Robert McAfee; The New Student Trillionaire

The Miami sun blistered down on the sidewalk as Robert weaved through traffic, a brown pharmacy paper bag clutched tightly in his hand. His breath came in sharp bursts, sweat soaking through the collar of his shirt. The bottle of cough syrup rattled against the antibiotics inside the bag—urgent medicine for his mother’s worsening condition.

His phone buzzed in his pocket.

“Christopher,” he muttered, wiping a bead of sweat from his brow and answering with a half-breathless voice. “Yeah?”

“Bro, where are you? You need to get to the hotel—now.”

Robert slowed. “I’m almost home. I just needed to get—”

“No time,” Christopher cut in. “Mrs. Cortisone is raging. I told her you got hit by a car—just to buy you some time. She’s ready to skin someone alive.”

Robert froze, glancing down the street toward the shabby apartment building he called home. “You didn’t have to do that, man.”

“I had to. Just move. I stalled her, but it won’t last.”

Robert ended the call and broke into a jog, his legs aching. He reached the building, flung the bag of medicine on the counter next to the fan, and scribbled a note for his mother.

Another buzz.

This time it was her.

Olivia Rodrigo.

His thumb hovered over the answer button. For a brief second, he considered ignoring it.

But he didn’t.

“Olivia?” he said.

Her voice came through, irritated and commanding. “Robert, I need to see you. It’s important.”

He glanced at the clock. “Liv, I’ve got to—”

“Meet me at Latta’s Coffee. Thirty minutes.”

The line went dead.

He stood there, lips slightly parted, phone still in hand. For a second, all he could hear was the old ceiling fan spinning slowly above his mother’s bed.

Then he sighed, turned on his heel, and ran again.

The bell above the door of Latta’s Coffee jingled as Robert stepped inside, panting, cheeks flushed. His eyes scanned the dim café until they landed on her—Olivia, seated by the window in a slim-fitting lavender blouse, dark sunglasses perched on her nose.

She didn’t even look up.

“You’re late,” she said, still scrolling through her phone. “I waited outside for ten minutes before coming in. In heels, Robert. Heels.”

“I had to get medicine. For my mom,” Robert said carefully, trying to catch his breath.

Olivia scoffed, finally meeting his eyes. “You always have a reason, don’t you?”

He took the seat across from her. “I’m sorry, Olivia. You know things have been—”

She raised a hand, cutting him off like a judge silencing a peasant.

“I didn’t call you here to hear your excuses,” she said, pulling off her sunglasses and revealing eyes that were once soft and full of warmth—but now cold. Almost bored. “I want space.”

The words hung in the air like a slap.

Robert blinked. “What?”

“I need space, Robert. From… this. From you.”

He felt his throat tighten. “What are you talking about?”

She leaned forward, her voice lower now. “Look, I’m going back to take care of my grandmother. I need time to think. About what I really want.”

“I thought you said—” he started.

“I don’t want to be tied to someone whose whole life is about struggling. I need time away from your… poverty.”

There was no venom in her words. Just plain, dispassionate truth.

Robert sat there, stunned, as she rose from her chair, picked up her purse, and walked past him without a backward glance.

Pinehills University shimmered with wealth. Nestled in the heart of Miami, it wasn’t just a school—it was a parade of power, influence, and absurd net worths. Students arrived in Rolls Royces, with entourages and press following behind. Families were categorized by wealth, as if their value was determined solely by commas and zeroes.

Robert, on a full scholarship, had no ranking. He was a ghost among titans. A servant in a castle of kings.

Families in Pine Hills University were categorised into various social classes based on their wealth. First-class families were classified as A-Class because of their network of $500 billion and $1 trillion. There was only one member of this family, but they also possessed the economic and political might to build or destroy a nation and a continent.

B-class families had their net worths between $100 billion and $500 billion. This group had only 5% of the world's population and with that wealth they are not anywhere in the same league with the A-Class family.

Then, families with net worths between $1 billion and $100 billion were classified as C-class; the McCastrol and the majority of the Twine are among these families.

Lastly, the D-class family was defined as those with a net worth between $100 million and $1 billion and that’s where Olivia Roderigiz family fell under and as the star daughter of the family she wanted to be in the elites group by any means possible.

But Robert? Robert cleaned floors for minimum wage.

By the time he stumbled into the lobby of Perilum Hotel, his shirt clung to him with sweat, and his legs felt like lead.

Mrs. Cortisone spotted him immediately.

“You’re just getting here?” she snarled, storming from behind the counter. Her heels clacked across the marble like gunshots.

“I’m sorry, ma’am. My mother was—”

“Your salary is cut by 25%,” she barked, already waving him away. “And the next mistake will leave you penniless. Understand me, you waste of payroll?”

Robert bowed his head. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Room 266,” she snapped. “Mr. McCastrol is staying there. And he requested cleaning service.”

Robert’s stomach sank.

Not him.

Still, he nodded, accepting the broom and mop from Christopher with a defeated glance.

“You sure you’re okay?” Christopher whispered.

Robert forced a smile. “I’m used to this.”

The hallway was silent except for the sound of his shoes squeaking against the polished floor.

Room 266 stood at the far end, the door half-ajar.

Then he heard it—soft moaning, rhythmic, unmistakable. The sound of bodies tangled in intimacy.

His gut clenched.

He knocked.

A lazy voice called out. “Come in.”

Robert pushed the door open.

Clothes littered the floor. A bra dangled from the bedside lamp. The sheets were in disarray.

And there—half-propped up on one elbow, with a devilish grin—was Matthew McCastrol.

“Ah,” Matthew drawled. “The janitor.”

Robert barely acknowledged him. His gaze shifted to the woman beside him, face turned away.

But as she sat up, brushing hair out of her eyes…

His world collapsed.

“Olivia?” he choked.

She blinked once. No guilt. No shame. Nothing.

Robert felt the mop slip from his hand.

“Why… What are you…?”

Matthew let out a cruel laugh. “You know, I always wondered what kind of idiot dates the help.”

Robert’s fists clenched.

Olivia didn’t speak.

“She said she needed space,” Matthew continued. “I guess she meant space in my bed.”

And then it snapped.

Robert’s fist collided with Matthew’s jaw in a blur of rage. The force sent the golden boy sprawling across the bed, blood trickling from his lip.

Olivia screamed and scrambled for her phone.

“Security!” she yelled. “Now!”

Mrs. Cortisone arrived like a stormcloud, flanked by two burly guards.

She didn’t ask questions.

“Beat him.”

The guards descended. Fists rained down. A kick to the ribs. Another to the head.

Robert curled inward, trying to shield himself.

Matthew stood up, brushing himself off.

“Pick him up,” he ordered.

The guards obeyed.

Matthew leaned in close, grinning through his busted lip. “Next time, know your place.”

And then—three solid punches to the stomach.

Robert wheezed, doubled over, but still conscious.

“Throw him out,” Mrs. Cortisone snapped. “He’s done here.”

The guards dragged him like trash, his shirt torn, blood dripping from his mouth.

As they passed through the lobby, Christopher rushed over.

“Robert?! What the hell?!”

Mrs. Cortisone turned to him like a vulture.

“You’re with him, aren’t you?”

Christopher hesitated. “He’s my friend—”

“You’re fired. Get out.”

Christopher stared, incredulous. “What?”

She pointed. “Throw him out with the garbage.”

The guards obeyed again.

Moments later, both boys were dumped outside onto the cold sidewalk.

Robert lay there, cheek pressed against the concrete, vision blurring.

Above him, the sky stretched endlessly, uncaring.

His ribs throbbed. His dignity lay shattered like the mop he

had dropped minutes earlier.

And then—his phone buzzed.

He reached for it with trembling fingers.

A strange number.