You had a friend who constantly claimed they were rich—billionaire rich. Not just “comfortable,” not “doing well”—we’re talking yachts, private jets, and gold toothbrushes rich. But you never believed them. Their clothes looked thrifted, their shoes were scuffed, and frankly, your mid-class wardrobe looked sharper by comparison.

One afternoon, the two of you were sitting at a café when they brought it up again.

“I’m serious,” they said, sipping their lukewarm tea. “I’m loaded. Like, Bugatti-as-a-lamp loaded.”

You snorted. “You? Please. You look like you borrowed your outfit from a lost-and-found bin.”

They raised an eyebrow. “Fine. Let me prove it.”

You rolled your eyes but followed them out of the café. They led you to a modest-looking car—nothing flashy—and drove for nearly an hour, past gated communities and winding hills, until you reached a massive iron gate. It opened automatically.

Beyond it stood a mansion so large it looked like it had its own zip code. You gasped as the car rolled up the circular driveway, past fountains, statues, and hedges trimmed into the shape of dollar signs.

Your friend didn’t say a word. They parked, stepped out, and yanked your door open.

“Come on,” they said, dragging you by the wrist. “Let me show you what ‘not poor’ looks like.”

You stumbled through the grand entrance, still trying to process the sheer size of the place. Marble floors. Crystal staircases. A koi pond in the foyer.

Then you looked up.

Hanging from the ceiling—where a chandelier should’ve been—was a full-sized Bugatti. Suspended by custom steel cables. Its headlights glowed softly, casting reflections across the polished floor.

You froze.

“…What the—?” you whispered, neck craned, eyes wide.

Your friend smirked. “Told you. I don’t own a Bugatti. I decorate with them.”