The Secret King of River City: Heir to the Trillion-Dollar L

"Hey, watch where you are going with that bag, kid. You are dripping all over the Italian marble."

The security guard at the Grand Imperial Hotel shoved a beefy hand against Ethan’s chest, stopping him dead in his tracks. Ethan wiped a mixture of cold rain and sweat from his eyes, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He gripped the thermal delivery bag tighter, the smell of premium Wagyu steak and expensive truffle pasta seeping through the zippers. 

"I have a delivery for the Presidential Suite," Ethan said, his voice trembling slightly from the cold. "It is a priority order. I cannot be late."

The guard looked him up and down with pure disdain. Ethan’s yellow delivery poncho was torn at the shoulder, his sneakers were soaked through, and his old bicycle was leaning against a gold-plated bollard outside in the middle of a torrential Valentine’s Day downpour. 

"The Presidential Suite?" The guard let out a dry, mocking laugh. "You look like you belong in a dumpster, not the penthouse. Show me the app."

Ethan fumbled with his cracked phone screen, showing the order details. His fingers were so numb he could barely swipe. 

"Suite 808. Marcus Thorne," the guard read aloud, his eyes widening slightly at the name. "Fine. Use the service elevator in the back. Do not let any of the guests see you. You are an eyesore."

"Thank you," Ethan muttered, turning toward the service hallway.

He did not care about the insult. He did not care about the rain or the fact that his legs felt like lead. All he cared about was finishing this last delivery so he could head home to Stella. He had saved for three months to buy her a small silver necklace. It was sitting in his pocket right now, a tiny beacon of hope. Three years of dating, three years of struggling together in a tiny apartment, and tonight, he was going to tell her that things would get better.

The service elevator groaned as it ascended. Ethan checked his reflection in the scratched metal doors. He looked pathetic. His hair was plastered to his forehead and his face was pale. But he forced a smile. 

"Just one more," he whispered to himself. "Then it is our turn to celebrate."

The elevator doors slid open to a hallway lined with plush crimson carpet. It was silent here, the air smelling of expensive cologne and fresh lilies. Ethan walked quickly, his wet shoes making a faint squelching sound that felt like a crime in such a place. He found the double doors of Suite 808 and took a deep breath. 

He knocked.

For a moment, there was no answer. Then, he heard a muffled laugh from inside. A man’s voice, deep and arrogant, said something he could not quite catch. A woman giggled. 

The sound of that giggle sent a sudden, sharp chill down Ethan’s spine. It sounded familiar. Too familiar.

The door swung open. 

Ethan’s professional smile froze. It did not just freeze, it shattered. 

The man standing there was tall, wearing a tailored navy blue robe that probably cost more than Ethan’s entire delivery bike. He had a glass of amber liquid in one hand and a look of supreme boredom on his face. 

"Finally," the man said, looking at Ethan’s soaked form. "The food is thirty minutes late. I should report you and get the whole meal for free."

Ethan did not answer. He could not. His eyes were fixed on the woman sitting on the edge of the king-sized bed in the background. 

She was wearing a white silk robe, her hair tossed over one shoulder in loose waves. She was holding a box of chocolates, the expensive kind Ethan could never afford. 

"Stella?" Ethan’s voice was a ghost of a sound.

The woman froze. Her eyes snapped toward the door, widening in a mix of shock and immediate, cold irritation. She did not look guilty. She looked annoyed.

"Ethan?" she asked, her voice sharp. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"I... I am delivering your dinner," Ethan stammered, his heart feeling like it was being squeezed by a cold hand. "Stella, what is this? Why are you in this room? Why are you wearing that?"

The man, Marcus Thorne, looked back at Stella and then at Ethan, a slow, predatory grin spreading across his face. 

"Oh," Marcus chuckled, taking a sip of his drink. "So this is the famous Ethan? The delivery boy?"

Stella stood up, tying the silk belt of her robe tighter. She walked toward the door, her heels clicking on the hardwood entryway. She did not run to explain. She did not cry. She looked at Ethan like he was a stain on the floor that she had forgotten to wipe away.

"You were not supposed to be the one delivering this," Stella said, her voice flat. "I thought you were working the West Side tonight."

"Is that all you have to say?" Ethan felt a surge of heat behind his eyes. "Stella, it is Valentine’s Day. I have been working sixteen hours a day to save up for our future. I have been skipping meals so we could pay the rent. And you are here? With him?"

"Our future?" Stella laughed, a harsh, brittle sound. "Ethan, look at yourself. You are soaked, you smell like cheap oil and rain, and you are holding a bag of food that costs more than your monthly salary. What future do we have?"

"I love you," Ethan said, the words feeling heavy and useless. "We have been together for three years."

"Love does not pay for silk, Ethan," she replied, gesturing to the room around her. "Love does not buy a view of the city from the eightieth floor. I am tired of being poor. I am tired of waiting for a life that you are never going to be able to give me."

Marcus stepped closer, placing a hand on Stella’s waist. He looked at Ethan with a smirk that was pure poison. 

"You heard her, kid," Marcus said. "She is with a man who can actually provide. Why don't you just give us the food and go back to your bicycle? I might even give you a five dollar tip if you stop crying."

"You disgusting prick," Ethan hissed, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the bag.

"Watch your mouth," Marcus warned, his eyes darkening. "You are standing in my suite. I could have you arrested for trespassing before you hit the lobby."

Ethan looked at Stella, desperate to find a single spark of the woman he loved. "Stella, please. Just tell me this is a mistake. Tell me you are doing this to get back at me for something. Anything."

Stella leaned back into Marcus, her expression hardening into a mask of pure disgust. 

"The only mistake was staying with you for three years," she said. "I wasted my best years waiting for you to become something. But you are just a delivery boy, Ethan. That is all you will ever be. Now, give Marcus the food. We are hungry."

Ethan felt something break inside him. It was not a quiet break. It was a violent, silent explosion of every hope he had ever held. He looked at the bag in his hand, then at the two of them. 

"You want the food?" Ethan asked, his voice suddenly calm. 

"Yeah, I paid for it," Marcus said.

Ethan let go of the bag. It hit the floor with a heavy thud. The containers inside shifted, the sauce likely spilling over the expensive carpet. 

"Eat it," Ethan said. "I hope you choke on it."

Stella stepped back, her eyes flashing with anger. "You little loser! Do you have any idea how much that costs? You are going to be fired for this!"

"Let him go, babe," Marcus said, pulling a wad of cash from his pocket. He peeled off a hundred-dollar bill and dropped it onto the wet floor near Ethan’s feet. "Go buy yourself some dignity, delivery boy. Or a better bike. You look like you need it."

Ethan did not look at the money. He looked straight at Stella. 

"I bought you a gift," Ethan said quietly. "I had it in my pocket. I was going to give it to you tonight and ask you to move into a better place with me. I found a second job."

Stella rolled her eyes. "A second job? What, delivering newspapers? Just go, Ethan. You are embarrassing yourself."

"I am embarrassing myself?" Ethan whispered. "I am not the one selling my soul for a hotel room."

Marcus stepped forward, his face inches from Ethan’s. "Get out. Now. Before I throw you down the stairs myself."

Ethan did not move for a long second. He memorized the way Stella looked at him in that moment. There was no pity. There was no sadness. There was only a cold, calculated desire for a life she thought he could never give her. 

He turned without another word. 

"Wait," Stella called out as he reached the elevator. 

Ethan paused, a tiny, foolish part of him hoping she would change her mind. 

"Leave the necklace," she said, her voice echoing down the hall. "If it is silver, I can probably get a few bucks for it at a pawn shop. It is better than nothing."

Ethan felt a bitter laugh bubble up in his throat. He did not turn around. He reached into his pocket, pulled out the small, velvet box, and let it fall into a nearby trash can with a hollow click. 

"Keep the trash, Stella," Ethan said. "You are already surrounded by it."

The elevator doors opened. He stepped inside, the silence of the luxury hallway feeling like a suffocating weight. As the doors began to close, he saw Marcus laughing as he picked up the food bag from the floor, his arm draped around Stella’s shoulders. 

The descent felt like it took an eternity. Every floor he passed felt like another year of his life being stripped away. By the time he reached the lobby, he was no longer the same man who had walked in. The sadness was gone, replaced by a cold, burning void. 

He walked past the security guard, who was still smirking. 

"Back to the rain, kid?" the guard asked. "Make sure you don't drip on the way out."

Ethan ignored him. He pushed through the heavy glass doors and stepped back into the storm. The rain was colder now, lashing against his skin like a whip. He walked to his bicycle, but he did not get on. He just stood there, letting the water soak him to the bone. 

His phone buzzed in his pocket. 

He pulled it out, expecting a notification from the delivery app telling him he was fired. Instead, the screen showed an unknown number. A private, international line. 

Ethan stared at it. He did not usually answer unknown calls, but tonight, nothing mattered. He swiped to answer.

"Hello?" he said, his voice raspy.

"Is this Ethan Avery?" 

The voice on the other end was old, refined, and possessed an authority that seemed to vibrate through the phone. 

"Who is this?" Ethan asked.

"My name is Jenkins," the voice replied. "I have been looking for you for a long time, Young Master."

Ethan froze. "Young Master? You have the wrong number. I am a delivery driver."

"No, Ethan," the voice said, and Ethan could almost hear the smile in the man’s tone. "Your period of exile is over. Your father’s will has been processed. The Avery family is waiting for its heir to return to River City."

"What are you talking about?" Ethan asked, his heart beginning to thrum with a strange, frantic rhythm. "My father died years ago. He was a clerk."

"Your father was the head of a trillion dollar empire, Ethan. He wanted you to know the value of a dollar before you owned the world. But he did not intend for you to be humiliated like this."

Ethan looked up at the glowing lights of the Grand Imperial Hotel, specifically at the eightieth floor where Marcus and Stella were currently laughing at his expense. 

"How do you know where I am?" Ethan whispered.

"Look toward the street, Ethan," Jenkins said.

Ethan turned his head. A fleet of five black, armored sedans was pulling up to the curb. The doors opened simultaneously, and ten men in identical black suits stepped out into the rain. They did not care about the weather. They marched toward him in perfect unison. 

As they reached him, they all stopped and bowed deeply, their foreheads nearly touching their knees. 

"Young Master Avery," they shouted in unison, their voices cutting through the sound of the thunder. "Welcome home."

Ethan’s phone buzzed again. A notification appeared on his screen. It was a bank alert. 

Available balance, 1,000,000,000.00 USD.

Ethan stared at the zeros. He felt the cold rain on his face, but for the first time in years, he did not feel the chill. He looked at the lead man, who was holding out an umbrella and a set of keys to a vehicle that cost more than the entire hotel.

"Jenkins?" Ethan said into the phone, his eyes narrowing as he looked back up at Suite 808.

"Yes, Young Master?"

"Who owns the Grand Imperial Hotel?"

"You do, sir," Jenkins replied smoothly. "You bought it three minutes ago."

Ethan gripped the phone, a dark, sharp smile finally touching his lips. 

"Good," Ethan said. "Call the manager. I want everyone in the Presidential Suite out on the street in five minutes. And tell them…"