“That Car Is Junk!” — CEO Laughs at a Single Dad Janitor’s Mustang, Then He Starts a $2B Engine
Vivian let out a scoff of pure disbelief.
She grabbed the edge of the heavy canvas tarp and violently yanked it backward.
The tarp slid off, revealing the 1969 Mustang in all its rusted, faded, dented glory.
Under the harsh gallery spotlights Vivian had set up, the car looked even worse than usual.
The peeling Grabber Blue paint looked like a skin disease.
The pitted chrome and mismatched wheels screamed of poverty.
A collective murmur of amusement and disgust rippled through the crowd of investors.
Someone actually took out their phone and snapped a picture, laughing.
“You have got to be kidding me,” Vivian sneered, stepping back as if the car might infect her.
She turned her piercing gaze to Dean.
“You parked this… this piece of junk in my executive facility? During my shareholder gala?”
“I apologize, Ms. Carmichael,” Dean said, keeping his voice carefully level, though his jaw was locked tight.
“I’ll cover it back up. It’s not in the way of the display—”
“It is a blight on my entire building!” Vivian interrupted, her voice raising an octave, echoing off the concrete.
She was performing for the investors now, showing her dominance.
“This company represents the pinnacle of human engineering. We are building the clean energy future. And you drag this leaking, gas-guzzling, rusted scrap metal into my headquarters? That car is junk. It’s an eyesore. It is a symbol of everything Apex Innovations is trying to destroy.”
Dean looked at the Mustang, then back at Vivian.
“It’s not leaking, ma’am. And it’s not what you think it is.”
“I don’t care what you think it is,” Vivian hissed, stepping uncomfortably close to Dean, her expensive perfume choking him.
“Listen to me very carefully, Mr…” She glanced at his name tag.
“Masterson. You have exactly twenty-four hours to get this garbage heap off my property. If this rusted piece of trash is still in my building by midnight tomorrow, I will have it crushed into a cube, and you will be fired. Do you understand me?”
The threat hung in the air like a guillotine blade.
*Fired.* If he was fired, he lost his union health insurance.
If he lost the insurance, Chloe’s asthma medication—which cost three thousand dollars a month—would stop.
Vivian wasn’t just threatening his car; she was threatening his daughter’s life, all because her aesthetic sensibilities were offended.
Dean’s blood boiled.
The urge to fire back, to tell this arrogant heiress exactly who he was and what was sitting under that rusted hood, roared in his mind.
He wanted to pop the latch.
He wanted to show Richard Belmont and the rest of the board that the “garbage heap” they were laughing at held the technological holy grail they were currently burning billions trying to find.
But he couldn’t.
His patents hadn’t cleared yet.
If he revealed the engine now, on Apex property, Vivian’s army of corporate lawyers would find a loophole, claim intellectual property theft since he built it on their premises, and steal his life’s work.
He had to swallow the poison.
He had to play the peasant.
Dean lowered his head, forcing his eyes to the floor.
“I understand, Ms. Carmichael. I’ll have it moved by tomorrow night.”
Vivian scoffed, turning her back on him with a dramatic swish of her gown.
“See that you do. Now, clean up this floor, it reeks of cheap labor.” She turned back to the laughing investors, immediately switching on a radiant, fake smile.
“Right this way, gentlemen, let me show you the new aerodynamic renders for Project Vanguard…”
Dean stood there in the shadow of his mocked creation, listening to the laughter fade down the corridor.
He picked up his mop.
He wiped the floor.
But inside, the invisible man was dead.
A quiet, cold fire had just been ignited.
“Twenty-four hours,” Dean whispered to himself, looking at the rusted hood of the Mustang.
“That’s all we need.”