wait,” Sterling raised a hand dramatically. “I have a hilarious idea.” He gestured toward the open garage, where the red Ferrari gleamed like a bloody jewel. “You see that Ferrari, old-timer? That perfect Italian machine worth more than everything you’ve ever earned?”

The old man’s gaze followed his finger. For a moment, a strange expression crossed his face—not awe or envy, but something deeper, as if he were seeing a ghost from his past. “Yes, I see it,” he replied simply.

“Perfect,” Sterling clapped sarcastically. “Here’s my offer, and all my guests are witnesses. I’ll give you my Ferrari if you can start it.”