Rise Of The Secret Trillionaire Heir

Max’s hand was already stretched out toward the curb, flagging down a cab beneath the deep gray twilight when his phone buzzed sharply in his jacket pocket. The drizzle had started again, cold and relentless, soaking through the seams of his thin hoodie. He sighed, pulling out the phone with fingers numbed by the rain. The screen blinked with a name that made his stomach sink.

Mr. Brandon (Work)

He almost let it ring out. Almost. But rent was due in two weeks, and he was still $350 short. So, against his better judgment, he answered.

“Max,” the familiar bark came through the line, no greeting. “Get back to the office. Now.”

“What? Sir, I’m off the clock. I delivered everything on the sheet today. I’m halfway home…”

“I don’t care if you’re in Madagascar. We’ve got a high-profile client requesting urgent delivery. You want to keep your salary this month, get your ass back here.”

The line cut off before Max could speak. He stood still for a second, the rain slipping down his neck. His throat clenched. He thought about ignoring it, letting Brandon stew in his own ego, but then he remembered Gina.

That stupid bag.

She’d shown him a video clip of it just last week, a short influence reel that had gone viral: the Fashion Class 3X bag, limited edition, silk-lined, and stitched with real platinum thread or some nonsense. Price tag? A cool $50,800. Max didn’t even make that in five months. But Gina had said—no, demanded—that he get it for her birthday. At the very least, he would try and get her the replica, which cost just over $11,000. He’d been saving every dime, skipping meals, doubling shifts, burning the candle at both ends just to reach the $6,000 mark.

A few thousand more, and he could make it happen. Max cursed under his breath and turned back toward the office, sprinting against the wind and the storm.

Mr. Brandon didn’t even look up when Max arrived, soaked and shivering.

Now Brandon dangled the perfect carrot: double pay for one last delivery. “There.” He pointed to a black, slick package wrapped in high-grade waterproof material. “Clorox Bar. Private booth. Name on the tag: Ethan Baron.”

Max blinked.

“Ethan Baron? The Baron?”

Brandon gave him a slow, smug nod. “Yes. That Ethan. Don’t mess it up.”

Clorox Bar was the kind of place that didn't let people like Max in—not unless they were sweeping the floors or dropping off food. A luxury haven for the ultra-rich, where laughter came with vintage wine and every couch probably cost more than his entire apartment lease.

Max could feel every eye on him as he stepped through the glass doors, tracking the mud on his shoes, his wrinkled pants, his worn hoodie. But he didn’t care. He just wanted to deliver the damn package and be done with it.

The hostess gave him a strained smile.

“I’m looking for a Mr. Ethan Baron,” Max said, holding the package up like a peace offering.

Her eyes narrowed when she saw the name, and her voice dropped respectfully. “Private Booth 4. Just down that hallway to the right.”

He nodded, brushing rainwater from his eyebrows, and headed toward the hallway.

The air changed the deeper he went. It was warmer, quieter, thicker—like money itself had a scent, and it perfumed these walls. Max felt out of place in every possible way. He glanced down at the tag on the package. Ethan Baron.

He slowed as he neared Booth 4.

Then, from inside the booth, came the unmistakable sound of gasps. Moaning. Soft, rhythmic, desperate.

Max froze.

His stomach twisted as if someone had grabbed his intestines and wrenched them.

He knocked once.

The moans didn’t stop.

Twice.

Still nothing.

And then, against his better judgment, Max pushed the door open.

The package slipped from his hands and hit the floor with a dull thud.

Gina.

Her head snapped up, but her body—half-naked, dress pooled at her waist—was still tangled beneath another figure.

Ethan Baron.

The infamous school playboy. Rich. Arrogant. Untouchable. He barely glanced at Max. Just kept thrusting, slow and deliberate, like Max wasn’t even there. Like he was part of the show.

Max staggered backward, heart pounding so loud he couldn’t hear himself breathe.

“Gina?” he croaked.

She didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at him like he was the stranger in the room. Ethan pulled out with a grunt, stretched, and smirked.

“Took you long enough,” Ethan said, wiping sweat from his forehead like he’d just finished a gym set.

Max snapped.

In one furious motion, he lunged forward and grabbed Ethan by the shoulders, yanking him off the couch. Ethan hit the floor with a grunt, but before he could react, Max’s fist collided with his cheek—hard. The room seemed to shake.

Then chaos.

The booth’s curtain flung open. Voices exploded around them. Security came barreling in like dogs unleashed.

“Hey! Hands off the client!”

And within no time, Max’s arms were locked behind him, twisted painfully. He shouted Gina’s name as he struggled, only to see her calmly adjusting her dress, not a flicker of shame or regret in her eyes.

“Gina—why? After everything I’ve done for you? For our relationship?”

She scoffed. “Done for me?” she repeated, lifting an eyebrow.

“You think skipping meals just to buy me $10 dinners counts as doing something for me?”

Max felt like the air had been punched out of him.

“I took this damn job—this delivery—just so I could get you that bag,” he said. “The replica. I’ve been saving for months.”

The room broke into laughter.

Even Gina chuckled as she pulled a small object from Ethan’s side—sleek, leather, golden buckles gleaming.

The Fashion Class 3X bag.

The real one.

“Replica?” Gina said, holding up the bag. “Ethan got me the original—and it’s only our first date.”

More laughter. Some of the women in the room actually clapped. “Girl, you upgraded!” someone shouted. “Finally dumped the broke boy.”

Max stood frozen, burning with humiliation. He turned to Ethan, whose cheek was already swelling but who looked amused more than anything.

“You storm in here… and for what?” Ethan sneered. “A replica bag you hope to buy?”

He turned to the guards.

“Deal with this fool.”

The security didn’t wait for a second order. They dragged Max out the back door like trash being taken to the curb. The alley was empty, slick with oil and rain.

They didn’t hold back.

Fists. Kicks. A boot to the ribs.

Max curled in on himself, shielding his face. Every blow landed with the weight of betrayal, of failure, of foolish dreams.

When it was over, they left him there, groaning, bleeding, alone, almost half dead.

He staggered to his feet, dragging his battered frame into the night, each step agony. The rain was

hed blood from his brow.

Then—buzz.

His phone vibrated in his pocket.