2025-05-08 19:36:23The 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 to grace the same hallways as someone like him. Yet Chance was in his school. If it was up to him, he would do everything to make the guy’s life as hellish as possible, since he wouldn’t stay in his lane.
Chance bit the inside of his cheek, eyes burning with humiliation but not a word escaping his lips. He wouldn't give Rickon the satisfaction. Rickon strutted past him, laughing with the attendant as he walked out of the bank. But Chance made a silent promise: Rickon would pay for this. And soon.
The bank manager turned sharply to Chance, face clouded. "Do you realize who you just offended? That was Matthew Sanders’ son! A man worth $10 billion dollars! That young man just walked out of here with a premium card, which you obviously cannot afford!"
Chance raised his chin and replied evenly, "And do you know who I am?”
A disgusted look came over the director’s face. He turned to the guards.
“Please take this peasant out of here.”
Chance struggled with the merciless guards.
“I am Chance O’Connor! Son of Steven O’Connor!" He called out when it was obvious no one would listen to him otherwise.
The room fell silent. Even the buzz of the overhead light seemed to stop.
The director blinked, holding up his hand for the guards to stop, momentarily disoriented. "What did you say?"
Chance reached into his pocket and brought out the heirloom—the ancient yet radiant ring that shimmered with the seal of the O'Connor family.
The manager stared, stunned. Then he stepped closer, adjusting his glasses, and inspected the ring with trembling hands. Could it really be?
"Follow me. Now." He demanded of Chance, beckoning to him as he began walking off briskly to the private elevator that led to his office.
They moved through a restricted corridor into the executive wing of Eagleswood Central Bank. The office they entered was lavish, filled with dark oak, sleek tech, and the scent of wealth.
The director, who now introduced himself as Michael Goodman, offered Chance a seat. "There was a rumour that the late tycoon had a secret marriage and child with the now congresswoman Julia Franklin. You’re telling me it’s true?"
Chance nodded.
Michael leaned back, hand over his chest. "God help me. That makes you the sole heir to the greatest fortune in existence."
Chance didn’t say anything, just stared at Michael Goodman with the eyes of a man who had been treated unjustly and knew how to get his own back.
Michael leaned forward, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. “Mr. O’Connor, I trust you understand that my reaction earlier was born out of ignorance, and I would never disrespect you in any way. I apologize deeply, sir.”
Chance could barely contain the satisfaction he got from that apology. He was the boss now and would be treated as such.
“I assure you, Rickon Sanders will be dealt with for how he treated you. He will not go unpunished.”
Chance breathed in the air of power, having finally attained his true identity. For a moment, he thought to himself why his mother didn’t introduce him to his true identity before now. He wouldn’t have suffered all the humiliations and bullying from Roy and Vinita. Here was the manager of one of the most powerful banks in the country bowing and apologizing to him; it felt good.
Chance nodded slowly, maintaining composure. “That’s fine.”
Michael reached into a concealed drawer and pulled out a glimmering briefcase unlike any Chance had seen. It sparkled unnaturally.
"This," Michael said with reverence, "is made from the largest diamond ever discovered. Worth ten billion on its own. It's a symbol of status, Mr. O'Connor. Only the richest man in the world may carry it."
He pulled out a slim scanner and gestured for Chance to offer a DNA sample. With a prick of his finger, it was done. The briefcase clicked softly, then opened. It was irrevocable proof of Chance’s identity.
Inside lay a matte-black premium card, a symbol of absolute financial authority, along with stacks of documents.
Chance skimmed through them.
Five hundred billion dollars in liquid assets.
Sixty percent stakes in the Banking, Technology, Real Estate, and Automobile Empires.
His father had owned everything.
Michael nodded, reading the stunned silence on Chance’s face. “This bank—Eagleswood Central Bank—is technically yours now. Part of your father’s holdings in the Banking Empire. You are his only heir."
Chance transferred thirty billion dollars to his personal account, held the premium card in his hands, and stood.
Michael opened the door and addressed all the staff gathered outside. "This young man is Chance O'Connor. From today, every person in this building will treat him with the honor and respect due to the heir of Steven O'Connor."
Chance turned to the female attendant who had slapped him earlier. "You're fired."
Michael didn't hesitate. "Pack your things. You're done."
The attendant burst into tears, but no one moved to help her.
Power. Real power. It surged through Chance like electricity.
For the first time in a long while, Chance felt a taste of real power again. All these years since he left his mother, he had become powerless and oppressed by almost everyone. Now, he had so much power, no one could challenge him nor treat him poorly again, and it felt so good to be that powerful. Chance left the bank with so much pride; driving his car out of the bank, he gave thought to Vinita, the girl he loved who now turned against him because of a $500,000 car.
He walked out of the bank with a new identity, a new reality.
Michael followed him to the car, the Bentley Escapade gleaming like a gemstone in the sunlight.
Chance got in and pulled away slowly, letting the moment sink in.
He thought of Vinita. Of Roy. Of Courtney. Of everyone who had mocked him.
He could now afford the company that manufactured the car Vinita had abandoned him over. And that was just the beginning.
Elite Society University was not ready for Chance O’Connor.
Not even close.
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Chapter 55
The prestigious stone arches of Elite Society University gleamed under the late morning sun as Chance stepped out of the town car, his bag slung casually over one shoulder. The familiar hum of campus life surrounded him—students laughing near the fountain, the rustle of lecture notes being shuffled, the distant sound of someone practicing violin in the arts block.But today, it all felt a little quieter.Or maybe he had just grown louder inside.The moment his shoes hit the main quad, a familiar voice called out from behind a column of ivy.“Chance!”He turned.Chloe jogged toward him, a curious mix of surprise and concern on her face. Her chestnut waves were pulled into a loose braid, and she had that look she always wore when something was off—but she hadn’t decided yet whether it was good or bad.“You’re not going to believe it,” she said, falling into step beside him.Chance tilted his head. “Try me.”“Prince Harry left this morning.” She announced like she was delivering a specta
Chapter 54
The morning sun filtered gently through the floor-length windows of the Banks Estate breakfast conservatory, spilling golden warmth across the long marble table and bouncing off silver cutlery. Outside, birds chirped across the manicured lawn, and a light breeze rustled the towering hedges surrounding the estate.Inside, the air smelled of fresh-ground coffee, sourdough toast, smoked salmon, and jasmine tea.Chance, in a soft navy polo, sat at the head of the table, flipping through a portfolio on his tablet, his expression calm but thoughtful. To his right was Philip Banks, dressed in a tailored tan vest, sipping his usual lemon tea with the quiet grace of a seasoned strategist. Gary, hair a little tousled from sleep, lounged across from Chance, already halfway through his third croissant. At the far end sat Julia, elegant in a pale linen wrap, her poise unshaken even after a sleepless night.For a few moments, there was only the quiet clink of plates and the rustle of digital paper.
Chapter 53
That same night, Chance had to revisit the documents of the will he had received just to be sure that whatever Roney Bashan had claimed was nothing but lies. Even if his mother had lashed out on him angrily, he couldn’t deny the fact that she was right. Ever since he stepped into the O’ Connor’s shoes, he hadn’t really taken full responsibility of the assets he had inherited.All he did was to take note of the financial records but not once had he been actively involved in any of the businesses that were generating those income, and with this issue with the land, he knew it was time for him to take full responsibility.They were still checking through the documents when Gary held high a piece of document. It was a land deed with Steven O’ Connor’s signature showing a transfer of ownership of the land to Roney Bashan as an act of goodwill.“Are you seeing this?” Gary asked, his voice low, stunned. “It’s like your father gave Archerlands to Roney six months before he died.”Chance didn
Chapter 52
Roney Bashan emerged from the side corridor, wiping his hands with a silk cloth like a man fresh off a feast. The summit was over and the guests have all returned home, leaving him with that feeling of satisfaction that he had been able to announce the erection of his most revered boyhood dream, “Crown City.”As a boy growing up in the shadow of rising empires and watching his father bow before men who controlled the world then, like Steven O’Connor was currently doing, Roney had made a silent vow: one day, he would build something that no dynasty could overshadow.To him, Crown City was never just concrete and glass—it was a living monument, a futuristic kingdom where innovation, control, and legacy fused into one.A city where his name would not merely be written on buildings… but carved into history.And now, with the O’Connor legacy seemingly quiet and their land in his grip, he believed it was time—his time to be the major player in the game of wealth and power until he finally
Chapter 51
The stage of the O’Connor World Pavilion shimmered beneath a cascade of amber lighting as the guests settled into seats. Cameras rolled, glasses clinked, and the buzz of expectation ran electric through the room.This was it—the main address of the evening. Every mogul, tycoon, and high-ranking royal in attendance leaned forward, eyes fixed on the man approaching the stage with the ease of a seasoned performer.Roney Bashan, the patriarch of the Bashan Dynasty.A titan in his own right, he wore power like a second skin. His dark double-breasted suit gleamed under the lights, and his salt-and-pepper beard framed a face sculpted by decades of corporate conquest. Roney Bashan was not just a business ally—he was one of the few men who had stood beside Steven O’Connor during the meteoric rise of the O’Connor Empire.He had witnessed firsthand as Steven transformed a modest family enterprise into a global juggernaut—brick by brick, deal by deal—turning once-forgotten corners of the economy
Chapter 50
The Intercontinental Real Estate Summit—I.R.E.S.—wasn’t just another billionaire conference. It was the event. The kind of summit where invitations were hand-delivered in armored cars, security clearance rivaled that of the G20, and no one without a nine-figure portfolio even made it past the valet.Held inside the O’Connor World Pavilion—a gleaming, cathedral-like structure in Manhattan’s Financial District—the air inside shimmered with legacy, influence, and generational power.The Bashans had really done a good job in putting everything together for this conference and that was an undeniable fact.The guest list had been kept airtight and there was no room for anyone who hadn’t received an invitation, no matter who that person was. This was what they called “strictly by invitation,” and it was worth it, owing to the fact that this summit was for the very great minds that ruled in the real estate space. The Bashan family, who were one of the top players in matters of real estate a
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