The Heir in Disguise

Chapter Eight To The Bank

 

“A few moments”, Isla had said, but those moments were quickly stretching into thirty minutes. From thirty, it became a full hour. Her phone kept buzzing every twenty minutes like clockwork. But still, she didn’t pick up.

She remained in her room, paralyzed by uncertainty. She didn’t know what to do, where to go, or how to get the money. Her family, who could easily help, had turned their backs on her for their own selfish reasons. And the anonymous donor who had once been her financial backbone had suddenly gone silent, vanishing when she needed them most.

As the clock struck noon, the sharp chime from the wall clock echoed through the room, snapping her out of her spiraling thoughts.

She hadn’t even closed her eyes, not even a blink long enough to be called a slumber, let alone real sleep, since the night before. Her eyes were red and heavy with exhaustion, but the caffeine from last night’s coffee still buzzed in her veins, pushing her body forward even as her mind faltered.

She paced across the floor for the third time in ten minutes. Then, her phone rang again. This time, she paused. She couldn’t keep ignoring Julie, not now. She had to say something, anything, to keep her hanging on just a bit longer.

“It’s the network, Julie,” she said as steadily as she could. “I’ve been trying to send it, but it keeps failing.”

It was a lie, of course. But a believable one. Everyone’s experienced that moment—you open the bank app, attempt a transfer, and the network fails you. Sometimes it really was just a matter of trying again later.

“Oh! Okay, ma’am,” Julie replied, her tone calm but urgent.

“Just that we’re already at the airport and set to board. Please make the transfer before our arrival in Italy—we’ll need the funds to check into the hotel and arrange meetings with the fashion boards.” Julie’s voice hinted at expectation, but also hope.

Isla didn’t respond. She simply ended the call. Not out of pride, but fear. Fear of the ticking clock and the insufficient bank account. Julie may have known the anonymous donor had pulled out, but she still believed Isla, being a Quinn, could fund the project herself.

If only it were that simple.

A flurry of desperate thoughts spun through Isla’s mind.

“What if I sell my kidney?”

It wasn’t a joke in Velmoria. Everyone had two kidneys, and selling one was considered a legitimate, albeit extreme, way to make money. Hospitals offered decent sums, especially for healthy organs.

And Isla? She didn’t smoke. She didn’t drink energy drinks. Her diet was clean and focused on wellness. That meant her kidney should fetch a good price, right?

But just as quickly as the idea arrived, it was struck down.

“That would be terrible for my image online,” she muttered to herself, eyes fixed blankly on the wall.

She was a Quinn. And while her family refused to support her, the world didn’t know that. If word ever got out that she sold a kidney out of desperation, the media would feast on it. Her family’s name would be dragged through the mud, and her brand—her image—would crumble.

The internet didn’t forgive bankruptcy. They’d trace her downfall back to her most recent I*******m post and build an entire scandal from there. She couldn’t let that happen.

“But what about the bank?” she whispered suddenly, the thought blooming into action before she had time to second-guess it.

She moved quickly. Into the bathroom, off came her clothes. She took a quick shower, brushed her teeth, and pulled on a sharp, expensive suit. A string of pearls at her neck. A gold wristwatch. Heels. A luxury handbag in hand.

Even if she was falling apart inside, the world would never know. She refused to let it show on her face.

***

She arrived at Velmorian National Bank and stepped out of her black BMW sedan—the car she used when she wanted to stay incognito.

The Velmorian National Bank was no ordinary institution. It catered to the elite. She expected to see powerful surnames walk its marbled halls—and where those names went, so did the nosy eyes of reporters. Just in case, she pulled out a plain surgical nose mask she’d picked up on the way and slipped it on, hoping it would be enough to obscure her identity.

After all, she wasn’t here to deposit a fortune or invest in prestige. She was here to borrow money. And that, for someone of her standing, was a secret best kept buried. Thankfully, the bank had a strict anonymity policy for loan-seekers. No one outside those offices would know her purpose for being there.

As she stepped through the automated glass doors, her eyes scanned the room—and locked instantly on someone she recognized.

Mia.

Her old coursemate from Washington University, in Backington. A school for the ultra-wealthy. Only children of powerful families could afford to attend—and both Mia and Isla had been among them.

The Morrisons, Mia’s family, were well-known in Velmoria. Rich, though not quite Quinn-level rich. To someone like Mia, Isla’s presence here would imply something grand—an elite investment move, perhaps—not the desperate borrowing of funds.

Isla saw the risk immediately. Even with the mask on, she averted her face, turning away to avoid Mia’s gaze and erase any chance of being recognized.

But it wouldn’t be that easy.

Mia had admired Isla in college. She had always looked up to her—the poised, distant, untouchable Isla Quinn. Isla had only ever had two close friends back then. No one else could break into her circle. Not even Mia.

Still, she had emulated Isla’s every move. Admiration like that didn’t fade. Even a blindfold wouldn’t stop Mia from recognizing her idol.

As Mia turned to leave the bank, finished with her business, she spotted the familiar posture, the walk, the aura.

“Hello!” she called out cheerfully.

They were no longer students. Mia had followed Isla’s journey on social media—watched her fashion empire rise. She’d seen the recent cryptic posts too. Something was clearly wrong, and Mia could feel it in her gut.

“Isla,” she called again, louder this time.

But Isla didn’t respond. Her pace quickened, heels clicking against marble as she made for the hallway.

Mia took a step forward.

Isla turned the corner—then darted through a side door into the Loan Officer’s office hall, just before Mia could catch up.