The Trillionaire Son-in-Law: God-Level Choice System

Ten Billion Dollar Slap

Chase froze mid-crouch, his fingers inches from the scattered bills.

To the guests, he looked paralyzed by shame. A pathetic man struggling with the last shreds of his dignity before inevitably surrendering it.

"Look at him hesitate," Adams sneered, taking a sip of her wine. "He's calculating how much dog food ten thousand dollars can buy. Go on, Chase! Bark! Maybe if you wag your tail, Justin will throw in a bone."

"Bella, you really married a winner," Justin laughed, leaning back in his chair and looking at Chase’s wife with mock sympathy. "If you divorce this trash today, I’ll pay his mother’s medical bills myself. Consider it charity for a beautiful woman stuck with a parasite."

Bella bit her lip so hard it turned white. Her eyes were watery, filled with a mix of humiliation and pity. She took a shaky step forward. "Chase... get up. Please. Just get up and let's go. We’ll figure out another way."

"There is no other way!" Chase suddenly spoke.

His voice was different. It didn't crack. It didn't tremble. It was low, steady, and vibrated with a cold intensity that seemed to drop the temperature around the table by five degrees.

He stood up slowly. He didn't brush off his knees. He didn't look at his wife. He looked straight at the transparent blue screen hovering in the air.

"Oh? You have a spine now?" Justin mocked, stepping closer until he was face-to-face with Chase. He poked Chase hard in the chest. "I told you to bark. Are you deaf? Or are you just stupid?"

Chase ignored the finger jabbing into his sternum. His mind was locked onto the glowing text of Option 3.

Ten billion dollars. Respect. Dominance.

For three years, he had swallowed his anger. He had bowed his head. He had let them walk all over him because he had no power. He thought poverty was his destiny.

Not anymore.

"I choose Option 3," Chase muttered under his breath.

"What?" Justin frowned, leaning in. "What did you say? Speak up, trash."

[Ding!]

[Choice Accepted.]

[Reward Issued: Centurion Black Gold Supreme Card. Funds have been deposited.]

Chase felt a sudden weight in his back pocket. It wasn't imaginary. It was heavy, cold, solid metal. A surge of adrenaline, sharper and hotter than anything he had ever felt, rushed through his veins. It was the feeling of a man who had been drowning suddenly finding himself standing on dry land, holding a loaded gun.

He looked down at the money scattered on the carpet. Ten thousand dollars. A fortune to him five minutes ago. Now? It looked like toilet paper.

Chase lifted his foot.

He didn't bend down to pick it up. He stomped directly onto the face of Benjamin Franklin. He ground his heel into the bills, twisting his sneaker until the paper tore and smeared against the hotel carpet.

"You—!" Justin’s eyes widened in disbelief. "You crazy bastard! Do you know whose money that is?"

"Trash money for a trash person," Chase said calmly.

"You're dead!" Justin roared, his face turning red. He raised his hand to shove Chase. "I’m going to—"

Chase didn't wait. He didn't flinch. All the anger of the last three years—the cold rice, the sleeping on the floor, the insults, the way they looked at his dying mother like she was a burden—channeled into his right arm.

He swung.

PA!

The sound was like a gunshot echoing through the banquet hall.

Chase’s hand connected with Justin Han’s cheek with the force of a sledgehammer. The impact was so violent that Justin didn't just stumble; he spun. He pirouetted a full three hundred and sixty degrees, his feet tangling together, before he crashed spectacularly into the table of champagne towers behind him.

CRASH!

Glass shattered. Hundreds of crystal flutes exploded. Champagne sprayed into the air like a geyser. Justin lay sprawled amidst the wreckage, a shard of glass in his hair, a bloody handprint swelling instantly on his cheek.

The music stopped. The chatter died. The entire banquet hall went dead silent. You could hear the fizz of the spilled champagne settling into the carpet.

Adams’ jaw dropped, her wine glass slipping from her fingers and shattering on the floor. Bella covered her mouth with both hands, her eyes wide with shock.

Chase stood over the fallen heir, shaking his hand slightly to ease the sting. He looked down at Justin with eyes devoid of fear.

"Keep your change," Chase said, his voice cutting through the silence. "You’ll need it for your own medical bills."

[Ding! Host has completed the choice.]

[Reward: $10 Billion (Confirmed). New Choice available in 3... 2... 1...]

"You... you hit me?" Justin screamed. His voice was shrill, hysterical. He struggled to sit up, wine dripping from his expensive white suit, looking like a drowned rat. He touched his face and saw blood on his fingers. "He hit me! He actually hit me!"

"Guards!" Justin shrieked, pointing a trembling finger at Chase. "Security! Kill him! Break his legs! I want him dead!"

Four burly security guards, wearing the Golden Phoenix uniform, rushed in from the main entrance, batons drawn. They looked massive, like walls of muscle.

Bella panicked. The reality of the situation crashed down on her. She ran over and grabbed Chase’s arm, pulling him hard. "Chase, run! You’re crazy! Why did you do that? The Han family will kill us! Run!"

"Let them try," Chase said. He didn't move. He stood rooted to the spot like an old oak tree.

He looked at his wife. For the first time in three years, he wasn't looking at her with apology or subservience. He was looking at her with protection. With power.

"Nobody will bully you again," Chase said softly. "I promise."

"Security!" Adams screeched, jumping to her feet. "Arrest this lunatic! He is not part of the Song family! We disown him! He has nothing to do with us!"

The guards charged. They were five meters away. Three meters.

[Ding! Danger Detected.]

[Option 1: Hide behind your wife. Reward: Durability +1 (Cowardice).]

[Option 2: Kneel and beg for mercy. Reward: Hospital Bill paid by charity.]

[Option 3: Purchase the Golden Phoenix Hotel instantly and fire everyone who opposes you. Reward: Ownership of the Hotel + Aura of the King.]

Chase smirked. The corner of his lip curled up in a way Bella had never seen before.

"Manager!" Chase shouted. His voice boomed, authoritative and commanding.

The hotel manager, a fat, sweating man named Mr. Pang, came running out from the kitchen area, wiping his forehead with a handkerchief. "What is going on here? Who is causing trouble at the Song Banquet?"

"Mr. Pang!" Justin shouted from the floor, spitting out blood. "This trash hit me. I want him dead. If you don't break his legs right now, the Han Corporation will withdraw all investments from this hotel! I will bankrupt you!"

Mr. Pang’s face turned pale. He knew the power of the Han family. He turned to Chase, his eyes narrowing into slits. "You dared to hit Young Master Han in my establishment? Security! Break his—"

"How much?" Chase interrupted.

Mr. Pang paused, confused. "What?"

"This hotel," Chase said. He reached into his back pocket.

The movement was slow, deliberate. He pulled out the sleek, matte-black metal card. It shimmered under the chandelier lights, absorbing the brightness rather than reflecting it. The surface was etched with a singular, intricate geometric pattern.

"How much to buy it? Right now."

Mr. Pang froze. His eyes locked onto the card. He had worked in high-end hospitality for twenty years. He had seen Platinum cards. Diamond cards. Palladium cards.

But this...

He knew the urban legends. The Centurion Black Gold Supreme. The card that didn't just have a limit; it had a direct line to the global banking reserve.

"Sir... are you joking?" Mr. Pang’s voice wavered.

"Ten seconds," Chase said coldly. "Give me a price, or I buy the hotel across the street and run you out of business by tomorrow morning."

"Is he crazy?" "He picks up trash for a living, where did he get a black card?" "It must be a fake. A prop from A****n." "Justin, look at this clown. He’s pretending to be a tycoon to save face."

Justin wiped the blood from his mouth and sneered, struggling to his feet. "Mr. Pang, swipe it. Let the machine expose him. When it declines, I’ll break his other hand for fraud."

Mr. Pang hesitated. The card looked too real. The weight of Chase’s gaze was too heavy.

He signaled a waiter to bring the mobile POS machine. His hands were shaking visibly. He took the black card from Chase. It felt cold to the touch.

Beep.

Mr. Pang looked at Chase. "Sir... the hotel is valued at..."

"Just name the price," Chase cut him off.

"Three... Three hundred million dollars," Mr. Pang stammered. He threw out a ridiculous number, fifty million higher than the market value, assuming Chase would back down.

"Swipe it," Chase said.

The room held its breath.

Mr. Pang entered the amount: $300,000,000.

Everyone leaned in. Adams crossed her arms, a cruel smile playing on her lips, ready to laugh when the 'DECLINED' message beeped. Bella looked down at her shoes, terrified of the police sirens she imagined were already on the way.

Chase stood motionless, looking indifferent, as if he were buying a pack of gum.

Processing...

Connecting to Global Bank...

Verifying...

The machine whirred.

[TRANSACTION APPROVED]

Whirrrr-chk.

The machine printed out a long, white receipt.

Mr. Pang’s eyes bulged out of his head. He looked at the receipt. Then at the machine. Then at Chase. His knees gave way, and he nearly collapsed.

"Succ... Success?" Mr. Pang whispered. "Three hundred million... cleared?"

"What?" Justin shouted. "Impossible! The machine is broken! That card is fake!"

"It went through," Mr. Pang’s voice cracked, high and hysterical. He suddenly turned to Chase and bowed at a ninety-degree angle, his forehead almost touching the floor. "Mr. Lu! I apologize for my blindness! I didn't know Mount Tai was standing before me! This hotel... is yours!"