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 67
Wilfreda’s reflection stared back at her from the mirror—sharp green eyes, hair mussed from where she’d been raking her hands through it for the past hour. She could feel her heartbeat in her throat, an annoying thrum that wouldn’t settle.She leaned in closer, searching her own face like she might find the answer there: was she the kind of woman who believed everything she was fed—or the kind who pulled back the curtain when no one else would dare?Her phone buzzed where she’d abandoned it on the desk. A reminder pinged up: Call Prague housing to confirm deposit refund. She ignored it and reached for her laptop instead, dragging it back onto her knees as she sank cross-legged onto the bed again.Julia Banks. The name felt heavier now than it had on that billboard. Heavier than all the videos she’d binge-watched at 2 a.m. when she’d wanted to feel inspired enough to step into her mother’s old classrooms.She opened a new browser window and typed slowly: Julia Banks biography.Hundreds
Chapter 66
The primetime slot was perfectly chosen—just past 10 p.m., when every major channel had its eyes locked on the night’s biggest political theatre. The studio lights glared off the polished desk where Senator Norville sat ready to tear Julia apart one more time—a final blow to seal her political fate once and for all.At the very edge of the darkened stage, like a ghost with too much power, stood Roney Bashan—barely visible but unmistakably present.“…In three, two, one—”The red ON AIR sign glowed.Norville turned that smile straight into America’s living rooms. The host—a young journalist trying too hard to look neutral—gave him the opening with a soft pitch:“Senator Norville, the nation’s watching closely. Julia Banks just won her primary by an unexpected landslide. But the last seventy-two hours have cast new shadows on her candidacy—rumors of hidden truths about her family, a so-called illegitimate heir… Are you calling for her to drop out?”Norville gave a small, practiced chuckl
Chapter 65
Chance’s promise echoed in his head long after he left the campaign office that night. Outside, the reporters were still there—like vultures on an endless vigil, lenses pressed to the glass, waiting for the next crack in the fortress. But when he stepped out, they shrank back a little. Even their shouted questions bounced off him like raindrops against steel.He didn’t get into the car waiting at the curb right away. He pulled his phone out first, thumb hovering over the last text from Philip. Where are you? We need to talk. Chance hadn’t answered then, too consumed with calming the storm that threatened to tear down everything his mother had built. But now, he was ready.He slid into the back seat, slammed the door shut, and gave the driver a name and an address.The ride was quiet, the night city blurred in streaks of yellow and silver outside the window. Chance’s thoughts ran faster than the city lights. He could already see the headlines he wanted to write over the ones blazing a
Chapter 64
It started before sunrise—first as a ripple, then a tide that broke over Julia’s campaign headquarters like a hurricane crashing through glass.By dawn, a barricade of news vans lined the narrow street in front of the brick-and-glass campaign building on Madison Avenue. Camera crews huddled beneath umbrellas as the morning drizzle turned to sheets of cold rain, but not a single lens wavered from the doors. Boom mics jutted toward the awning. Reporters barked into cameras. Commentators and gossip bloggers alike streamed their hot takes from folding chairs and cheap ring lights perched under pop-up tents.Inside the building, it felt like a dam about to burst.Julia sat at the head of the massive conference table, its glossy surface buried under a mountain of printed headlines that grew more absurd by the hour.Her comms director, Marie Denning—usually the calmest head in any crisis—was pale as paper now, her voice hoarse from marathon phone calls to sympathetic outlets, legal teams, a
Chapter 63
Julia was in the campaign room, seated at a long table with her top three campaign aides and her comms director, all of whom looked pale, shaken, and helplessly over-caffeinated. Phones buzzed every second. Aides were scrambling, and statements were being drafted, but it was chaos trying to stop a fire without knowing where it started.They had just won the primaries two days ago, and now her victory was already looking threatened.Across every major media outlet, it was the same headline—broadcasted, tweeted, blogged, and replayed with unrelenting ferocity:“BREAKING: Julia Banks Unfit for Presidency—Former Mistress Allegations and Hidden Illegitimate Son Rock Campaign Trail!She was still trying to rack her brain over how to calm the storm when the door burst open and Chance stepped in.“Out,” she said to the team without a blink. “Now.”The room cleared like a tide pulling back from shore and Julia rose slowly, trying to steel herself.“I saw the broadcast,” Chance said. “What the
Chapter 62
Senator Walter Norville, the archrival to Julia and major contender for the seat of the presidency stood at the head of a long table in the private backroom of St. Graven’s Gentlemen’s Club, a place where policies were whispered over cognac and careers were buried beneath handshakes.Tonight, the lights were dimmed to a golden hue. Velvet curtains shut out the world. Three men sat around the table—each one bearing secrets, scars, and a burning interest in the downfall of Julia.Norville straightened his navy-blue tie and looked across the table at Roney Bashan and next to him, sipping slowly from a tumbler of whiskey, was Ezekiel Tann, whose eyes gleamed with the hunger of a man clawing for relevance.Norville tapped his fingers against the table before finally speaking.“She’s gaining momentum,” he said. “Polls show Julia Banks is three points ahead of me as of this morning.”“And you expected anything less?” Roney scoffed, leaning back. “The woman’s a machine. Between her speeches a
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