2025-05-08 20:40:25Chance’s hands clenched the steering wheel as he left the party. His jaw was tight, his temple pulsing. He’d tried to ignore it. For years, he’d turned the other cheek, let the whispers slide, and kept to himself. But this? This public humiliation, orchestrated by Rickon, was the final straw. He’d tried to be the bigger person—but what had that gotten him? Mockery.
Never again.
Not when he was now Chance O'Connor, the richest man alive. Worth over a trillion dollars. The name behind conglomerates that ruled every sector from energy to fashion to tech. No one—no one—insulted him or his loved one and walked away untouched.
Rickon’s mother had already taken a swing at him earlier that day. And now, Rickon had just followed in her steps for the second time in one day.
It was time to put the Sanders in their place.
He pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed a number he’d memorized just that morning.
“Mr. O'Connor?” came the voice of Michael Goodman, the director of Eagleswood Central Bank, almost immediately, his tone polished and respectful. “How can I help you?”
Chance didn’t waste words. “Remember the young man who slapped me in your bank lobby today?”
A pause. “Of course, sir. Rickon Sanders.”
“I’m cashing in on the promise you made to me that he will pay for that act.”
Michael’s breath caught faintly. “Of course, sir. What would you like done?”
“Bankrupt them. Freeze every account. Lock down all assets. I want their empire in ashes before the sun rises.”
There was no hesitation. “Understood. I’ll see to it immediately, sir.”
Chance ended the call and exhaled, still seething, but comforted by the knowledge that Rickon and his family’s reckoning was on its way. But he wasn’t going to let the night end with anger. He took a detour, pulled up to a private hotel, and told the valet to park his car. Tonight, he’d club. He’d have fun. He’d be seen.
Let the world talk. Let them watch.
*******
Meanwhile, back at the Crystal Room in the Carlton Hotel, the atmosphere was strained. The sparkle and laughter that had filled Chloe’s birthday party was dying. Guests whispered in corners. The memory of Chance’s departure after being ridiculed over a “fake bag” lingered like smoke.
Even Rickon could feel it.
To him the attention was still on Chance, not him. Even though they were speaking badly about Chance, the fact was that they were speaking about him at all and not Rickon. His party had practically become a footnote in Chance's story. Rickon shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Maybe, just maybe, he’d overdone it.
Chloe sat beside him, silent, her expression unreadable. Her eyes occasionally flicked toward the bag—Chance’s gift. The same bag that had brought so much humiliation tonight.
She felt a knot of guilt twist in her chest. Not just because of the bag, but because of the way Rickon had treated Chance. It was cruel. Unprovoked. She knew Chance had his flaws, but he’d never deserved that.
“I need to fix this vibe,” Rickon muttered, then stood and clapped his hands for attention.
“Everyone!” he shouted. “Come on, witness something legendary tonight!”
He snapped his fingers, and a line of waitresses began carrying over the bill—printed and folded like a scroll. One of them unfurled it dramatically.
“For this night of celebration—drinks, desserts, and entertainment—our bill comes to $8.5 million!”
A moment of stunned silence—and then the crowd erupted in cheers.
“Zaddy Rickon!” the girls screamed, raising their glasses.
At a school like ESU, where it was a constant battle of who could outdo the other in wealth, this was about to become the header of the decade. It would be talked about for months. Rickon’s status had elevated greatly.
Rickon smirked and handed over his platinum-silver card without blinking.
The waitress swiped it. Everyone leaned in.
Beep.
The screen flashed.
“Transaction declined: Card privileges revoked by issuing bank.”
Confused, Rickon laughed. “Try it again.”
She did. Beep. Same message.
“Try it again, now,” he ordered, his voice sharp.
The crowd was no longer cheering. They were watching.
The waitress glanced at her colleague nervously, and just as she was about to try again, Mr. Abu Warren, the hotel’s head of management, stepped into the picture.
“I’ll handle it,” Mr. Warren said politely. “Apologies, Mr. Sanders.”
The crowd jeered and booed at the waitress. It was obviously her fault in their opinion. How could the premium card of a whole Rickon Sanders be declined?
He inserted the card.
Beep.
This time, the message was more aggressive:
“Transaction declined. Use of this card is now considered criminal activity per directive from Eagleswood Central Bank.”
Mr. Warren froze. He couldn't afford to put his establishment at risk by trying the card again. He cleared his throat.
“I suggest you provide an alternative card, Mr. Sanders,” he said with professional calm.
Rickon’s heart pounded. He didn't understand what was going on. “S–sure, I have another one.”
He fumbled in his wallet, pulled out his black card, and handed it over.
Beep.
Insufficient Funds.
Rickon stared at the POS screen in horror. “No… No, that’s not possible.”
The entire hall was filled with shocked and confused murmuring.
He yanked out his phone and called his father.
His father picked up—crying.
“Dad? What’s going on?!” Rickon had horror written all over him.
“Son… it’s all gone. Everything. Ten billion dollars. Every account. Every asset. Frozen. We’ve just filed for bankruptcy…”
“What?!”
“We’re ruined, Ricky! The company… the name… everything’s been taken!”
Rickon dropped the phone.
He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t move. Around him, whispers turned to gasps as Beauty read aloud a breaking news alert from her X feed.
“Matthew Sander and the Sander Corporation have officially filed for bankruptcy. All assets frozen by order of Eagleswood Central Bank. Rumor has it that the new owner of the bank gave the order.”
Rickon crumbled to the floor, sobbing.
**********
The celebration turned sour. Mr. Warren raised his hand.
“No one is leaving until the full bill is paid,” he declared.
Panic broke out.
“I didn’t even drink anything!”
“I can’t afford a million-dollar bottle!”
“Why should I pay for Rickon’s show-off?”
Chloe stood frozen. She hadn’t ordered much and could easily offset her own bill, but her friends were stuck. They were her guests, and she couldn't just leave them stranded.
Roy swaggered over with Vinita and Courtney.
“$500K—paid mine. We’re out,” he said smugly. “Good luck, Chloe.”
They laughed and walked out, high-fiving.
Chloe sighed and, not really knowing what else to do, dialed Chance.
He picked up instantly. “Chloe?”
“I’m so sorry,” she said, voice low.
“But you won't believe what just happened. Rickon’s card declined. Everyone’s stuck. I'm not sure what to d—”
“You can hand over the bag in your hand, and I'll consider the bills settled.”
Chloe turned around to see Mr. Warren staring at her bag with what looked like desperation.
“What?” She was shocked, sure she'd misheard.
Mr. Warren had witnessed the entire spectacle that Rickon had set up because of that bag. From where he was, he'd been able to tell that it was the real deal, and he knew what it would mean if he got it for his wife. He didn't care much for what anyone thought; he knew it was legit, and he would have it.
Chloe, however, clutched the bag tighter; it might be a fake, but it was a gift from her friend, and she would cherish it.
“Did I just hear right?” A girl spoke up from behind Mr. Warren.
“Did he just ask for that cheap bag in exchange for $8 million?”
“You heard me. If I can have that bag, your debt here is forgiven.”
Everyone around was confused. That cheap knockoff? Was Mr. Warren sick in the head? But when it came right down to it, they didn't care; they just wanted to be able to leave.
“Chloe, the bag isn't worth anything anyway; please just give it to him.” They began pleading.
Chloe was confused. She didn't understand why he wanted it so badly, and she couldn't fathom handing over her gift. But they didn't stop; soon she was surrounded by guests begging her to hand over the bag.
Chance heard everything from over the phone.
“Give him the bag.”
Chloe, who'd forgotten she was on a call with him, jolted. She hesitated.
“Are you sure?”
“I promise,” Chance said. “I'll find a way to get it back to you.”
She exhaled and looked up at Mr. Warren.
“You agree that if I give you this bag, that will settle the bill?”
He took it reverently, eyes gleaming. “Yes.”
As he held it in his hands, he gasped.
He knew what this was.
“The Louis Vuitton Black Widow,” he whispered. He dialed his wife. “Baby, I got it. The one-of-a-kind bag. The real deal.”
His wife shrieked in delight on the other end.
Some of the girls frowned. “Wait… it’s real?”
The other girls stared. It couldn't be. Chance couldn't afford it. The man probably wanted to deceive his wife as well.
But the same question lingered on all their minds.
“Why the hell would he trade $8 million for a fake bag?”
Mr. Warren ignored them, his eyes gleaming as he tucked the bag under his arm like a prized gem. “You're free to go.”
The crowd didn’t need to be told twice.
Everyone scrambled for the exit.
Chloe lingered near the doorway, phone pressed to her ear again.
“What are you really up to?” she asked Chance.
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Chapter 12
The sun was only just brushing its light across the rooftops when Chance pulled his Bentley Escapade into the winding, ivy-lined driveway of the Warrens’ private estate. The silence of the early morning amplified the soft purr of the engine, its elegance clashing with the calm suburban setting. He was dressed in black—a fine, tailored ensemble that matched the car’s polished body—and his face bore the same unbothered calm it had the night before at Carlton Hotel.He stepped out and rang the bell.When the butler opened the door, Chance didn’t wait for an invitation. “I’m here to see Mr. and Mrs. Warren,” he said flatly.A few moments later, Mr. Warren and his wife appeared in the doorway. Their faces shifted from mild curiosity to outright disbelief. The man from the party. The boy who was mocked by Rickon and everyone. The same one who handed Chloe a Louis Vuitton Black Widow and walked away with anger after being publicly shamed.And now he was here, standing like he belonged in the
Chapter 11
Chance’s hands clenched the steering wheel as he left the party. His jaw was tight, his temple pulsing. He’d tried to ignore it. For years, he’d turned the other cheek, let the whispers slide, and kept to himself. But this? This public humiliation, orchestrated by Rickon, was the final straw. He’d tried to be the bigger person—but what had that gotten him? Mockery.Never again.Not when he was now Chance O'Connor, the richest man alive. Worth over a trillion dollars. The name behind conglomerates that ruled every sector from energy to fashion to tech. No one—no one—insulted him or his loved one and walked away untouched.Rickon’s mother had already taken a swing at him earlier that day. And now, Rickon had just followed in her steps for the second time in one day.It was time to put the Sanders in their place.He pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed a number he’d memorized just that morning.“Mr. O'Connor?” came the voice of Michael Goodman, the director of Eagleswood Central B
Chapter 10
The clubhouse roared with life. Music blasted from every corner, drinks flowed like rivers, and laughter bounced off the glass walls. Rickon sat at the center of it all, legs sprawled and arms wide, as if the entire party existed solely for his amusement. He didn’t care much for the noise or the chaos—what mattered was that the ladies adored him. Every flirtatious glance, every giggle aimed his way fueled his already inflated ego. And Beauty, ever the drama queen, was livestreaming the entire event, pouting into her camera as she called him “Zaddy Rickon.”Rickon grinned like a devil in velvet. This was his realm, his world, and the crowd fed off his presence like moths to a flame.When he was buzzed enough to feel invincible, he clapped loudly, silencing the music for a moment. “Yo, Chance!” he called, his voice slurred slightly. “You bring anything for my girl, Chloe? Don’t tell me you showed up here empty-handed to just feed off her like the charity case you are.”Chloe, standing
Chapter 9
Rickon stood to his feet, a broad smile stretching across his face—the kind worn by someone who just won the lottery. He answered her question with pride, saying he had gone to get his premium card. His father’s net worth had just hit $10 billion, and to celebrate, he had paid for Rickon to receive a premium card.Cheers erupted around him. The girls looked at him with admiration. Reckon couldn’t measure up to Chance’s smarts; everyone knew this, but he played his role as the money guy perfectly. He might not have been the smartest conversationalist, but money spoke louder than charm here. He was the heir to a $10 billion fortune.There were others in school whose parents were wealthier than Rickon’s, but he still stood out. They might not be able to hold intelligent conversations with him either, but they certainly enjoyed spending his money.With exaggerated flair, Rickon pulled out the silver card from his wallet and waved it proudly in the air. The cheers grew louder, mixed with h
Chapter 8
Chance stepped out of the auction house with a satisfaction that warmed his chest like a vintage bourbon. The look on Mary Sander’s face—shock, confusion, humiliation—played on repeat in his mind like his favorite song. For years, they’d spat on his name and treated his mother like a blemish on society’s skin. But today? Today, he’d cracked their pride like porcelain.But he wasn’t done with them yet. Except, he hadn’t decided yet what to do with them. That was the fun part. Deciding their punishment. But he knew this much: when he was through with the Sanders, their entire lineage would remember never to cross an O’Connor.***The Carlton Hotel glowed in the distance as he pulled into the valet area, drawing a few heads with the quiet confidence of his arrival. He stepped out, dressed to stun in his fitted charcoal suit, a single red rose in one hand, and in the other, a sleek leather bag—not the original exotic packaging the auction house had given him for the $3 million Louis Vuitt
Chapter 7
The auctioneer presented the bag as Item 6622 with a starting bid of $200,000. The war began again over this item, and Chance joined in when the price got to $400,000. The next bidder placed a bid at $450,000, and Chance, not wanting the bid to last that long, jumped it up to $800,000. This sudden spike in price caused a stir. It wasn’t just the money—it was the audacity. For some of the guests, it was borderline disrespectful. This was an elite auction house, not a playground for a young man trying to show off.A low murmur rippled through the crowd, people turning their heads to see who had made such a bold move. It was the young man in a midnight-blue tuxedo—Chance Franklin. The boy with the face of calm arrogance. They didn’t know who he was yet, not fully. But they would.The woman who had placed the $450,000 bid raised her paddle and called out, “One million.”Gasps followed, a few chuckles from seasoned players in the room who appreciated a good duel.Chance didn’t hesitate. "T
Chapter 6
The sunlight poured in through the high windows of the penthouse suite, casting golden streaks across the polished marble floor. Chance O’Connor stood by the expansive glass wall, staring out at the skyline, the city unfolding beneath him like a conquered kingdom. Just yesterday, he was a boy begging to be seen. Today, he stood as a man who owned more than anyone in the nation could imagine.His phone buzzed gently on the countertop beside a freshly brewed cup of cappuccino. He glanced at it."Mom," read the caller ID.He swiped to answer, bringing the phone to his ear.“Chance,” Julia Franklin’s warm, firm voice came through, layered with pride and something deeper—relief, perhaps. “I just got the confirmation from Eagleswood. You did it.”He turned, leaning against the cold surface of the kitchen island, a half-smile forming on his face. “Yeah. It’s real. I signed everything. It’s… official.”A breath of silence passed between them.“I’m proud of you,” she said softly. “You’ve come
Chapter 5
The slap still echoed in Chance’s ears when the female attendant who had landed the second one dropped to her knees, joined swiftly by the security guards. But none of it was for him. Instead, all their attention was turned to the sharply dressed young man Chance recognized with a jolt—Rickon Sander.Rickon, one of ESU’s most toxic elites, was grinning with all the arrogance of old money and unchecked power. The bank director, a man in his late fifties, came rushing in, clearly agitated, and practically stumbled into a bow. “Mr. Sander, our deepest apologies.”Rickon waved it off, eyes twinkling as he stole a glance at Chance, who was still rubbing his cheek. "No need," he said, voice thick with mockery. “Slapping a pauper feels therapeutic. I might just make it a habit.”Rickon felt glad the minute he recognized that it was Chance he’d slapped. He hated the guy's guts. In fact, he wanted to slap him again. Chance’s existence irritated him to no end. He was a nobody and didn’t deserve
Chapter 4
The ride to Washington, D.C., was silent.Chance leaned his head against the window of the sleek Maybach, watching the world blur by. Luxury cars, towering glass buildings, and tailored suits walking along marble pavements. None of it impressed him anymore—not after what he'd endured. Not after what he felt.He hadn’t even looked at his stepfather once since they left campus. The man, dressed in a navy blue suit, sat quietly across from him, his phone resting on his lap. Occasionally, he glanced up, probably to make sure Chance was still there, still quiet.The car eventually slowed to a stop in front of a mansion that looked straight out of a billionaire’s fantasy. Marble columns. Manicured lawns stretching forever. Security at every angle. Chance looked at the gate camera and swallowed hard. It had been years since he left. Years since he last called this place home.The door opened, and Julia Franklin stepped out—graceful, elegant, and immaculately dressed in an all-white designer
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