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

Chapter 2: Price of a Broken Heart

"Look at him, Stella. He is actually shaking. Is it the cold, or is he just that pathetic?"

Marcus Thorne did not wait for an answer. He reached into the pocket of his silk robe and pulled out a thick roll of bills held together by a gold clip. He peeled off a few hundreds with a flick of his thumb, his eyes never leaving Ethan’s dripping face.

"You delivered the food, kid. You did your job. Now, you need a tip, right? That is how this works?"

Marcus let the bills flutter from his fingers. They did not land in Ethan’s hand. He watched them drift through the air and land on the wet, crimson carpet at Ethan’s feet, soaking up the rainwater that had pooled there.

"Pick it up," Marcus said, his voice dropping an octave, heavy with a cruel sort of playfulness. "That is more than you make in a week of pedaling that scrap metal bike around. Go on. Get on your knees and take it."

Ethan looked down at the money, then back up at the man standing in the doorway of the suite. His vision was blurred by the rain still dripping from his hair, but the fire starting to burn in his chest was crystal clear.

"I do not want your money, Thorne," Ethan said, his voice surprisingly steady despite the tremor in his hands.

"Oh, he has pride," Marcus laughed, turning back to look at Stella, who was still sitting on the edge of the massive bed. "Did you hear that, babe? The delivery boy has pride. It is adorable."

Stella walked over, her silk robe whispering against her legs. She did not look at the money on the floor. She looked at Ethan with a expression that was far worse than anger. It was pity mixed with a deep, cutting embarrassment.

"Just take the money and go, Ethan," she said, crossing her arms. "You are making a scene. Do you have any idea how expensive this room is? You are dripping all over everything. You do not belong here."

"I do not belong here?" Ethan asked, a bitter laugh escaping his throat. "We were supposed to have dinner tonight, Stella. I have been saving for months. I bought a bottle of that wine you liked. I have it in my bag right now."

"That cheap grocery store stuff?" Stella rolled her eyes, gesturing toward the silver bucket near the bed where a bottle of vintage Cristal sat on ice. "Ethan, look around. This is what a real man provides. You were a distraction. A way to pass the time while I waited for someone who actually has a future."

"Three years," Ethan whispered. "I worked double shifts so you could finish your degree. I paid your rent when your parents cut you off. I skipped meals so you could have those designer shoes you wanted for your interview. Was that all just a distraction?"

Stella flinched for a split second, but her face hardened almost instantly. 

"Nobody asked you to do that," she snapped. "You chose to do it. You wanted to feel like a provider, but you are not. You are a delivery boy. You will always be a delivery boy. If you really loved me, you would want me to be happy. And I am happy here. With Marcus."

Marcus stepped forward, placing a heavy, possessive arm around Stella’s shoulders. He leaned in, his face just inches from Ethan’s.

"You heard the lady," Marcus said. "You were a placeholder. A warm body until the real deal showed up. Now, take your tip and get out before I call security and tell them you tried to rob us."

Ethan reached into his pocket. His fingers closed around the small velvet box. He pulled it out, the blue fabric dark and damp from the rain.

"I bought you this," Ethan said, holding it out. "It is not a diamond. It is just silver. But I worked sixty hours of overtime to get it. I thought it meant something."

Stella looked at the box. For a moment, Ethan thought he saw a flicker of regret in her eyes, but it was gone before he could be sure.

"Silver?" She let out a short, harsh breath. "Ethan, the earrings Marcus gave me for dessert cost fifty thousand dollars. What am I supposed to do with a silver necklace? It is trash. Just like those clothes you are wearing. Leave it on the floor if you want, or throw it in the bin on your way out. I do not want it."

"She said it is trash, kid," Marcus chimed in, grinning. "But hey, I am a generous guy. Tell you what. Leave the necklace. I will give it to one of the maids. They might actually appreciate something that cheap."

Ethan looked at the box, then at Stella. The woman he had loved for three years was gone. The woman standing in front of him was a stranger, draped in silk and greed.

"You are right," Ethan said, his voice turning cold. "It is trash."

He did not drop the box on the floor. He turned and tossed it into the heavy bronze trash can standing in the hallway. The metallic clink echoed in the quiet corridor.

"Keep the money, Marcus," Ethan said, looking the billionaire in the eye. "You are going to need it."

"Is that a threat?" Marcus laughed, clutching his stomach. "The delivery boy is threatening me? What are you going to do? Give me a one star rating on the app? Oh, I am shaking!"

"Just go, Ethan," Stella said, her voice sounding tired now. "You are pathetic. I actually feel sorry for you."

"Do not," Ethan said, stepping back from the doorway. "Save your pity for yourself, Stella. You are going to need it more than I will."

He turned away without waiting for a response. Behind him, he heard Marcus’s loud, boisterous laughter and the heavy thud of the door slamming shut. The sound echoed through the hallway, final and cold.

Ethan walked down the long, plush corridor toward the service elevator. Every step felt heavy, as if his shoes were made of lead. The adrenaline that had carried him through the confrontation was fading, replaced by a hollow, aching void in his chest. He reached the elevator and pressed the button, leaning his head against the cold metal door.

He felt like a ghost. He had spent three years building a life with a woman who had never really been there. He had sacrificed everything for a lie.

The elevator doors opened. He stepped inside and hit the button for the ground floor. As the car descended, he caught his reflection in the polished brass walls. He looked like a wreck. His clothes were soaked, his face was pale, and his eyes were red from the wind and the cold. He looked exactly like the man Marcus and Stella thought he was.

A loser. A nobody. A servant to the rich.

The elevator reached the lobby. Ethan walked out, his wet sneakers squealing against the marble floor. The security guard from before was standing near the main entrance, watching him with a smirk.

"Leaving so soon?" the guard asked. "Did you forget to get your tip?"

Ethan did not answer. He kept his head down, walking past the golden statues and the scent of expensive lilies. He pushed through the heavy glass doors and stepped back into the storm.

The rain was coming down harder now, a wall of gray water that blurred the lights of the city. Ethan walked over to his bicycle, which was still leaning against the bollard. He reached for the handlebars, but his hands were shaking so hard he could barely grip them.

He stood there for a long time, the rain soaking into his skin, washing away the sweat and the smell of the hotel. He felt a strange sense of detachment, as if he were watching himself from a distance.

Across the street, parked in the shadows of a closed boutique, a long, black sedan sat idling. Its windows were tinted dark, and its engine purred with a low, powerful hum. Ethan did not notice it. He was too busy staring at the dark pavement, trying to figure out where his life had gone so wrong.

He swung his leg over the bike and started to pedal. His muscles screamed with fatigue, but he ignored the pain. He just wanted to get away. Away from the hotel, away from the laughter, away from the memory of Stella in that white silk robe.

As he turned the corner onto the main road, the black sedan pulled out of its parking spot. It followed him at a distance, its headlights cutting through the rain like the eyes of a predator.

Ethan pedaled faster, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He did not know where he was going. He did not have a home anymore. The apartment was in Stella’s name, and he knew he could never go back there. Everything he owned was either in his delivery bag or in that tiny, miserable flat.

He reached a red light and skidded to a stop. He wiped the water from his face and looked up at the towering skyscrapers that lined the street. They looked like giants, cold and indifferent to the struggles of the people below.

His phone buzzed in his pocket.

He ignored it. It was probably just another order. Another meal to deliver to another person who would look at him like he was invisible.

The phone buzzed again. And again. A persistent, rhythmic vibration that would not stop.

Ethan sighed and pulled the phone out. The screen was cracked, and the water was making the touch sensor glitch. He looked at the display. 

Private Number.

He hesitated, his thumb hovering over the screen. He wanted to throw the phone into the gutter. He wanted to disappear. But something about the persistence of the call made him pause.

He swiped to answer.

"I told you, I am not taking any more orders tonight," Ethan said, his voice raw.

"Ethan Avery?" 

The voice on the other end was not a customer. It was not his manager. It was a man with a voice like gravel and velvet, deep and full of a strange, terrifying authority.

"Who is this?" Ethan asked, narrowing his eyes against the rain.

"My name is Jenkins," the man replied. "I have been waiting for this day for twenty years, Ethan. Do you have any idea who you are?"

Ethan let out a short, bitter laugh. "I know exactly who I am. I am a delivery boy who just got dumped in a hotel lobby. You have the wrong number."

"I do not make mistakes, Ethan," Jenkins said. "Your father told me to wait until you reached your breaking point. He said that only when you had nothing left would you be ready to handle everything."

Ethan gripped the handlebars of his bike, his heart starting to pound against his ribs. "My father is dead. He died in a factory accident when I was a kid."

"Is that what your mother told you?" Jenkins asked. "She was trying to protect you. But the protection is over. The Avery family cannot survive without an heir, and you are the only one left."

Ethan looked behind him. The black sedan was sitting twenty yards back, its engine idling. The driver’s side door opened, and a man in a black suit stepped out, holding a large black umbrella.

"What is going on?" Ethan whispered.

"The man with the umbrella is named Marcus," Jenkins said.

"Another Marcus?" Ethan spat. "I am tired of people named Marcus."

"This one works for you, Ethan," Jenkins replied smoothly. "In fact, everyone in those five cars behind him works for you. Your bank account has just been unfrozen. Your inheritance has been processed. You are currently the wealthiest man in River City."

Ethan stared at the man in the suit. The man started walking toward him, his movements precise and professional. He did not look at Ethan with disdain. He did not look at Ethan like he was trash.

The man reached Ethan and stopped. He bowed deeply, the umbrella held perfectly still to shield Ethan from the rain.

"Young Master Avery," the man said, his voice loud and clear over the sound of the storm. "Your car is waiting."

Ethan looked at his cracked phone screen. A notification popped up. A bank alert. His eyes widened as he counted the zeros.

"Jenkins?" Ethan asked, his voice trembling now for a completely different reason.

"Yes, sir?"

"That hotel I just left," Ethan said, a dark, cold smile beginning to form on his lips. "The Grand Imperial. Who owns it?"

"The Avery Conglomerate owns seventy percent of the shares, sir," Jenkins replied. "Technically, you do."

Ethan looked back at the glowing lights of the hotel, up at the floor where Marcus Thorne and Stella were still celebrating.

"I want to make a phone call," Ethan said. "Tell the general manager that I am coming back. And tell him that…"