The screen of Max’s cracked phone glowed dimly in the rain-soaked darkness, its light flickering like a dying star. It buzzed again in his trembling hand, the name Mr. Brandon blinking on the caller ID. With everything inside him screaming, aching, breaking, Max answered.
“MAX!” The voice on the other end exploded with fury.
“I…I delivered the…”
“Don’t talk, just listen.” Mr. Brandon’s voice was sharp and cold. “What the hell did you do? The client’s furious. He said the package was smeared, bent, and you were late! He left a one-star review, called you ‘the definition of street trash’ and ‘a bumbling lowlife. Worst of all you punched our client?’ Max… that was a premium client. Our biggest. You just ruined our reputation for a damn package.”
Max remained silent, water dripping down his brow and into his bruised eye.
“You’re fired. Do not come back. Ever.”
The call ended.
Just like that, the little stability Max had left was gone. He stood still for a moment under the relentless rain. His lips parted, but no sound came. The street was empty except for the weak gleam of streetlamps and the distant echo of thunder. His limbs shook, not from the cold, but from everything else.
His life was gone.
No job. No girlfriend. No dignity. Nothing.
Everything had all ended in one night.
His breath grew shallow as he walked, barely aware of his feet hitting the ground. His chest felt like it was caving in, an invisible weight pressing down on him. Gina’s laugh, the mocking eyes of strangers, Ethan’s smug smile—they looped in his mind like a broken record.
Maybe if I just disappear…
That thought landed with terrifying clarity.
Maybe if he just stepped into traffic… maybe he wouldn’t feel this pain anymore. No more struggle. No more fake promises. No more pretending everything would get better someday.
He staggered toward the middle of the road. Lights blurred in the rain. A horn screamed, tires screeched.
And then—blackness, and into the light. The last thing Max saw was the light before he passed out.
Lady Roslyn's eyes widened behind her tinted glasses. She had seen many things in her long, powerful life. But never had she expected to almost run over a bleeding boy in the middle of the road.
The moment the car stopped, she flung open the door. The rain soaked through her silk blouse as she leaned over Max’s crumpled body. Blood ran from his temple, mixing with the dirty water on the road. His clothes were torn. His face—young, battered, barely breathing.
“God, he’s just a boy,” she whispered.
“Ma’am,” her driver said, frowning, “this might be one of those scams. These streets are full of con artists.”
“Help him.” Her voice turned to steel. “Put him in the car. Now.”
The driver hesitated, then obeyed.
“Hospital, ma’am?”
“No. My estate. It’s ten minutes away. And he may not have that long.”
The Luckey estate was a fortress of glass, stone, and money—perched high on a hill overlooking the city. As the car pulled into the marble-paved driveway, staff rushed to the vehicle, umbrellas ready, concern on their faces.
Within minutes, Max was placed on a leather recliner in the medical wing, a sprawling facility larger than most clinics. The family’s personal doctor arrived, pulling gloves over his hands as he assessed the damage.
“This is bad,” he murmured, ripping away Max’s drenched shirt to clean the wounds.
That’s when Lady Roslyn saw it.
Her heart nearly stopped.
A faint but unmistakable symbol was engraved just above Max’s left ribs. A key. Not just any key. The Luckey Insignia—an ancient family tradition. Every Luckey child received it six months after birth, alongside a special, hidden barcode embedded in the design.
“Scan that,” she whispered to her assistant, who had entered silently behind her.
The PA pulled out the encrypted family scanner, hovering it over the engraving. The small screen blinked, beeped once, and then lines of encrypted data filled the display.
Name: Maxwell Luckey
Date of Birth: March 9th, 2000
Blood Type: AB+
Relation: Direct Descendant | Grandson of Lady Roslyn Luckey
Position: Sole Heir
Lady Roslyn staggered backward. She felt the blood drain from her face. All these years…
He was alive.
When Max opened his eyes, the first thing he noticed was the scent. Fresh lilies. Soft linen. Expensive.
White curtains danced in the breeze. A warm blanket lay over him. Beeping monitors hummed beside him. For a moment, he thought he’d died and gone to heaven.
Then he saw her.
A graceful woman in her seventies, dressed in a silk robe, sat beside him, her wrinkled hand resting gently on his arm.
“Are you… an angel?” Max murmured.
Lady Roslyn chuckled, a rare sound full of warmth. “Hardly. But you gave me a heart attack back there. Do you know how close you came to death?”
Max winced, trying to sit up. Pain seared through his side.
“Where… where am I?”
“You’re in my home. You stepped into the road. My car almost hit you. I brought you here.”
He blinked, confused.
“What's your name?” she asked gently.
“Max,” he said slowly. “That’s all I’ve ever been called. The nuns said the name was carved into my skin when they found me.”
Roslyn nodded. “That engraving on your side. Do you know what it means?”
He shook his head. “I’ve had it since I was a baby. I always thought it was weird. But… nobody ever explained.”
Lady Roslyn reached into her blouse and pulled out a silver chain. At the end of it was a pendant—shaped like a key.
The same shape as Max’s engraving.
“I have something to tell you,” she said, taking his hand.
And so she told him. About the plane crash that killed her son—his father—and his wife. About the decades-long search for the missing child whose body was never recovered in the plane crash. About the Luckey dynasty, their fortune, their power.
And how Max was their sole heir.
Tears brimmed in Lady Roslyn’s eyes. “I never gave up hope. And now… here you are.”
Max stared at her in disbelief. He felt like a balloon drifting into the clouds. “This can’t be real.”
“It is,” she whispered. “And I know this is overwhelming. But everything will change now. You’re not alone anymore.”
She reached for a sleek black folder and flipped it open, revealing documents, photographs, and corporate titles.
“These are just a few of the companies you’ll inherit,” she said.
Max blinked at logos of global fashion empires, tech startups, shipping firms, and luxury resorts.
“I can’t run all this,” he muttered. “I… I’ve been a delivery guy. I got dumped yesterday. I got fired. I got beaten up—”
“And now,” Roslyn interrupted, “you rise.”
He swallowed hard.
“I need time.”
Roslyn nodded, understanding. “Of course. But this world waits for no one. When you’re ready, we begin.”
She handed him a platinum-black credit card. His name—Maxwell Luckey—was embossed in silver. “Use this whenever you need anything. It has no limit. You deserve everything you were denied.”
Later, she turned to her assistant. “Take him to the garage. Let him choose somethin… something that befits him.”
The Luckey garage was a glittering vault of mechanical beauty. Lamborghinis. Bugattis. Custom Rolls-Royces. One-off concept cars. The kind of vehicles people only saw in magazines.
Max walked past them all.
At the end of the row, in a quiet corner, stood a simple yet beautiful black bicycle. He stopped, placed his hand on its handlebar, and smiled.
“I want this one.”
The assistant’s mouth opened slightly in confusion. “Sir? That’s… that’s a bicycle.”
“I’ve always wanted one. I’ve never had my own.”
The next morning, Max arrived at school. His face was cleaner. His wounds dressed. His clothes plain, but crisp.
As he rode the bicycle through the gates, students turned to look. No one recognized him.
No one knew the boy they had mocked and tossed aside last night was now the heir to a $300 billion empire.
He parked his bicycle gently, locked it, and looked up at th
e tall school building.
This wasn’t a dream.
But if he was… he never wanted to wake up.

Latest Chapter
Chapter 112
Max listened with all his heart and all his soul to Gina’s sobbing, pleading, begging. He could not understand his expression, it was tame and unremarkable. He did not interrupt, he did not whine, and he did not offer a single word of comfort. With the look on his face, he watched the performance with an intense concentration that was far more sinister than any breathlessness of temper could have been. There were tears streaming down Gina’s face; her voice now hoarse in the exertion in her sobbing; her grip on Max’s arm tightened to the point of pain; and she waited and waited shivering for some signal. a flicker of emotion, anything that might indicate a crack in his composure, a hint that her desperate act was working.“Please Max, ” she choked, her voice almost whispered, “just say something! Anything! Don’t just look at me like that! ”She squeezed his arm again tighter and more hardened: “I know I messed things up! I know! But people change, Max! I changed! You gotta believe me! ”
Chapter 113
Days turned to weeks. And the rumors about Ethan’s family kept coming out louder like a fever that spread indefinitely through the elite circles of Paris. It started sneaky; a raised eyebrow here, a cold nod there — fed by the reporter’s article and Max’s almost non-existent influence, it seems. Then the rumors turned into facts. News came in: first it came as rumors in obscure financial blogs, then as stories of great suspicion in trusted publications, details of misdeeds within Baron Industries, Ethan’s father’s sprawling organization of holdings – embezzlement of labor from overseas factories, violation of the environment in their manufacturing plants, various kinds of egregious financial maneuvers to boost profits over their limits and avoid paying taxes. The once almost impenetrable facade of the Baron family began to crumble, brick by brick.“Did you see the headlines today?” a student muttered in the school cafeteria, holding up a tablet displaying a damning exposé. “Baron Indu
Chapter 112
The formal dinner was winding down. The atmosphere was filled with the delicious smell of freshly brewed coffee and the low hum of happy gossip. Crystal bleated faintly, the last scraps of these exquisite desserts were being removed from the tables. Max still at his place of honor at the VIP table was having a secret conversation with Isabelle Moreau and Jean-Luc Dubois, Trisha's hand gently resting on his arm.By some slipping pause, a woman left a nearby table and approached Max’s. She was a woman in her late thirtys, tastefully dressed, with sharp and pointed eyes that seemed to carry every detail with them. She had a small notebook and a pen in her pocket. It was Eleanor Vance, senior journalist at a leading international business magazine whose interviews were always savvy and for which she received outstanding reviews. She could peel back the corporate language, looking for the truth.“Mr. Lesley, ” she said with a respectful but firm tone of voice, in a straight-on way to Max.
Chapter 111
Obviously, that evening, the air in the private dining room of the Hôtel de Crillon was filled with the smell of truffle oil, expensive perfume and quiet power. And this wasn’t a networking event, this was a private dinner prepared by the very investors who had just been as impressed with Max as I had. The guest list was carefully thought out, a cabal of European finance, tech and art.Gina and Ethan, having gotten invitations through Ethan’s father’s now waning networks of connections, were momentarily out of place. Ethan in the stiff-fitting tuxedo squished together in his hand after a few nervous glances, held out the arms of Gina who was sitting in a shimmering silver dress which suddenly seemed rather loud with her smile crackling; they were led to a less visible table which was located just near the entrance of the kitchen, the sound of dishes constantly reminding them that they were “outside” of it.“This is... this is stupid, ” Ethan muttered, his voice tight and almost exhali
Chapter 110
When it was Max’s turn, he slowly strode up to the small podium stowed in what was really a dedicated pitch space. The posture was relaxed, confident, the whole audience watching – very attentively – Max, one of the few companies out there. Ethan and Gina had squeezed through at the back, faces slightly wary in deference but curiously so, too.“Good afternoon, ” Max said, his voice a steady, moderate tone, untightened by any jitteryness. He didn’t waver from flashy gestures or unnatural gesticulations. He spoke quietly and with an attractive clarity. “I’m Max Lesley, and today I’m here to discuss a problem that pays industries billions every year in lost income, reputation and enormously disproportionate impact of global inequality: opaque and unethical supply chains. ”He paused, let it sink in. “I’m proposing a decentralized and artificial intelligence-driven platform for ethical supply chain management: imagine a system where every component, every raw material, every labor hour, f
Chapter 109
The day after the gala, the school group headed to the other part of the city to attend another high-profile business networking event at a classy high-rise conference room overlooking the river Seine. A far less official but just as grand gathering, the event was designed to introduce the students to the world of international finance. The air was filled with whispered conversations, the tinkling of cups of coffee and the distinct smell of ambition: executive men in suit and tie walked, unshakable, with practice, exchanged business cards and polite smiles.Max (with Trisha) walked around the room with a quiet smile on his face. He wasn’t trying to get the attention, but it found him. He exchanged quick, polite nods with a number of executives, whom he met at the gala on Thursday evening. Jean-Luc Dubois was obviously busy.“As if everyone knows you here, ” Trisha whispered through him as they maneuvered past a crowd of financiers.“Jean-Luc is very... inquisitive, ” Max said, a faint
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