The girl leaned forward, fully interested now.
"Alright," the old man started, "let me ask you something. You ever notice how every rich asshole wants a Rolls-Royce?"
She frowned. "I mean, yeah. It's like, billionaire starter pack."
He grinned. "But is it the best car?"
She blinked. "I thought it was?"
"Nah, sweetheart." He shook his head. "The best cars? We make 'em."
Her eyes widened slightly. "Wait… like—"
"The private, custom ones." He smirked. "Ones that cost more than most people make in a lifetime. One of a kind. Only for the people who matter."
She whistled low. "That's kinda baller."
"Damn right, it is." He flicked his reins. "And it ain't just cars. Jets, yachts, even the suits those billionaires wear? We either own it, design it, or fund the people who do."
She grinned. "So, basically, we make sure the world's elite stay pretty."
"Exactly." He chuckled. "And charge them a fortune for it."
