Chance stood outside his girlfriend, Vinita Iron’s, front door, heart pounding like a bass drum. The flowers in his left hand had begun to droop slightly because of the summer heat, and the box of gourmet chocolates in his right hand was slick with sweat. He tried to talk himself out of being nervous, but his sweaty palms wouldn't let up.He had spent every last cent of his savings—five thousand dollars scraped together from his three part-time jobs—for this moment. It was her birthday eve, and he wanted to do something unforgettable for her. He'd been planning this for months. The sleepless nights spent scrubbing restaurant floors or catching up with schoolwork in the library—they were finally going to pay off.He hadn’t told her he was coming. He couldn't wait to see the look on her face. There was no way she would be expecting this caliber of gifts from him.She had warned him before about surprises like this. Their relationship was a secret, and according to Vinita, it was imperat

The neon lights of The Vault glared against the night sky like a cruel joke to Chance. He stood outside, fists clenched in his worn-out jeans, staring at the entrance. His name wasn’t on the guest list, not that it ever was—he wasn’t a guest. He was a staff member. And he knew exactly what kind of hell awaited him inside.Earlier that evening, he'd begged his boss over the phone. “Please, sir, I can't come in tonight. I'm not even supposed to be on duty tonight. Roy Brown is throwing his party there. I'm sure you've heard what happened this afternoon—”His boss had chuckled, voice slick like grease. “That’s exactly why you should come in, kid. Handle this like a man, and I’ll move you up to supervisor. No more dirty tables. You’ll be wearing a black shirt like the rest of us.”It sounded like a dream. A real promotion. A real paycheck. Something to pull him out of the ditch he was in. He definitely couldn't say no.But now, standing here with the echo of the afternoon’s humiliation st

The slap still echoed in Chance’s ears when the female attendant who had landed the second one dropped to her knees, joined swiftly by the security guards. But none of it was for him. Instead, all their attention was turned to the sharply dressed young man Chance recognized with a jolt—Rickon Sander.Rickon, one of ESU’s most toxic elites, was grinning with all the arrogance of old money and unchecked power. The bank director, a man in his late fifties, came rushing in, clearly agitated, and practically stumbled into a bow. “Mr. Sander, our deepest apologies.”Rickon waved it off, eyes twinkling as he stole a glance at Chance, who was still rubbing his cheek. "No need," he said, voice thick with mockery. “Slapping a pauper feels therapeutic. I might just make it a habit.”Rickon felt glad the minute he recognized that it was Chance he’d slapped. He hated the guy's guts. In fact, he wanted to slap him again. Chance’s existence irritated him to no end. He was a nobody and didn’t deserve

The auctioneer presented the bag as Item 6622 with a starting bid of $200,000. The war began again over this item, and Chance joined in when the price got to $400,000. The next bidder placed a bid at $450,000, and Chance, not wanting the bid to last that long, jumped it up to $800,000. This sudden spike in price caused a stir. It wasn’t just the money—it was the audacity. For some of the guests, it was borderline disrespectful. This was an elite auction house, not a playground for a young man trying to show off.A low murmur rippled through the crowd, people turning their heads to see who had made such a bold move. It was the young man in a midnight-blue tuxedo—Chance Franklin. The boy with the face of calm arrogance. They didn’t know who he was yet, not fully. But they would.The woman who had placed the $450,000 bid raised her paddle and called out, “One million.”Gasps followed, a few chuckles from seasoned players in the room who appreciated a good duel.Chance didn’t hesitate. "T

Rickon stood to his feet, a broad smile stretching across his face—the kind worn by someone who just won the lottery. He answered her question with pride, saying he had gone to get his premium card. His father’s net worth had just hit $10 billion, and to celebrate, he had paid for Rickon to receive a premium card.Cheers erupted around him. The girls looked at him with admiration. Reckon couldn’t measure up to Chance’s smarts; everyone knew this, but he played his role as the money guy perfectly. He might not have been the smartest conversationalist, but money spoke louder than charm here. He was the heir to a $10 billion fortune.There were others in school whose parents were wealthier than Rickon’s, but he still stood out. They might not be able to hold intelligent conversations with him either, but they certainly enjoyed spending his money.With exaggerated flair, Rickon pulled out the silver card from his wallet and waved it proudly in the air. The cheers grew louder, mixed with h