Marcus Hale made the bet on a Tuesday, three whiskeys deep, bored in the way only billionaires get bored. He raised his glass and spoke to the room like a man daring the world to surprise him. Nobody there understood yet what the bet would cost.
“One million dollars to anyone who can calm Titan.” The dog—a 180-pound Cane Corso —was destroying a mahogany table in the east wing. Nobody moved. Nobody breathed loudly. They had all heard about Titan. Even the bravest guests kept very deliberate distances.
Titan had hospitalised two professional trainers in three years. He’d sent a veterinarian through a fire exit and reduced a television dog whisperer to genuine, documented tears. He was Marcus’s dog by possession. By every other measure, Titan belonged to no one.