Kingsman's Return

Ex-wife

New York Bank, the most mysterious private bank in Manhattan's financial district.

Their client list was never made public. It was said that the minimum deposit was ten million dollars. In this city, the name "New York Bank" was itself a symbol of status.

Adam Walker ran all the way.

He was shirtless, wearing those worn sneakers on his bare feet, carrying a black garbage bag on his shoulder, running breathlessly through the streets of Manhattan. Passersby turned their heads—where was this dirty vagrant going?

The New York Bank building was just ahead.

Adam pushed open the heavy glass door. Before he could step inside, a security guard in a black uniform blocked him.

"Stop right there." The guard frowned, looking him up and down. "This is a private bank. Unauthorized personnel are not allowed inside."

"I'm here to do some business," Adam said.

The guard snorted: "Do business? Do you know what kind of place this is?"

As a security guard at New York Bank, Jack Wilson had seen plenty of rich people. Ferrari drivers. Armani suits. Patek Philippe watches. But this guy? Shirtless, pants stained with grease that hadn't even dried yet, hair a mess like a bird's nest, reeking of sweat.

Someone like this could do business at New York Bank?

"Adam?"

A woman's voice came from behind.

Adam's body stiffened.

He knew this voice too well. It was the voice of his wife of three years—Grace Miller's voice. He would never mistake it.

He slowly turned around.

A brand new Porsche Cayenne was parked at the bank's entrance. Grace stepped out of the passenger seat. She was wearing a Chanel dress, carrying a Hermès Birkin bag, makeup flawless, exuding the aura of a socialite.

The driver's door opened, and a man in a custom suit with a Rolex on his wrist stepped out. He walked around the front of the car and naturally put his arm around Grace's waist, the movement as smooth as if he had done it a thousand times.

Marcus Sterling.

Grace's new boyfriend.

"Well, well, if it isn't my ex-husband." Grace walked over, looking Adam up and down, her eyes full of disgust. "Shirtless, carrying a garbage bag—did my mom kick you out so fast you can't even afford clothes anymore?"

Marcus also walked over, looking at Adam with a half-smile: "This is the rickshaw puller ex-husband you were talking about?"

"Yeah, that's him." Grace curled her lip. "Three years of marriage, and he never even touched my finger. Working his ass off every month for pennies—couldn't even buy me a bag."

She took Marcus's arm and deliberately swung the Birkin bag forward: "See this? Hermès limited edition. Eight thousand dollars. Marcus's first gift to me. And you? What did you ever give me in three years? A cheap cake that took you half a month to save up for?"

Adam said nothing.

His fist clenched behind his back.

"What are you doing here?" Grace asked, frowning, her tone like she was interrogating a beggar.

"Handling some business," Adam replied calmly.

"Pfft—"

Marcus couldn't help laughing out loud: "Handling business? You? Can you even get through that door?"

Grace also snorted: "Adam, do you know what kind of bank this is? New York Bank. They don't even accept deposits below eight figures. How much is on your pathetic card? Three hundred? Five hundred?"

As she spoke, she took Marcus's arm and swayed her hips toward the bank entrance.

The security guard, Jack, saw Marcus and immediately put on a fawning smile: "Mr. Sterling, this way, please."

Grace walked a few steps, then turned back and said to Adam: "Oh, by the way, that T-shirt you're wearing—my mom bought that, right? Oh—you already took it off? Good. At least you have some sense."

With that, she took Marcus's arm and walked inside, her voice drifting back: "Marcus, can we get that new Birkin bag you promised me today?"

"Of course. Whatever makes you happy."

Adam stood there, feeling like someone had stabbed a knife into his chest.

Three years. He had lived like nothing for her sake for three years, given every cent to her family, couldn't even afford to buy himself a new shirt. And the day after she got the divorce papers signed, she was already out buying bags with another man.

He looked at the security guard and walked toward the door again.

"Stop!" Jack pulled out his baton and pointed it at Adam's chest. "Get lost. You're not qualified to enter."

"I really am here to do business," Adam repeated.

"What's going on here?"

A gentle but professional female voice sounded behind them.

Adam turned and saw a tall, elegant woman walking toward them. She was about twenty-seven or twenty-eight, with long dark brown hair tied in a neat bun, wearing a delicate pair of silver-rimmed glasses. She wore a well-tailored navy blue business suit and black high heels. She exuded intelligence and professionalism.

The nameplate on her chest read—Viola Sinclair, Account Manager.

Viola looked at Adam, then at the security guard. Her brow furrowed slightly, but she didn't show any disgust.

"This man claims he's here to do business," Jack said, pointing at Adam. "I suspect he's up to no good, so I'm not letting him in."

Viola Sinclair looked at Adam. Her gaze landed on his dust-covered sneakers and paused for a second. Then she looked up and asked politely, "Sir, you said you're here to do business? Deposit, withdrawal, or something else?"

"Check my bank account balance," Adam answered honestly.

The security guard grew anxious: "Ms. Sinclair, why are you wasting your breath on a vagrant? Someone like him couldn't possibly have an account at our bank."

But Viola ignored him, her tone still calm: "To check your balance, you should have brought your bank card, right? Could I see it?"

Adam nodded.

He reached into the garbage bag, rummaged for a moment, and pulled out a black card from the inner compartment of his old wallet. The card was a bit dusty. He wiped it on his shirt, but that only made it dirtier. He scratched his head, a little embarrassed.

But Viola Sinclair's expression suddenly changed drastically.

She stared at the card, her pupils contracting sharply, her breathing quickening. She instinctively adjusted her glasses, leaned in for a closer look, and confirmed that she wasn't mistaken.