THE INVISIBLE HEIR: $5 TRILLION EMPIRE

Chapter 3: I Am The Heir To The Richest Man?

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Trenton sat in the $25,000 leather chair on the 27th floor of Convergence Tower, staring out at Los Angeles.

From up here, the city looked small. The traffic on the 110, the tiny people on the streets, the Hollywood sign in the distance — everything looked like it belonged to someone else.

Five trillion dollars.

The number kept repeating in his head like a broken record. It didn't feel real.

Michael Sterling slid a black wooden box across the marble desk.

"Young Master, these are yours now."

Trenton opened it slowly with his large ebony hands.

Inside were two cards. Both matte black. Both heavy — made of real metal, not plastic. No numbers on the front. No expiration date. Just his name engraved in silver: TRENTON ALEX.

"The first is the Black Card from JP Morgan Reserve. There is no limit. You can buy a $5 coffee, or you can buy a $500 million building. It will go through. All charges go to the company's private ledger. Since the company is worth over five trillion, there is no purchase you cannot make," Michael said calmly.

"The second is the Supreme Emperor Card from The Emperor Club in Hollywood Hills. Membership is $10 million a year, invitation only. Even Jake Reynolds' father was rejected three times. With this card, you own the place. You can close it, you can buy it, you can kick anyone out. It represents absolute status in Los Angeles."

Trenton picked up the Black Card. It was cold. Heavy. For three years, he had counted every penny. He had reused tea bags. He had picked bottles for five cents.

Now he held infinite money.

A slow, dangerous smile spread across his extremely handsome face. His dark eyes, which had been empty and tired for years, suddenly lit up with fire.

For the first time, he wasn't thinking about survival. He was thinking about revenge. And luxury. And showing off.

"Michael," he said, his deep voice now steady and cold. "I want a car. Right now."

Michael smiled, as if he had been waiting for this exact sentence for ten years. "What kind of car would Young Master like? Bugatti? Koenigsegg? Rolls Royce? We own three dealerships."

"I want something loud. Something that screams. Something that everyone at Westwood Elite will hear coming from two blocks away," Trenton said. He stood up, his 6'4 athletic build casting a long shadow across the office. "I spent three years being invisible. I want to be impossible to ignore."

An hour later, the elevator doors on the ground floor opened.

The entire lobby froze.

Scarlett Monroe was standing at the front desk, still in her coffee-stained white blouse, trying to clean it with napkins. Her red curls were messy. Her green eyes were still furious. When she saw Trenton walking next to Michael Sterling — the untouchable General Manager who never bowed to anyone — her jaw dropped.

Seven security guards who had tried to arrest Trenton ten minutes ago were now lined up in two straight rows, heads bowed, hands behind their backs like soldiers.

Scarlett's face went pale.

"Mr... Mr. Sterling... this... this guy, he... he assaulted me in the elevator, he touched—" she stammered, pointing at Trenton.

Michael's face turned to ice. His voice was sharp enough to cut glass.

"Scarlett Monroe, this is Young Master Trenton Alex. The sole heir of Chairman Arthur Blackwood. My boss. Your boss. The owner of this entire building. Apologize. Now. On your knees if you have to."

The lobby went dead silent. You could hear the AC humming.

Scarlett stared at Trenton. The tall, ebony, extremely handsome 18-year-old boy in the faded blue t-shirt and dirty sneakers. The "beggar pervert" she had just screamed at. Owner of Convergence Tower?

Her knees felt weak. Her emerald eyes filled with horror and tears.

"Y-Young Master Alex... I... I'm so sorry! I didn't know! I thought you were a homeless man, I thought you were trying to— I swear I didn't mean— Please forgive me!" Her voice was shaking. She was almost crying.

Trenton looked down at her. Up close, she was even more stunning than from far. Her red curls, her full lips trembling, her white silk blouse still transparent from the coffee, showing the black lace bra underneath, her tight red skirt riding up her long legs in stockings.

Every guy in Downtown LA wanted Scarlett Monroe. No one had ever gotten her.

Trenton leaned in slightly, his 6'4 frame towering over her. He was so close she could smell his cologne — Michael had sprayed him with Creed Aventus in the office.

He lowered his voice so only she could hear, a smirk on his handsome face.

"You have a very nice view, Manager Monroe. Try not to spill coffee on it next time. It distracts the whole lobby."

Scarlett's face turned bright red — half from shame, half from something else she had never felt before. No man had ever dared speak to her like that. Her heart hammered against her chest.

Trenton didn't wait for her answer. He walked straight out of the tower, past the bowing guards, past the staring executives.

Outside, the LA sun hit his face. And parked right in front of the tower, blocking the entire entrance, was a monster.

A brand new, matte black Bugatti Chiron Super Sport 300+. $4.2 million. Carbon fiber body, quad exhausts, low and wide like a jet. The doors were open upward like wings.

Next to it, a second car — a blood-red Lamborghini Aventador SVJ Roadster. $800,000.

Next to that, a Rolls Royce Phantom Mansory edition.

The chauffeur stood at attention. "Young Master, Mr. Sterling said you wanted loud. So I brought three. Which one would you like to drive first?"

Trenton felt a rush he had never felt before. Not even when he won his high school martial arts tournament. Pure power. Pure luxury.

He ran his hand over the cold carbon fiber of the Bugatti. His reflection stared back — 18, 6'4, athletic, ebony, extremely handsome, but now with a $4 million car behind him.

"This one," he said, sliding into the Bugatti. The seat hugged his athletic build perfectly.

The engine roared. _BRAAAP!_ The entire street shook. Car alarms went off. People screamed and pulled out phones.

Trenton floored it. The Bugatti screamed down Wilshire Boulevard, 0-60 in 2.3 seconds. He had never driven faster than 40 mph in his uncle's old Toyota. Now he was doing 120 mph through Downtown LA, weaving through traffic, laughing like a maniac inside his helmet.

This was the life he wanted. Luxury. Speed. Showing off. He wanted everyone to see him.

He drove straight to his roach motel in Inglewood.

When the matte black Bugatti pulled into the ghetto parking lot, the entire neighborhood came out. Kids screamed. Mothers stared. Guys who used to bully him for his faded shirt stood with their mouths open.

Mrs. Patterson, his huge, loud landlady, was in the courtyard yelling at someone.

"And you! Sophia! Your rent is late too! All you students think you can live here for free!"

Sophia Reed stood in her doorway. She was different from all the girls Trenton knew. Deep brown skin like his, natural curly hair tied up in a puff, no makeup, wearing a simple black tank top and grey shorts that showed off her long, toned, athletic legs. She was 21, third-year Law, 4.0 GPA, beautiful in a pure, smart, quiet way. She was the only person who had ever been kind to him.

Two weeks ago, when Mrs. Patterson tried to evict Trenton, Sophia had paid his $900 rent from her own scholarship money and told him, "It's just for peace and quiet, don't think too much."

Sophia was now staring at the Bugatti, her brown eyes wide, her textbook dropping to the ground.

Trenton stepped out of the Bugatti. The scissor door went up. The LA sun hit his ebony skin and his handsome face. He looked like a movie star.

Mrs. Patterson's jaw dropped so fast her double chin shook.

"Mr... Mr. Alex? Is that you? That car... that car costs..."

Trenton pulled out the heavy Black Card. He held it up to the sun.

"Mrs. Patterson, how much for this entire building?" he asked calmly.

Mrs. Patterson laughed nervously. "Boy, you must be high! This building is $1.2 million! You can't afford—"

Trenton looked at his chauffeur, who had followed him in the Rolls Royce. "Buy it."

The chauffeur made one call. "Mr. Sterling, Young Master wants to buy 1428 Inglewood Apartments. Yes, immediately."

Three minutes later, Mrs. Patterson's phone dinged loudly.

_Bank of America Alert: $1,500,000.00 credited from Convergence Group Holdings._

Her eyes bulged. Her hands shook so hard she dropped her phone.

"$1.5... $1.5 million? You... you paid $1.5 million?"

Trenton walked past her, straight to Sophia Reed, who was still frozen in her doorway, staring at him like he was a stranger.

"Sophia," he said, his deep voice softening only for her. That smile that made girls fall at first sight appeared. "From today, you don't pay rent. Ever. This building is yours to live in for free. Thank you for last time."

Sophia blushed furiously, her deep brown skin glowing. "Trenton... what happened? Where did you get... is that really your car?"

Trenton leaned against his Bugatti, arms crossed, showing off his athletic build.

"I told you, Sophia. I'm not a broke trash picker anymore. I'm about to show this city what a rich kid's life really looks like."

That night, Trenton didn't go back to his tiny moldy room.

He drove the Bugatti to The Emperor Club in Hollywood Hills. The most exclusive club in LA. $10 million membership. Inside, there was a rooftop infinity pool, a nightclub with Drake performing privately, a cigar lounge, and a five-star luxury wellness spa with private massage therapy, ice baths, and recovery suites for billionaires.

Jake Reynolds' father had applied three times and been rejected.

Trenton walked in wearing his faded jeans and t-shirt, but holding the Supreme Emperor Card.

The manager, a white man in a tuxedo, saw the card and his face turned white. He bowed so low his head almost touched the floor.

"Young Master Alex! The entire club is yours tonight! Please!"

Trenton smiled. He pulled out his old Nokia.

He dialed Jake Reynolds.

"Who is this?" Jake answered, annoyed, with loud music in the background.

"It's Trenton. The janitor you told to buy condoms," Trenton said, his voice ice cold, the Bugatti keys jingling in his hand.

Jake laughed. "Oh, condom boy! What, you finally bought them? Vanessa is waiting, you know!"

"Listen carefully, Jake," Trenton said, revving the Bugatti's engine so loud Jake could hear it through the phone. "Tomorrow, 8pm. The Emperor Club. Top floor. I booked the whole place. Bring Vanessa. Bring your Rolex. Bring your daddy's car dealership money. Come see what a real rich kid looks like. Come see sports cars, champagne, and a life you can never afford. If you have the balls to get past the door."

He hung up.

He then walked into The Emperor Club, where a line of supermodel waitresses were already waiting for him, and the DJ was playing his favorite song.

He ordered a $20,000 bottle of Ace of Spades, lay back in a private cabana, and looked down at Los Angeles glittering below him.

Tomorrow, Westwood Elite University would learn who Trenton Alex really was.

The face-slapping had just begun, and Trenton was going to enjoy every second of his luxury lifestyle — the cars, the clubs, the parties, and the high-end spa recovery after it all.