TRILLIONAIRE'S COLD REVENGE

The Mysterious Envelope

The Prestwick estate stood high on Lucian Heights; a grand marble-and-ivory mansion that looked more like a palace than a home. It stretched over acres of perfect green land, with fountains that poured sparkling water and warm golden lights shining through tall arched windows. Everything about it screamed money, power, and untouchable class.

John stood at the huge wrought-iron gate, bruised, limping, blood still drying on his torn shirt. His hair was matted with sweat and dirt, his left eye swelling shut. He looked like a man who had crawled out of the gutter; and in a way, he had.

The guard at the gate took one look at him and narrowed his eyes.

“You again?” the man sneered. “You look like you just escaped from a fight with a garbage truck.”

“I need to see Mr. Prestwick,” John said, voice hoarse but determined. “Please. It’s urgent. It’s about my mother.”

The guard rolled his eyes and tapped a button on his earpiece. “Yeah… the rat’s back. Says he wants to see the boss. Yeah, him again. Uh-huh. Still breathing, unfortunately.”

He looked back at John and grinned cruelly. “Lucky you. Mr. Prestwick says you can come in.”

John blinked, surprised. A small spark of hope lit up in his chest. Maybe the old man still had a bit of kindness left.

The heavy gates opened with a groan. John walked forward slowly, holding his ribs, heading for the massive front doors.

Soft jazz music floated through the air. It was smooth, live, and expensive-sounding. Laughter echoed behind it; rich, proud laughter. The Prestwicks were hosting a private soirée tonight. He hadn’t known.

That explained the valet cars parked out front: Bentleys, Rolls-Royces, Maybachs, lined up like silver beasts. That explained the soft clinking of champagne glasses and the murmur of powerful voices.

Still, he moved forward. This was for his mother. Nothing else mattered.

When he reached the doors, a butler opened them and led him inside, into a ballroom that looked like something out of a royal movie. Crystal chandeliers sparkled overhead, and couples in gowns and tuxedos moved gracefully across the polished floors.

The music faded as he entered.

Conversation slowed. Heads turned. Then the place fell quiet as everyone gazed at the man who had just walked into a place he didn't belong to.

The image of John; bloodied, ragged, swaying in pain, was a big stain in a world built for perfection. Every pair of eyes turned to him like he was a roach crawling across the wedding cake.

“Dear god,” a woman whispered into her champagne. “Who let that in?”

“Is that Eleanor’s… husband?” a man asked, barely hiding his disgust.

John’s legs trembled, but he kept walking. He spotted Eleanor first, standing at the center of the crowd, dressed in a backless midnight gown, her diamond earrings catching the light like stars. She was laughing with a glass of wine in her hand, speaking to a cluster of high-society men and women.

And beside her stood Richard Ferguson, looking like he belonged there more than she did.

John stared at them for a moment, confused. Just a few hours ago, they had all been at Helena’s company. Now they were here. Then it clicked—after Richard kicked him out, they must have driven straight here. Meanwhile, John had walked the whole way. It had taken him over three hours on foot. They must’ve arrived an hour or two before him.

Eleanor turned and saw him.

Her face changed instantly; from surprise to annoyance, then straight to disgust.

“What the hell are you doing here?” she said loudly, her voice cutting through the silence like a blade.

John took a shaky step toward her. “Please… I just need to speak to your father.”

The crowd around her parted with cruel interest, like wolves eager for a show. Guests leaned in, smiling behind their wine glasses.

From the far end of the ballroom came a sharp voice, firm and deliberate.

“I should’ve known the stench in the air meant you had arrived.”

John turned.

There stood Winston Prestwick, Eleanor’s father. A titan of finance, a man whose name held weight in every corner of the economic world. Dressed in a crisp white suit and holding a cigar, he strode across the floor like a general on a battlefield.

“I told security never to let you near this house again,” Winston continued, his voice booming. “But it looks like cockroaches are harder to kill than I thought.”

John knelt immediately.

“Please, sir,” he said. “I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t serious. My mother… she’s dying. The doctors need to operate in the next few hours, or she won’t make it. I don’t have the money, but you do. I know you hate me, but I’m begging you… just this once... help me.”

Gasps erupted, and murmurs filled the place.

Winston snorted.

“You really came here to beg for charity in the middle of a private gathering? Dressed like a drunk homeless man?” He turned to the crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen, this... this is the man my daughter once brought home and called a husband.”

Laughter exploded across the room.

“Get him out of here,” Eleanor hissed, turning her back to him. “He’s embarrassing me in front of everyone.”

But Winston raised a hand. “No, let him speak. Let the poor fool humiliate himself fully before we toss him out.”

John’s vision blurred with tears. “I’m not here for me,” he whispered. “I just want to save her. I’m begging—please…”

Richard scoffed from the side. “You want us to pay for a dying woman’s surgery? Please. Let her rot. We’re not a charity.”

Another chorus of laughter.

Winston leaned in close, cigar smoke curling around John’s face. “Let me tell you something, boy. You were never worthy of our name. Eleanor married you as a favor to her ego. A little rebellion. We all told her it would end in embarrassment, and look... here you are. On your knees. Bleeding. Begging. Pitiful.”

John clenched his fists but didn’t rise.

“Fine,” Winston said, his smile razor-sharp. “You want half a million dollars?” He turned to a waiter. “Bring me a champagne bucket.”

A moment later, the servant returned, silver ice bucket in hand. Winston took it and walked over to John. Without warning, he dumped the entire content over John's head.

The crowd erupted in howling laughter as John flinched, gasping from the cold.

Winston threw the empty bucket on the floor.

“Now you’ve been cleansed,” he said, “before we send you back to whatever hole you crawled out of.”

Two guards appeared from the sides.

“No,” John muttered. “Please…”

But they didn’t care.

They grabbed him roughly again, dragging him backward through the ballroom. Champagne spilled. Laughter echoed behind him. He could still hear Eleanor’s voice.

“I never loved you,” she said, without even looking back. “I was just bored.”

The doors slammed shut behind him.

John fell to the ground outside, shaking. He was soaked in champagne and felt completely broken. He had never been so embarrassed in his life.

He held back his tears, stood up slowly, and gave the mansion one last look before turning away. Light rain began to fall. By the time he got to the sidewalk outside Lucian Heights, the rain had gotten heavier and colder. His torn shirt was soaked, water running down his bruised skin and dripping from his hair. The air smelled like wet roads and car smoke.

But he kept going.

He had to.

His mother was dying, and every second that passed was time slipping away.

John limped down the sidewalk, one hand pressed to his ribs, the other touching the wall beside him for support. He passed by rich neighborhoods, expensive stores with bright windows, and fancy restaurants. His face was swollen, and his wet shirt stuck to his body like glue.

Somehow, his legs took him all the way to Central Avenue. The sidewalks were full of people—business workers in suits, teenagers holding umbrellas, and couples carrying shopping bags.

John couldn’t take it anymore.

He dropped down near a lamppost, falling to his knees. The cold, wet ground sent a chill through his whole body.

And for the first time in his life, John began to beg.

He cupped his hands, his voice trembling. “Please… anyone… I—I just need a little help. My mother’s in the hospital. She needs emergency surgery. Please…”

People passed by.

Some glanced at him.

Most didn’t.

A woman clutched her purse tighter and walked faster. A businessman shook his head, muttering something under his breath. A group of teenagers walked past and laughed as one of them tossed a crumpled receipt into his hands.

He wiped it away.

He kept pleading.

“Please… I don’t want anything for myself. Just for my mother… I’m begging…”

A child tugged on his mother’s coat and pointed at John. The mother gently turned her son’s face away and walked on.

John swallowed back shame.

And kept begging.

An old man walking with a cane stopped. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a worn leather wallet. From it, he drew a five-dollar bill and gently placed it in John’s hands.

“I hope she makes it, son,” the man said.

John’s lips quivered. “Thank you… thank you…”

It wasn’t much.

But it was something.

He moved from street corner to alley, from alleys to Sunview Mall; the largest shopping complex in the district. The place gleamed like a temple of wealth. He stumbled up the stairs, his shoes squelching from water. The glass doors opened automatically, and warm air whooshed out.

Shivering, soaked, and hunched, he walked in.

He approached a couple standing near the information kiosk.

“Please… I’m sorry… I don’t mean to disturb you. But my mother—”

“Don’t talk to us,” the man snapped, recoiling. “Get out of here!”

He turned to a security guard nearby and pointed. “This guy’s harassing people.”

Within seconds, mall security descended on him.

Two men in black uniforms grabbed him by the arms.

“I’m just trying to—”

“Out. Now.”

They hauled him through the gleaming mall like he was a disease. Shoppers stared. A child pointed. A woman muttered something about how the homeless were becoming bold.

Then they shoved him through the exit.

He hit the sidewalk and slid on his side through a shallow puddle.

Pain lit up his spine.

But he didn’t stop.

He pulled himself up and staggered on; store to store, corner to corner. He tried the pharmacy, the café, the gas station. He asked. Pleaded. Cried.

Some gave.

A woman handed him two ten-dollar bills and a sandwich.

A taxi driver slipped him a hundred silently, without looking.

Others cursed him. One man spat near his feet. A store clerk threw a rag at him and told him to “take his drama elsewhere.” In one supermarket, he was shoved to the ground when he tried to approach the counter manager.

“You think people are here to fund your life?” the man barked. “Get a job! You’re just trying to scam decent folks!”

John wiped his bleeding lip and moved on.

Hour after hour passed.

His hands turned numb from cold. His stomach burned from hunger. His throat cracked from the begging.

Still… he refused to stop.

Because she was still alive.

Because time hadn’t run out, yet.

By nightfall, he had scraped together three hundred and twenty-two dollars.

Still over four hundred thousand short.

His legs finally gave out near the edge of Greywall Park, and he collapsed onto a bench, his breath ragged. His clothes were soaked and clinging, his skin pale, his bones aching.

He leaned forward, hands shaking, forehead resting on the edge of the bench.

“I’ve failed,” he whispered.

The streetlights flickered to life, casting long shadows.

He had done everything. Begged. Crawled. Wept. He had shattered every shred of pride left in his body. And still, the money was nowhere near enough. His mind reeled with the thought of his mother’s face; smiling through pain, hiding her fear. She had believed in him. Even when he was falling apart, she held his hand and told him he was strong.

Now… she was going to die.

Because he wasn’t strong enough.

Because he wasn’t anything.

Tears rolled down his cheeks.

But before they could fall to the ground…

A click echoed beside him.

A pair of polished black shoes came into view.

John blinked up.

A tall man in a charcoal overcoat stood before him, holding an envelope. He looked out of place—calm, clean, unreadable. His face bore no sympathy. Just solemnity.

“You are John Whitaker,” the man said.

John blinked. “What?”

The man offered the envelope.

“This is for you. From the estate of Mr. Howard Ravenshore.”