TRILLIONAIRE'S COLD REVENGE

Testing Her

Hannah walked John down the Prestwick estate’s driveway, moving with calm confidence. The night was cool, with the faint smell of wet grass in the air. Her silver Mercedes-Benz shone under the estate’s bright lights. John watched her as she went to the driver’s side, her dark hair glinting in the light. She looked completely composed, even after the family’s surprise and the heavy terms she had just agreed to.

“Get in, John,” she said softly, her voice warm but tinged with a hint of nervousness as she opened her door.

John paused with his bruised hand on the car door. The Ravenshore phone and card in his pocket reminded him of the secret he was keeping. Hannah’s offer; her sacrifice, felt overwhelming and hard to process. He slowly opened the door and sat in the cool leather seat, surrounded by the scent of polished surfaces and faint lavender. It clashed sharply with his torn, blood-stained clothes, a clear sign of how different their worlds were.

Hannah started the car, the engine humming quietly. She glanced at him, the dashboard light reflecting in her eyes. After clearing her throat, she said softly, “You must be wondering why I was so quick to ask for permission to marry you.”

John turned to her, his swollen eye narrowing slightly. “Of course,” he said, his tone measured, still carrying the cold edge he’d used with Eleanor. “Anyone in my shoes would be troubled. We’ve barely spoken, Hannah. Maybe once or twice at family events. I’m trying to figure out why.”

Her fingers fidgeted on the steering wheel, a nervous gesture that surprised him. She tucked a strand of dark hair behind her ear, her gaze fixed on the road ahead. “The truth is,” she said, her voice softer now, “I developed feelings for you a few months after my husband died.”

John’s breath caught, his bruised face twisting in surprise. His good eye widened, searching her profile for any hint of deception. Feelings? For him? The idea was absurd, impossible. He was the family’s outcast, the “filthy” man they’d mocked and beaten. His heart pounded, a mix of disbelief and curiosity swirling in his chest.

Before he could speak, Hannah continued, her words rushing out as if she’d held them back for too long. “For about two years, since you married Eleanor, I’ve noticed you. I saw the love and respect you had for her, even when the Prestwicks treated you like garbage. You’re a good man, John. I couldn’t help but admire you in secret. And that admiration… it turned into love. That’s why I never agreed to marry any of the suitors the matriarch brought me. I’m in love with you.”

John was too stunned to speak. His gaze fixed on her, his mind reeling. Hannah’s cheeks flushed slightly, and she looked away, her shyness disarming in its sincerity. She wasn’t just any woman—she was a millionaire, a titan in the business world, admired and sought after by the elite. John had heard the stories: the matriarch had once brought the seventh prince of Egypt to court her, a man of unimaginable wealth, and Hannah had turned him down. Billionaires, tycoons, heirs to empires—all rejected. And now she was saying it was because of him?

He broke the silence, his voice low, edged with disbelief. “Why, Hannah? Why do you love me? I’m beyond broke. Filthy, like they say. What do you see in me?”

She glanced at him, her eyes steady despite the faint tremble in her hands. “These years, I watched you. I saw how hard you worked, how devoted you were to saving your mother, even when the world kicked you down. You’re caring, John. Devoted. That’s what I need in my life. That’s the man I want to marry.”

John gazed at her, his chest tight. She knew he was poor; knew he’d begged on the streets, been humiliated by her family... and yet she claimed to love him. Women like her, in his experience, were cunning, chasing wealth and status. But Hannah’s voice, her smile, her nervous gestures—they felt genuine. A part of him wanted to believe her, to trust the warmth in her eyes. But another part, hardened by years of betrayal, whispered caution. Women like Eleanor had taught him to doubt. Until he could be sure of her, he’d keep his Ravenshore identity—his trillions, his CEO role—a secret. Let her, and everyone else, think he was still the poor fool they despised.

Hannah cleared her throat, jolting him from his thoughts. “Do you have a place you stay?” she asked, her tone gentle.

John chuckled softly, a bitter edge to the sound. “The Prestwick mansion has been my home since I married Eleanor. But before that… I had a place. An old apartment, way below your standards. You wouldn’t like it.”

He expected her to hesitate, to suggest a hotel or one of her properties. Instead, she smiled, her eyes crinkling with sincerity. “I don’t care if it’s old or worn out or whatever. As long as I’m with you, I don’t care.”

John blinked, the genuine warmth in her voice catching him off guard. Her smile was soft, unguarded, and for a moment, he felt a flicker of trust. But he shook it away, his caution holding firm. He wasn’t ready to let her in; not yet. He needed to test her, to see if her love would hold in the face of his supposed poverty. His mind raced, already devising ways to gauge her sincerity; perhaps by taking her to his dilapidated apartment, letting her see the reality of his “world.”

“Alright,” he said, his voice steady. “It’s at 214 Crane Street, in the Greywall District. But I’m warning you, it’s dirty. Filthy, even. Not a place for someone like you.”

Hannah fastened her seatbelt, her smile unwavering. “Okay,” she said simply, shifting the car into gear and pulling out of the Prestwick estate’s driveway. The gates groaned shut behind them, the golden lights of the mansion fading into the night.

The silver Mercedes-Benz glided out of the Prestwick estate's gates, the wrought-iron barriers closing behind them with a final, echoing clang. Hannah navigated the car onto the main road, her hands steady on the wheel, though John noticed the subtle way her fingers tightened occasionally, a remnant of the nervous energy she'd shown earlier.

The city lights blurred past the windows, transitioning from the polished avenues of Lucian Heights to the dimmer, more shadowed streets leading toward Greywall District.

The drive was quiet at first, the hum of the engine filling the space between them. John’s mind raced, replaying the evening’s chaos: the matriarch’s harsh conditions, the family’s gasps, Hannah’s unwavering acceptance. And now, this; her confession of love, years in the making.

It felt like a dream, or perhaps a trap, though he couldn’t fathom what she’d gain from ensnaring a “poor fool” like him. His hand brushed the pocket where the Ravenshore phone and card rested, their secret weight a shield against vulnerability. He wouldn’t tell her—not yet. Not until he knew if her words were true, if she could endure the life she thought she was choosing.

Hannah broke the silence after a few miles, her voice gentle as she merged onto a busier highway. “I know this must all feel overwhelming,” she said, glancing at him briefly. “Leaving everything behind like that… it’s a lot to process.”

John nodded, his gaze drifting to the passing buildings. “Overwhelming doesn’t cover it,” he replied, his tone cautious. “I still don’t understand, Hannah. You gave up everything. Your position as COO, your home, your family. For me? It doesn’t add up.”

She smiled faintly, her eyes on the road. “It adds up to me. I’ve been watching from the sidelines for too long. The Prestwicks—they’re my family by marriage, but they’ve never truly been kind. Not to you, not to me after my husband died. I’ve felt trapped there, John. Marrying you… it’s my way out. And it’s real. What I said earlier, about admiring you... it’s the truth.”

John studied her, searching for cracks in her sincerity. Her voice carried no hesitation, no calculation. But he’d been burned before; Eleanor’s promises had been sweet until they turned to ash. “Admiring me from afar,” he mused, his voice low. “I get that you saw something in how I treated Eleanor, but love? That’s a big leap. Especially when you’ve turned down men who could give you the world.”

Hannah’s cheeks flushed again, and she adjusted the rearview mirror unnecessarily. “Those men… they were all about power, status, alliances. The prince from Egypt? He talked about merging empires like it was a business deal. The billionaires? They saw me as a trophy, a way to climb higher in the Prestwick circle. But you… you’re different. You fight for what matters. Your mother, your dignity, even when they stripped it away. That’s rare, John. That’s what I fell in love with.”

He fell silent, his surprise deepening. Her words echoed in his mind, stirring a warmth he hadn’t felt in years. But doubt lingered, a shadow cast by Eleanor’s betrayal and the Prestwicks’ cruelty. Women like Hannah didn’t choose men like him—not the version of him they knew. He decided to push a little, to test the waters. “And now? Knowing we’re heading to a place that’s barely standing? No mansion, no luxury. Just… reality.”

She laughed softly, a light sound that cut through the tension. “Reality sounds perfect. I’ve had enough of gilded cages.”

The cityscape changed as they entered Greywall District, the streets narrowing into cracked asphalt lined with overflowing dumpsters and graffiti-covered walls. Streetlamps flickered intermittently, casting long shadows over groups of people huddled on corners, their conversations hushed as the Mercedes passed. John watched Hannah’s reaction, expecting a flinch, a second thought. But her expression remained calm, her grip on the wheel steady.

“Turn left here,” John said, pointing to a dimly lit side street. The car bumped over potholes, the suspension absorbing the roughness that no Prestwick vehicle was meant for. Ahead loomed his old apartment building—a five-story relic from the ’70s, its brick facade crumbling, windows patched with cardboard in places. A flickering sign above the entrance read “Greywall Arms,” half the letters burned out. Trash bags piled near the door, and a stray cat darted across the path.

Hannah pulled into a spot near the curb, killing the engine. She looked at the building, her eyes taking it in without judgment. “This is it?” she asked, not with disdain, but curiosity.

John nodded, his voice gruff. “Yeah. Home sweet home. Or what’s left of it. I haven’t been back in years... not since Eleanor moved me into the estate. It’s probably a mess. No elevator, third floor, and the stairs creak like they’re about to give out.”

She unbuckled her seatbelt, her smile unwavering. “Lead the way.”

They stepped out, the cool night air carrying the faint stench of garbage and distant rain. John fished out an old key from his pocket, the metal worn from disuse. As they approached the entrance, a couple of neighbors—rough-looking men smoking on the stoop—eyed the Mercedes and Hannah’s elegant dress with suspicion. “Fancy ride for this dump,” one muttered, but Hannah didn’t flinch, walking past with her head high.

Inside, the lobby was dimly lit by a single bulb, the floor sticky underfoot. Mailboxes hung open, stuffed with junk flyers. John led her up the stairs, each step groaning in protest. His ribs protested too, but he pushed through, glancing back to see Hannah following without complaint, her hand lightly on the railing despite the grime.

On the third floor, he unlocked apartment 312, the door creaking open to reveal a small, dimly lit space. Dust motes danced in the air, illuminated by a bare bulb he flicked on. The room was a time capsule of his past life: a sagging couch against one wall, a tiny kitchenette with a stove that hadn’t worked in years, a single bed in the corner covered in a threadbare blanket. Cobwebs clung to the corners, and the air smelled of stale neglect. A small window overlooked a brick wall, offering no view but shadows.

John stood in the doorway, watching her closely. “This is it,” he said, his tone challenging. “No staff, no chandeliers. The bathroom’s down the hall; shared with the floor. Hot water’s hit or miss.”

Hannah stepped inside, her eyes scanning the room. She set her purse on the couch, brushing off a layer of dust without a word. “It’s… cozy,” she said, her smile genuine. “Needs a good cleaning, but it’s got potential.”

John crossed his arms, leaning against the doorframe. “Potential? It’s a dump, Hannah. You just gave up a mansion for this. Regretting it yet?”

She turned to him, her expression softening. “Not for a second. I meant what I said in the car. It’s not about the place... it’s about who I’m with.” She moved to the kitchenette, opening a cabinet experimentally. It was bare save for a few mismatched plates. “We can make this work. I’ll help clean it up tomorrow. Maybe get some groceries, fresh linens.”

Her casual acceptance threw him. He’d expected hesitation, a polite excuse to leave, perhaps a suggestion to find a hotel. But here she was, rolling up her sleeves—literally—preparing to wipe down the counter with a rag she found under the sink.

John watched, his surprise deepening. If this was an act, it was a convincing one. Still, he held back, his trust a fragile thing. He thought of ways to test her further—perhaps by “failing” to find work, or facing some fabricated hardship. Only time would reveal if her love was for him or for some hidden agenda.

As Hannah busied herself, humming softly while she dusted, John’s phone—the old one—vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out, seeing a message from the hospital: his mother’s surgery was scheduled for tomorrow morning, funds confirmed. Relief washed over him, but he kept it hidden, pocketing the phone. The Ravenshore device remained silent, a secret world waiting.

Hannah glanced over, wiping her hands on her dress without care. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” he said, forcing a smile. “Just… thinking about tomorrow. We’ll need to figure out a lot.”

She nodded, stepping closer. “We will. Together.” Her hand brushed his arm lightly, a tentative touch that sent a jolt through him. For the first time in years, John felt a spark of possibility—not just from his inheritance, but from this unexpected connection.

But as they settled in for the night, John on the couch and Hannah insisting on the bed despite its state, his mind churned. In seven days, he’d be unveiled as the Ravenshore heir. Until then, he’d watch, wait, and test. If Hannah’s love held through the grime and hardship, perhaps it was real. If not… well, he’d learned long ago how to walk away.