Max Luckey: The Undisputed Student Billionaire

Chapter 7

The night breeze rustled lightly against the fabric of Trisha’s dress as the group strolled toward Sarah’s car. Their laughter still echoed faintly from the events inside the club, especially from the sight of Arnold—once the uncontested peacock of the campus—reduced to a janitor wielding a mop in shame. Trisha had even joked that someone should paint the scene and auction it off as a symbol of poetic justice.

As they neared the car, Trisha’s phone vibrated. She instinctively pulled it out of her designer clutch, still riding the wave of amusement from the night. But the moment her eyes scanned the screen, the laughter died in her throat. Her expression soured.

Sarah immediately noticed. “What’s wrong?” she asked, her voice lined with concern.

Trisha swallowed, holding up the phone for them to see. “It’s the Fashion Class 3X bag,” she said in a low voice. “It’s... gone. Out of stock.”

Max, Roland, and Sarah looked at each other, puzzled.

“Out of stock?” Sarah echoed. “But I thought you already ordered it?”

Trisha nodded slowly. “I did. Two weeks ago. I got confirmation and everything. But apparently, due to some high-end last-minute clients, the manufacturer had to withdraw my order. There are only four custom-made pieces left globally, and those are... well, they’re being sold through private connections now. It’s practically impossible to get one unless you know someone very high up. And even then, they’re selling at over two hundred thousand dollars.”

She blinked hard, her voice trembling slightly. “Tomorrow’s my birthday. I was supposed to wear it. It was the centerpiece of my entire look.”

For a moment, the group stood in silence. Max looked at her, his jaw tightening slightly. Trisha rarely got emotional, especially over material things. But he could tell this wasn’t about just a bag—it was about the sense of being heard, validated, celebrated. Trisha had always been the type to give her friends extravagant gifts. She rarely asked for anything herself. And now, on her big day, her one request had slipped away.

Roland tried to cheer her up first. “Come on, Trish. It’s just a bag. Trends come and go. By next month, the next hot thing will be taking over. You’ll forget about this one.”

“Yeah,” Sarah added, placing a hand on Trisha’s arm. “Besides, you already look better than half the models who parade those things. You don’t need the bag to prove it.”

Max nodded in agreement, though his mind was already racing in a different direction.

Later that evening, after they’d dropped off Roland and Max, Sarah and Trisha returned home, both girls exhausted. The day had been more than eventful—shocking, hilarious, and now, a little disheartening. Trisha disappeared into her room in silence.

Max, meanwhile, had barely dropped his bag on the floor of his room when his phone began to buzz. He checked the screen and quickly picked it up.

“Grandma!” he answered brightly.

His grandmother’s voice, calm and dignified as always, filled the other end. “Maxwell, darling. I need you to be at Apex Imperium tomorrow. I’ve had the final inheritance documents prepared. It’s time you begin understanding how things work at the top.”

Max blinked, caught off guard. “Me? Tomorrow?”

“Yes, dear. You’ll meet with Dorothy Morgan. She’s been briefed. She’ll walk you through everything. It's time you started learning about your role as heir and future CEO of the Luckey family conglomerate.”

Max ran a hand through his hair. It felt surreal. Even though he didn't known about his family’s massive empire, being thrust into it so suddenly left him a bit winded.

“Okay, Grandma. I’ll be there,” he said slowly.

“Good,” she replied. “Oh, and Maxwell...”

“Yes?”

“Wear something decent. We LUCKEYs ain't cheap..”

Max chuckled, rubbing his face. “Got it. Hey, Grandma—before you go—can I ask for a favor?”

There was a pause on the other end. “Go ahead.”

“It’s about a bag. The Fashion Class 3X. Trisha... my friend... she wanted it for her birthday tomorrow, but it’s out of stock. Only four pieces are available now, through private links. Do you think... do you think you could get one?”

Another pause.

Then his grandmother laughed softly. “Maxwell, did you pay any attention when I showed you the companies under our family’s holdings?”

“Some,” he replied sheepishly.

“Well, dear. We own the brand that manufactures that bag.”

Max blinked, stunned. “Wait—what?”

“I’ll have the customized version sent over to your place first thing tomorrow. Consider it handled.”

Max grinned ear to ear. “Thanks, Grandma. You’re the best.”

The next morning, Max left the house early, opting for a quiet ride on his favorite bicycle. While the vehicle may not have looked like much—sleek matte black, unassuming frame—it was in fact a limited-edition 1885 titanium-engraved model, custom-built by a hidden manufacturer in Europe. Only two existed in the world, and Max happened to own one. The bike had been a gift formal owned byhis late grandfather.

Apex Imperium loomed into view. The building sparkled in the morning sun like a polished blade, its glass walls catching and reflecting light like a gem. Even for someone as grounded as Max, the sheer size and grandeur of the place sent a chill down his spine. This was no ordinary company. It was one of the top fifteen businesses in the entire city—forty subsidiaries, global reach, and over eighty million dollars in weekly revenue.

He parked his bike carefully in the small lot near the east entrance.

Just then, the screech of tires snapped his attention to the right. A sleek, black sedan pulled in hastily, nearly brushing the edge of Max’s bike.

Max stepped back in alarm.

From the car emerged a sharply dressed young man with slicked-back hair and designer shades—Andrew Garfield, his old class rep from high school. Max’s face lit up.

“Andrew!” he called. “It’s me—Max! From St. Helena’s!”

Andrew glanced over and smirked. His eyes roamed over Max’s casual outfit and the bike beside him. Without a word, he scoffed and brushed past Max like he were a piece of windblown trash.

Max blinked. “Maybe he didn’t recognize me…”

Meanwhile, Andrew approached the building entrance, where two large security guards stood at attention.

“Keep an eye on that guy with the bicycle,” Andrew sneered, pointing back toward Max. “Looks like a thief, if you ask me. Don’t wait to lose your jobs because some punk walks in and robs the place.”

The guards straightened, immediately turning toward Max.

Within seconds, both guards were striding over.

“Hey,” one barked. “What are you doing here?”

Max stood calmly. “I have a business meeting.”

The two guards glanced at each other before breaking into laughter. “You? Business? You look like you just got off a food delivery shift.”

Max forced a smile. “Looks can be deceiving.”

“Not that deceiving,” the second guard scoffed. “You know where you are? This isn’t some pawn shop downtown. This is Apex Imperium.”

“I know where I am,” Max said. “I’m here to see Mrs. Dorothy Morgan.”

The first guard snorted. “With a two-hundred-dollar bike? Don’t make us laugh.”

Max said nothing. The guards turned their mockery to the bike, kicking at the frame.

“This thing even functional?” one asked, stamping on the chain guard.

“It’s worth more than every car parked here combined,” Max said evenly.

More laughter followed.

Until Max pulled out his phone, tapped a name, and spoke a few quiet words: “Dorothy. I’m outside. There’s been a... misunderstanding.”

Five minutes later, all hell broke loose.

From the upper floor of the building, Dorothy Morgan—Manager of Apex Imperium—stormed down the stairs as if possessed. Her tailored business suit fluttered with every step, and her heels clacked sharply against the marble floor. Andrew straightened his jacket and tried to intercept her, but her personal bodyguards shoved him aside like an afterthought.

“Mrs. Dorothy is quite busy today hmm?” Andrew asked the receptionist in disbelief. “Yea sometimes she's like that. This way sir the deputy manager is waiting for you.” The receptionist said showing Andrew to the deputy manager office .

Dorothy burst into the parking lot and found Max standing beside his battered bicycle. Without hesitation, she bent into a ninety-degree bow.

“Master Maxwell,” she said. “Is this your limited-edition 1885 titanium bicycle?”

Max nodded.

Dorothy’s eyes burned with fury. She turned to the security guards.

“You assaulted this bike? You mocked its owner? Do you know this bike can feed your families!”

The guards went pale. “But ma, we didn't…”

“You’re fired. Effective immediately. No severance. No benefits. And you’ll be prosecuted for property damage. Take them away.” Dorothy cut in without allowing them to finish. 

Her own security guards moved in swiftly.

Dorothy tur

ned back to Max. “Please, sir. Allow me to escort you to my office.”