THE ORPHAN WHO INHERITED BILLIONS

Chapter 3

 

Alexander slipped through the heavy doors of the lecture hall, his worn sneakers squeaking against the polished floor. Advanced Mathematics with Professor Foster was already in session, and every head turned as he made his entrance fifteen minutes late. His café uniform still clung to him, wrinkled and stained from the morning shift he'd barely escaped from.

Professor Robert Foster, a stern man in his fifties with wire-rimmed glasses, stopped mid-sentence and fixed Alexander with a withering stare. "Mr. Rivera, how generous of you to grace us with your presence."

The lecture hall fell silent. Alexander felt heat creep up his neck as one hundred and fifty pairs of eyes focused on him. "I'm sorry, Professor. I was working and—"

"Working?" Professor Foster's voice dripped with disdain. "And I suppose your job is more important than your education? Tell me, Mr. Rivera, where are your textbooks?"

Alexander's stomach dropped. In his rush from the café, he'd forgotten his backpack in his dorm room. "I... I don't have them with me today, sir."

"Of course you don't." Professor Foster shook his head theatrically. "Class, this is a perfect example of a student who doesn't prioritize his academic responsibilities. Mr. Rivera, find a seat and try not to disrupt us further."

As Alexander climbed the stairs to find an empty seat, Anthony's voice cut through the silence like a blade. "Damn, looks like someone's having a rough day already."

Elena giggled beside him. "Is that grease on his shirt? God, Alexander, you smell like french fries from here."

"Maybe he should drop out and become a full-time fry cook," Anthony added loud enough for the entire section to hear. "Seems more his speed anyway."

Snickers rippled through the classroom. Alexander found an empty seat in the back, trying to make himself invisible.

"I mean, seriously," Elena continued, her voice carrying perfectly in the acoustics of the lecture hall, "look at those clothes. Are those the same pants he wore yesterday? And the day before that?"

"Probably the only pair he owns," Anthony replied with mock sympathy. "Poor little Alexander can't afford a proper wardrobe."

Professor Foster cleared his throat. "While Mr. Rivera's fashion choices are indeed questionable, perhaps we can return to differential equations."

The class erupted in laughter. Alexander sank lower in his seat, feeling the familiar burn of humiliation. Just hours ago, he'd signed papers making him heir to a 500-billion-dollar fortune, yet here he sat, being mocked for his poverty.

A student in the third row, Jessica Chen, turned to her friend. "How does someone even get into this advanced class looking like that? Shouldn't there be standards?"

"Probably some diversity scholarship," her friend whispered back, not caring that Alexander could hear every word.

"Alright, enough chatter," Professor Foster announced. "Let's see who actually prepared for today's lesson. This problem involves multivariable calculus with complex integrations." He wrote an elaborate equation on the whiteboard. "Who would like to solve this?"

The classroom fell silent. Several top students stared at the problem with furrowed brows. The equation sprawled across the entire board, filled with partial derivatives, integration symbols, and variables that seemed to dance in complexity.

"No volunteers?" Professor Foster scanned the room. "How disappointing. Mr. Rivera, since you seem to have time for employment but not for studying, why don't you come down and show us your mathematical prowess?"

Anthony burst out laughing. "This should be good. The waiter boy's going to solve calculus?"

"Maybe he can calculate the tip on a restaurant bill," Elena added sweetly. "That's about his level."

"Watch him fail spectacularly," Jessica whispered to her friend. "This is going to be embarrassing."

Alexander stood slowly, every eye in the room tracking his movement. His work uniform felt like a beacon of shame as he walked down to the whiteboard. Professor Foster handed him a marker with a condescending smile.

"Take your time, Mr. Rivera. Though I suspect you'll need quite a bit of it."

Alexander stared at the equation for exactly ten seconds. Then, without hesitation, he began writing. His hand moved with fluid precision, breaking down the complex problem into manageable components. He worked through partial derivatives with lightning speed, integrated multiple variables simultaneously, and simplified expressions that had stumped his classmates.

The classroom grew eerily quiet as students realized they were witnessing something extraordinary. Alexander's calculations flowed across the board like poetry, each step building logically on the previous one.

"Holy shit," someone whispered.

Within two minutes, Alexander had solved the entire problem, complete with verification steps. He set down the marker and turned to face the class, his expression calm despite the thunderous beating of his heart.

Professor Foster adjusted his glasses, studying the solution carefully. His expression shifted from smugness to genuine surprise to grudging respect. "This is... this is absolutely correct. Every step is perfect."

The lecture hall buzzed with shocked murmurs. Students who had been mocking Alexander moments before now stared at the whiteboard in disbelief.

"Furthermore," Professor Foster continued, clearly impressed despite himself, "this is graduate-level work. Mr. Rivera, where did you learn these advanced techniques?"

"I study during my breaks at work, sir," Alexander replied simply.

Anthony's face had turned red with anger and embarrassment. "So what if he can do math? Big deal. Numbers don't make you successful in the real world."

Elena nodded vigorously. "Exactly. Book smarts don't buy you designer clothes or pay for nice cars. He's still just a broke loser in a dirty uniform."

But their words fell flat now. Students around them were whispering admiringly about Alexander's performance.

Joseph Blake, Alexander's roommate, stood up from his seat near the front. "Are you kidding me right now? This guy works three jobs, attends full-time classes, and just solved a problem that none of us could even understand. While you two sit there spending daddy's money, Alexander is actually earning his place here."

"Nobody asked for your opinion, scholarship boy," Anthony snapped.

"At least I work for what I have," Joseph shot back. "Alexander busts his ass every single day while you cruise by on your trust fund. And he still outperforms everyone in this room academically. That takes real character."

Professor Foster tapped his marker on the podium. "Mr. Blake raises an excellent point. Mr. Rivera, despite your... unconventional circumstances... your mathematical ability is truly exceptional. I'd like to speak with you after class about some advanced opportunities."

Alexander nodded, still processing the whiplash between humiliation and praise. As he returned to his seat, he caught snippets of conversation that were markedly different from before.

"Did you see how fast he worked through those integrations?"

"I've been struggling with calculus all semester, and he made it look effortless."

"Working three jobs and still acing advanced math? That's incredible."