TRILLIONAIRE'S COLD REVENGE

Unknown Sender

Early morning light slipped through the dirty window of John’s old apartment, giving the cracked walls and dusty floor a pale glow. John woke up on the worn-out couch, his bruised body aching as he moved. The thin blanket over him smelled musty, a sharp reminder of his life before Eleanor and the Prestwick estate. Across the room, Hannah slept on the narrow bed, her dark hair spread over the old pillow, breathing softly. Even here, she looked graceful—yet John couldn’t decide if her being here was genuine or if she had another reason.

He sat up slowly, wincing from the pain in his ribs. In his torn jacket pocket, the Ravenshore phone and black card felt like secrets he wasn’t ready to share. His old phone buzzed on the floor beside him. The screen lit up with a hospital message: “Surgery scheduled for 10:00 AM. Patient stable. Funds cleared.” Relief washed over him, but he kept his face calm, checking to see if Hannah was still asleep. His mother’s life was safe now, thanks to the Ravenshore fortune; but Hannah didn’t know that, and for now, she wouldn’t.

John got up carefully and walked to the small kitchen. The sink was rusty, and the faucet dripped steadily. In the cabinet, he found only an old box of crackers and a chipped mug. This place was filthy, but that was the point—he wanted to see if Hannah could live like this. If she could, maybe she really cared about him. If not, he’d find out soon.

The bed creaked, and Hannah sat up, rubbing her eyes. Her fancy dress from last night was a bit wrinkled but still looked out of place here. She smiled at him.

“Good morning,” she said warmly. “Did you sleep at all?”

“Barely,” John said. “This couch isn’t exactly comfortable.”

She chuckled. “Neither is this bed, but I managed.” She stood, smoothed her dress, and walked over to him. “Any coffee?”

John shook his head and pointed to the empty cabinet. “Just crackers. And they’re probably older than this building.”

Hannah didn’t seem bothered. “Then we’ll go shopping. This place needs some life.” She looked around at the cobwebs and cracked walls. “I can clean. And I make a great breakfast if we can find some eggs.”

John watched her, his suspicion warring with admiration. She was already moving, grabbing the rag from the night before and wiping down the counter with an ease that belied her millionaire status. He’d expected hesitation, maybe a polite suggestion to leave this dump behind. Instead, she seemed… content. It unnerved him.

“I need to head out soon,” he said, keeping his voice neutral. “Hospital stuff. My mother’s surgery is today.”

Hannah paused, her rag still in hand. “Is she okay? Do you need me to come with you?”

“No,” he said quickly, then softened his tone. “I mean, it’s fine. They’re taking care of her. I just need to check in.”

She nodded, her expression gentle. “I understand. Family comes first. If you need anything—money, a ride, anything—just tell me.”

John’s jaw tightened. Money. The irony was almost laughable, given the ten billion dollars sitting in his Ravenshore account. But he shook his head. “I’ve got it covered. Thanks.”

For the next hour, they cleaned the apartment together. Hannah swept dust into a pile while John emptied the closet, tossing out old newspapers, broken hangers, and a cracked lamp. He was surprised at how easily she got to work, but he stayed cautious, watching for any sign she regretted being here. She never did. She hummed quietly as she worked, moving quickly and calmly, like cleaning this rundown place was completely normal for her.

When the place was marginally less dismal, Hannah grabbed her purse. “Let’s get some groceries,” she said. “There’s got to be a store nearby.”

John hesitated, glancing at his torn clothes. “I’m not exactly presentable. People will stare.”

“Let them,” she said with a shrug. “We’re not here to impress anyone.”

They walked into the Greywall District, the air smelling of exhaust and wet concrete. The streets were busy; workers in old jackets, kids with backpacks, and a vendor selling burnt coffee. Hannah’s shiny Mercedes stood out, drawing stares among the rusted cars and graffiti walls. John took her to a small corner market with flickering lights and shelves full of cheap brands.

Inside, Hannah grabbed a basket and quickly picked up basics—eggs, bread, milk, and cheap coffee. John followed with his hands in his pockets, feeling the weight of the Ravenshore phone. Some shoppers glanced at them, whispering about the elegant woman with the bruised man. “Charity case,” one person muttered. John ignored it, but Hannah’s calmness under their stares slowly made him doubt his suspicions about her.

At the checkout, the cashier—a grizzled woman with a smoker’s cough—eyed John’s bruises and Hannah’s dress. “You two lost?” she asked, half-joking.

“Just stocking up,” Hannah replied, handing over a crisp fifty from her purse. John tensed, ready to protest, but she shot him a look that said, ‘Let me.’ He relented, his pride stinging but his caution holding firm.

Back at the apartment, Hannah set to work in the kitchenette, cracking eggs into a chipped bowl and heating a pan on the ancient stove. The smell of sizzling butter filled the air, a small comfort in the bleak space. John sat on the couch, watching her, his mind churning. She was adapting too easily, her millionaire polish undimmed by the grime. Was it genuine, or was she playing a longer game? He thought of tests—maybe cutting off the electricity, claiming a bill he couldn’t pay, or faking a job loss. If she stayed through that, he might believe her.

“Breakfast is ready,” Hannah called, setting two plates of scrambled eggs and toast on the rickety table. She sat across from him, her smile warm. “Not gourmet, but it’ll do.”

John took a bite, the food surprisingly good. “You didn’t have to do this,” he said, his voice low. “You could be back at your mansion, not… here.”

She met his gaze, her eyes steady. “I chose here, John. I chose you.”

The words hit harder than he expected, stirring that flicker of hope he kept trying to smother. He ate in silence, his thoughts drifting to the hospital. His mother’s surgery was hours away, and the Ravenshore funds ensured its success. But Hannah’s presence, her unwavering commitment, was a complication he hadn’t anticipated. He needed to know more—about her, her past, her reasons.

As they cleared the plates, John’s old phone buzzed again. He glanced at it, expecting another hospital update, but the screen showed a new message from an unknown number: “I want us to meet by 9PM, tonight. Westwood Bridge.” His heart skipped, his fingers tightening around the phone. He pocketed it quickly, but Hannah noticed, her brow furrowing.

“Everything okay?” she asked.

“Yeah,” he lied, forcing a smile. “Just the hospital again.”

She nodded, but her eyes lingered, as if sensing his unease. John stood, grabbing his jacket. “I need to head to the hospital. You okay here?”

“I’ll be fine,” she said, wiping her hands on a rag. “I’ll keep cleaning, maybe spruce this place up a bit. Call me if you need me, okay?”

He nodded, his mind already racing. The message was bothering him, considering the fact it was from an unknown sender. But his mind was still on Hannah. He couldn’t shake the suspicion that her sudden devotion might be tied to his new identity, though how she’d know was beyond him. For now, he’d keep her at arm’s length, letting her prove herself in this rundown world he’d crafted.

As he stepped out into the Greywall District, the morning sun harsh against his swollen eye, John felt the weight of his dual life. The hospital was a short bus ride away, and he’d check on his mother, ensure her surgery went smoothly.

He boarded a crowded bus, the other passengers giving his battered appearance a wide berth. The bus rattled through the Greywall District, its engine groaning as it navigated the cracked streets lined with pawn shops and flickering streetlights. John sat near the back, his bruised hands gripping the edge of the worn seat, the Ravenshore phone and card heavy in his jacket pocket.

The hospital loomed ahead, a gray concrete monolith that looked as tired as the district around it. John stepped off the bus, the morning air sharp with the smell of diesel and damp pavement. His torn shirt drew stares from passersby, but he ignored them, his focus on his mother.

Inside, the hospital was a maze of fluorescent lights and antiseptic smells. John navigated to the ICU, his shoes squeaking on the linoleum. At the nurses’ station, a young woman in scrubs looked up, her eyes lingering on his swollen face. “Can I help you?” she asked, her tone professional but cautious.

“John Whitaker,” he said. “Here for my mother, Margaret Whitaker. She’s scheduled for surgery at ten.”

The nurse tapped her computer, then nodded. “She’s stable and prepped. The surgical team’s ready, thanks to the payment. You can see her briefly before they take her in. Room 304.”

John’s chest tightened with gratitude, though he kept his expression neutral. “Thank you,” he said, heading down the hall. Room 304 was quiet, the only sound the steady beep of a heart monitor. His mother lay in the bed, her frail frame dwarfed by the sterile white sheets. Her eyes, though tired, lit up when she saw him.

“John,” she whispered, her voice weak but warm. “You’re here.”

He took her hand, careful not to jostle the IV line. “Of course, Ma. They’re taking care of you. You’re gonna be okay.”

Her fingers squeezed his, a faint smile curving her lips. “You look like you’ve been through a war, son. What happened?”

He forced a chuckle, avoiding her gaze. “Just a rough couple of days. Don’t worry about me. Focus on getting better.”

She studied him, her eyes sharp despite her condition. “You’re hiding something. I know that look.”

John hesitated, the Ravenshore secret pressing against his lips. He wanted to tell her—about the inheritance, the trillions, the CEO role—but not yet. Not until he was sure, until he’d navigated the dangers Evelyn had warned of. “Just some family stuff,” he said vaguely. “It’s handled.”

A nurse knocked, signaling it was time for prep. John kissed his mother’s forehead, his throat tight. “I’ll be here when you wake up,” he promised. She nodded, her smile trusting, and he stepped out, the weight of her faith anchoring him.

In the waiting area, John sank into a plastic chair, his mind churning. The surgery would take hours, giving him time to think. He pulled out the Ravenshore phone, its sleek surface a stark contrast to the hospital’s drab surroundings. He dialed Evelyn's number, programmed into the device as she’d promised. She answered on the second ring.

“John,” Evelyn’s voice was crisp, authoritative. “How are you holding up?”

“I’m at the hospital,” he said, keeping his voice low. “My mother’s surgery is today. It’s… it’s happening because of you. Thank you.”

“No need for thanks,” she replied. “It’s your birthright. But I sense something else. What’s happened?”

John glanced around, ensuring no one was close. “The Prestwicks. They divorced me last night, in front of the whole family. And then… Hannah, the widower, asked to marry me. Gave up everything—her position, her home, her status—to be with me.”

A pause. “Hannah Prestwick?” Evelyn’s tone sharpened. “That’s unexpected. Why?”

“She says she loves me. Has for years, watching me with Eleanor. I don’t know if I believe her.”

Evelyn’s silence was heavy, thoughtful. “Hannah Prestwick is a well-known woman in the business world,” she said finally. “She has no bad records, and has never been involved in any scandal. But I can only advise you to… tread carefully. Her motives may be genuine, but love can be a mask. Keep your identity hidden, as you planned.”

“Already doing that,” John said. “She thinks I’m still broke. We’re at my old apartment in Greywall. It’s a dump, but she’s acting like it’s nothing. Cleaning, cooking, like she belongs there.”

“Test her,” Evelyn advised. “Push her limits. If her love holds, she may be an asset. If not, you’ll know before the announcement. Speaking of which, we have six days until you’re unveiled as CEO of Ravenshore Industries. I’ve arranged for you to meet with our top advisors tomorrow to begin your training. Can you make it?”

John glanced at the hospital clock. “I’ll be here most of the day, but I can come after. Evening work?”

“Seven o’clock, 47 Obsidian Row. Suite 900. We’ll cover the basics. And John… keep that phone and card secure. They’re your lifeline.”

“Got it,” he said, ending the call. He pocketed the phone, his mind racing. Hannah’s love, the looming CEO role; it was a web tightening around him. He needed to stay sharp, to watch every move.

By early afternoon, the hospital called him back to the ICU. The surgery had gone well, the doctor said—his mother was stable, recovering in post-op. John’s knees nearly buckled with relief, but he kept his composure, thanking the doctor and returning to the waiting area. He texted Hannah on his old phone: “Surgery went well. Staying a bit longer. You okay?”

Her reply was quick: “So glad she’s okay! I’m fine, just got some curtains and cleaning supplies. This place is coming together. Take your time.” The message was warm, almost too perfect. John’s suspicion flared, but he pushed it down. He’d test her tonight, maybe claim a financial setback, see how she reacted.

He took the bus back to Greywall, using the ride to think. His life felt unreal; he had always dreamed of being rich, and now he had more money than he’d ever hoped for. But he wasn’t sure what to do with it yet. First, he needed to find out if Hannah had a hidden agenda. Then, he would deal with the Prestwick family. As the bus arrived in Greywall, he braced himself. He’d keep pretending to be poor and quietly watch Hannah.

In the daylight, his apartment building looked even worse, it's peeling paint exposed under the grey sky. John went up the creaky stairs, his ribs hurting with every step. When he opened the door to his apartment, he stopped in surprise. It was still small and old, but much cleaner. The dust was gone, the counters shined, and new curtains hung over the window.

Hannah stood in the kitchenette, stirring a pot of soup, her dress swapped for a simple blouse and jeans she must have bought. She looked up, smiling. “You’re back! How’s your mom?”

“She’s good,” John said, his voice cautious. “Surgery went well. She’s recovering.”

Hannah’s face lit up, genuine relief in her eyes. “That’s wonderful, John. I’m so happy for you.” She gestured to the table, now set with two bowls. “I made some soup. Nothing fancy, but it’s warm.”

John sat, his suspicion warring with the comfort of her presence. The soup was simple, but it warmed him, a small act of care that felt foreign after years of scorn. “You didn’t have to do all this,” he said, gesturing to the cleaned apartment. “This place… it’s not what you’re used to.”

“I’m used to worse,” she said, sitting across from him. “After my husband died, I spent months in a fog, living in a tiny flat while the Prestwicks fought over his estate. I learned to make do. This?” She smiled, glancing around. “This is fine.”

John studied her, searching for a crack—a flinch, a hint of regret. None came. He decided to push. “It’s not just the place,” he said, his tone heavy. “I got a call from a creditor today. Old debts, from before Eleanor. They’re coming for what little I have. We might lose power soon.”

Hannah’s brow furrowed, but her voice stayed calm. “We’ll figure it out. I’ve got some savings... though it's nothing like the Prestwick fortune, but enough to cover bills for a while. We’re in this together, John.”

Her response was too steady, too willing. John’s heart wavered, but his caution held. “You don’t even know me, Hannah,” he said, his voice low. “Not really. Why are you so sure?”

She leaned forward, her eyes locking onto his. “I know enough. I’ve seen you at your lowest, and you kept going. That’s enough for me.”

The words hit hard, stirring that flicker of hope he couldn’t quite smother. Before he could say another word, his old phone buzzed, and he checked it to see another message from the same unknown number that had messaged him earlier.

Unknown number: “Will be expecting you by 9PM, Westwood Bridge. Make sure you come alone, and don't tell anyone. Failure to come will result in unimaginable consequences.”