The Young Student Trillionaire

Chapter 3

The neon lights of The Vault glared against the night sky like a cruel joke to Chance. He stood outside, fists clenched in his worn-out jeans, staring at the entrance. His name wasn’t on the guest list, not that it ever was—he wasn’t a guest. He was a staff member. And he knew exactly what kind of hell awaited him inside.

Earlier that evening, he'd begged his boss over the phone. “Please, sir, I can't come in tonight. I'm not even supposed to be on duty tonight. Roy Brown is throwing his party there. I'm sure you've heard what happened this afternoon—”

His boss had chuckled, voice slick like grease. “That’s exactly why you should come in, kid. Handle this like a man, and I’ll move you up to supervisor. No more dirty tables. You’ll be wearing a black shirt like the rest of us.”

It sounded like a dream. A real promotion. A real paycheck. Something to pull him out of the ditch he was in. He definitely couldn't say no.

But now, standing here with the echo of the afternoon’s humiliation still haunting him, it felt more like a setup.

And indeed it was. Roy had paid the manager of the club—Chance's boss—to get him to the club that night. Of course the man knew it was because they wanted to spend the night making sport out of Chance's poverty, but he didn't care; his pocket was fatter because of it.

Inside, the club was packed. Rich kids in designer clothes flooded the VIP booths. Champagne popped every five minutes, laughter rising over the bass-heavy music. Chance kept his head down, tray in hand, weaving between tables like a ghost in his own life. He tried to avoid the part of the club where Roy was, hoping he and his goons wouldn't notice he was around.

But then he saw them.

Banners. Huge ones. Hung high from the balcony and scattered around the room. Photos of him. Drenched in trash, humiliated, mouth parted in shock and despair.

The caption under the pictures read:

“When trash forgets it’s trash...”

All of a sudden it was like a spotlight was turned on him, standing there staring at the banners in shock. He could feel the eyes of everyone around the table he was serving staring and laughing at him.

He was right; laughter erupted as the crowd began to notice. Chance’s hands shook as he approached the next table. The banner behind it featured his face in HD. He couldn't even look up.

Roy’s voice boomed from the DJ’s mic. “Y’all ready for some real fun tonight?”

Everyone hooted and whooped.

“We’ve got a special guest with us. No—scratch that—a special peasant. Y’all know him, the legend of the afternoon. Our very own Trash Boy!”

Spotlights swiveled toward Chance. Loud shouts and laughter echoed through the club.

Chance froze mid-step.

“From now on,” Roy announced, “he’s not just our waiter—he’s our walking garbage can! So do me a favor, ESU, when you’re done with your food, your drinks, whatever… dump it on him! Because he is? Say it with me—Trash boy! Trash Boy!”

Soon the entire club was chanting with Roy, calling Chance Trash Boy. He didn't know what to feel, he just stood there, trembling.

The first burger hit him square in the chest. The crowd laughed. A soda cup splashed against his side. More laughter.

He stumbled backward, dropping his tray by mistake. He quickly picked it up and turned to leave. He caught sight of Vinita as he hurried out.

From their velvet corner booth, Vinita and Courtney raised their glasses at him and cheered. Vinita looked stunning, like always, but her smile tonight was carved from ice. No regrets. No softness. Just the smug satisfaction of a girl who’d won her place at the top. And didn't care that she'd stepped on him to get there. Something twisted in Chance’s chest.

He stormed to the back office to talk to his boss, ready to put an end to all of this.

“They’re turning this into a circus,” he reported to his boss, still wiping off burger filling from his shirt. “You said I was getting promoted, not turned into a clown.”

The man didn’t even blink. “This club runs on money, Chance. Not morals. Roy’s friends are buying bottles like they own the place. You? You’re just a name tag. There's nothing that can be done. I told you if you can handle him, you'll get your promotion. What, did you think it was going to be a walk in the park? Don't tell me you underestimated Roy Brown.”

The man sounded like he was enjoying the entire spectacle.

Chance looked him dead in the eye, anger blazing hot in his chest. “You’ll regret this.”

The boss chuckled and called after him as he stormed out of the office. “That’s the problem with trash! Always thinks it’s treasure!”

As he emerged from the back room, they shoved a custom-made trash costume into his hands— a makeshift bodysuit made from netted bags and crushed soda cans.

“Come on, trash boy,” Vinita mocked, “Put on your clothes and dance for us.”

He threw it to the floor, his chest heaving with barely restrained fury. “You can all go to hell!”

Some of Roy's guys pushed him forward.

“You really should do as we say, Trash Boy.”

“Don't you want to make your fans happy!”

Courtney's voice.

Chance turned to Roy,

“I promise you, you're going to regret this.”

The entire club burst into uproarious laughter.

“Oh my gosh, Vinita! You didn't tell us he's such a clown!”

“I mean it. Just watch and see.”

“Oh please,” Roy interjected. “That's enough mouth running.” He turned to Vinita with his thousand-watt smile, running his hand down her exposed thigh. “Would you like to do the honors, babe?”

Vinita smirked and turned.

“Security!”

The bouncers arrived within seconds.

Roy didn’t even have to lift a finger. Vinita, with her glass of rosé, smirked and gave a lazy wave. “Throw him out.”

Courtney added, “Make sure you don’t miss the puddle by the curb.”

The club roared with laughter again.

They didn’t miss.

Chance hit the street face-first, the club’s laughter echoing behind him.

He wiped his face, brushing off bits of lettuce and glass. His vision blurred—not from tears, but from rage. His breath came in hot bursts as he got up, kicking at the pavement the minute he stood.

He began walking angrily. With his vision blurred, he didn't know where he was going, but he knew he couldn't stand and wait for the rage in his chest to consume him.

That’s when the cars pulled up.

Sleek, black, and unfamiliar at first. The doors opened smoothly, and out stepped a man in a tailored suit and expensive shoes.

Philip Banks.

Chance hadn’t seen him in years.

“Your mom wants you home,” Philip stated without preamble. But his eyes were soft; Chance knew it wasn't an order but a plea. His stepfather had always had a soft spot for him.

Chance frowned. “You know my answer to that.”

“She’s worried. We saw what happened online.”

He hesitated.

But he clenched his jaw and turned away still. “Why isn't she here then?” He mumbled under his breath.

Phillip hurried after him.

“Here, you can hear it from her yourself.”

Chance paused and saw that Phillip was putting a video call through to his mother. His mother’s tired but loving face appeared on screen.

“Baby, please,” she said. “Come home. I can't stand you out there going through all of this. Please, let’s figure things out together.”

Chance swallowed hard. His vision blurred— with tears this time.

He nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat.

For the first time that day, he didn’t feel like trash.