The Young Student Trillionaire

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 their world—no, above it.

“How did you find our address?” Mr. Warren asked, his tone sharp but laced with a pinch of caution.

Chance ignored the question. “My name is Chance O’Connor. Son of Julia and Steven O’Connor.”

Their expressions changed instantly. Mrs. Warren took a step back, while Mr. Warren blinked rapidly, as if his ears had deceived him. The name “O’Connor” wasn’t just recognizable—it was monumental. The O’Connors didn’t merely have wealth—they had dominion. Financial titans. The architects of modern banking. The owners of Eagleswood Central Bank.

The room suddenly felt smaller.

Mr. Warren gave a slight bow. “We… we had no idea.”

Chance gave a nod, acknowledging the shift in atmosphere. “I’m here about the bag.”

Mrs. Warren tilted her head. “The one from last night?”

“Yes. I bought that for my friend Chloe. It was never intended to become part of your household inventory.” His voice was steady, not aggressive, but it left no room for argument. “She appreciated it, and now I want it back so I can return it to her.”

Mr. Warren sighed and adjusted the collar of his robe. “Mr. O’Connor… I’m sorry about what happened. It was unfortunate. But I’ve already given the bag to my wife. It’s now hers. And honestly, taking it back would feel… awkward.”

Chance took a step forward. “You mean to tell me that after you watched Rickon Sander publicly humiliate me and my gift, you’re now keeping that same gift as a trophy?”

Mr. Warren opened his mouth, but Chance cut in before he could speak.

“I’m offering $10 million for it. Right now. Just say the word.”

Silence fell again. Mrs. Warren’s eyes widened. “Ten... million?”

Chance nodded. “And an extra two million for you, Mrs. Warren, so you can pick any bag you like. Call it a fair trade.”

But Mr. Warren hesitated. “I’m sorry, Mr. O’Connor. It’s not about money. It’s… it’s ours now. Returning it feels—” 

Even though Chance’s offer looked tempting, Mr. Warren knew the ultimate value of the bag; he could make ten times more from it if he put it out for auction ten years from now. Plus, the prestige it would give his wife among her friends and circle.

Chance interrupted. “Last night, you saw the Sanders lose everything. I believe you’ve followed the news since then?”

They both nodded slowly.

“That was my doing,” Chance said casually. “Rickon and his mother disrespected me. The Sander empire fell before sunrise. I’d like you to imagine—just imagine—what I’d do to yours.”

Mr. Warren’s legs weakened, and Mrs. Warren clutched her husband’s arm.

“Carlton Hotel could disappear from your portfolio before breakfast,” Chance added, stepping closer, his voice low and calm. “And that’s not a threat. It’s reality.”

He tapped a few buttons on his phone and showed them the transfer confirmation. $12 million sent to their joint account.

“You have five minutes to make a decision.”

Mr. and Mrs. Warren vanished into another room, whispering. Less than two minutes later, they returned. The bag was in Mrs. Warren’s hands, resting inside its original LV packaging, untouched.

“We deeply apologize, Mr. O’Connor,” Mr. Warren said, placing the bag down. “And thank you for your... generosity. We’ve also decided to return the money—except for $8 million, which covered the cost of the party last night. We don’t want anything else.”

Chance accepted the bag and gave them a slight bow. “Keep it. You’ve returned the bag respectfully. You’re in my good graces already.”

Without another word, he walked back to his car and drove away.

***********

Courtney cursed under her breath as she slammed the hood of her BMW Girlie. Her $95,000 custom convertible sat dead on the side of the road, steam curling from the engine. Her calls had gone unanswered—her friends, her driver, even her family mechanic. Her parents were vacationing in Santorini and couldn't be bothered. She was cold, stranded, and more importantly—angry.

She stood with her arms wrapped around herself, trembling in the morning chill. The road stretched out empty before her, until she saw a set of headlights in the distance.

A car was coming.

As it got closer, she squinted. The shape was unfamiliar, but the shine, the silhouette... her breath caught.

A Bentley Escapade.

She couldn’t believe it. Only 300 of those had ever been made. Rare. Exclusive. The kind of car that screamed, I own islands for breakfast. It wasn't as flamboyant as Roy’s ride, but its rarity made it even more alluring. Whoever was driving this to Elite Society University was about to own the week, maybe the month.

She immediately waved her hands in the air. "Hey! Hey! Please!" she yelled, trying to look as distressed—and elegant—as possible. 

Her mind raced with plans: She’d get in, find out the owner, post it on social, and claim she was the first ESU student to ride in the legendary Bentley Escapade. The likes would be insane. The prestige…damn! Maybe if the owner was single, she could…

But as the car approached her... it didn’t slow.

It didn’t even hesitate.

The Bentley Escapade drove right past her—fast.

She stared after it, stunned. “What…the…hell?” Her hand dropped. For the first time in a long time, someone had ignored Courtney Wiley. The most popular girl in school. The beauty queen. The daughter of legacy wealth. It didn’t register at first. Her jaw hung open.

Then came the anger. Then the cold. Then desperation.

The morning wind sliced against her legs and cheeks. Her phone was dead now. There was no one else on the road. Just her, the broken car, and the icy air.

With her pride shattered and her skin freezing, Courtney did something she never thought she’d do in her life.

She dropped to her knees on the side of the road.

“Please,” she begged, hoping the Escapade had a rearview mirror. “Come back.”

The car, already far down the road, suddenly slowed.

Then it stopped.

Courtney’s heart leapt. The brake lights flared red. Then—miraculously—it began reversing.

She quickly stood, brushing dust off her knees, scrambling to grab her bag from the passenger seat of her car. The Bentley came to a halt beside her, window still tinted. A honk sounded—two short beeps, like a subtle invitation.

She rushed to the door, threw it open, and climbed in, sighing with relief.

The interior was luxurious—hand-stitched leather, satin trims, and a faint scent of designer cologne. Whoever this was, they had taste.

She turned to see who it was.

The moment their eyes met, her blood froze.

“Hi, Court,” Chance said with a smirk.

Courtney nearly choked.

He had called her Court. No one but her inner circle dared to use that name. Not even teachers. Especially not Chance. Just two nights ago, she had dropped ten grand on him like spare change and demanded he call her “Mummy” in front of the Carlton crowd last night. Same last night, she watched as Rickon humiliated him by stealing his shine and mocking his cheap gift. Above all, she had orchestrated the betrayal of his girlfriend, Vinita, with Roy. 

Now here he was, behind the wheel of a car that could buy hers three times over—and she had kneel to beg him for a ride.

“I... I didn’t know it was you,” she stammered, her voice barely a whisper.

“I know,” he replied, his voice light, his hands relaxed on the steering wheel.

She tried to look out the window, but her heart was in her throat. Humiliation clawed at her from the inside. She couldn’t even ask the questions burning in her mind—Where did he get this car? Was he rich now? Was it a prank?

But she said nothing.

The rest of the drive to Elite Society University was silent, except for the engine’s soft hum. When they reached her residence, Chance stopped the car.

Without a word, she opened the door, stepped out, and closed it behind her. She didn’t even look back.

Within minutes, ESU’s social feeds were in chaos.

Photos and videos of Courtney stepping out of a Bentley Escapade exploded across every platform. Students posted clips with captions like:

“WHO JUST DROPPED OFF COURTNEY IN A BENTLEY ESCAPADE?? 🔥🔥”

“Did y’all see that car? Roy’s not trending anymore 💀💀💀”

“Whoever that driver is... we need names. ASAP.”

The posts quickly went viral, trending alongside Rickon Sander’s downfall and Roy’s half-a-million-dollar car. The mystery around the owner only deepened the hype. Students were dying to know:

Who just drove into ESU with the rarest car in the country?

Courtney said nothing.

She couldn’t. Not when she had knelt in the cold and begged for a ride—only to discover it was the school pauper, Chance Franklin, the guy she always took pleasure in ruining his life. 

And now?