America, Oregon, Hawthorne Private Elite University Campus, inside a Dicos.
A beautiful long-haired girl was eating French fries, scrolling through her phone, and swinging her fair, long legs.
On the table in front of her lay piled-up roasted chicken wings, burgers, and cola.
Behind the girl, at another table, a young man was studying with intense focus, occasionally knitting his brows, as if wrestling with some problem he hadn't quite figured out yet.
This was a typical college campus scene: a girl leisurely enjoying her meal and a boy diligently buried in his books.
After a while, the girl stretched lazily, glanced at the spread of food in front of her, pouted, and stood up to leave.
The boy next to her instantly fixed his gaze on the half-eaten pile of food she had left behind.
After making sure she was really gone, he moved and swiftly sat down in her seat.
"Damn, she's loaded—leaving all this food? What a waste. Waste is sinful; waste is wrong," he muttered to himself as he stuffed the girl's leftover fries into his mouth.
Though the orange juice was hers, he didn't care and kept gulping it down.
About five minutes later, as he munched fries, he sensed someone standing nearby and instinctively looked up.
The girl who had just left had returned somehow and was staring at him in utter disbelief.
"Oh my god, you—you… I just went to the restroom, and you actually stole my food…" she could hardly believe it. I mean, in today's world, much less at a university—someone actually stealing another's meal? Could anyone be that broke?
Other students eating or studying inside Dicos were stirred and all turned to cast curious glances.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry."
The boy, embarrassed, stood up and, under everyone's watchful eyes, grabbed his books and bolted toward the exit.
"Christ, I thought she wasn't coming back. Damn, I should've made sure she was completely gone before eating." Outside Dicos, he muttered to himself.
"Man, I, Grayson Cole, have hit rock bottom. If it weren't for being completely broke today, who the hell would do something this humiliating?"
Grayson sighed and rubbed his belly—thankfully he ate fast, so he was half-full. He decided to head back to his dorm to rest.
Upon entering the dorm, a short-haired boy—Grayson's good buddy from the dorm, Miles Carter—approached him.
"Grayson, Sienna was here a moment ago. She left this for you."
With that, Miles handed him an iPhone SE.
Seeing the phone, Grayson felt a pang in his chest.
Sienna Monroe was his ex-girlfriend; they had broken up three days earlier, at her request.
The iPhone SE was the gift he'd saved up for by working odd jobs for three months—her birthday present.
He still remembered how happy she looked when she received it; thinking of it felt sweet.
Now, obviously, she had discarded the phone and returned it to him.
He turned it on; the lock screen displayed a message:
"Grayson, I'm giving this phone back because I can't use it. My new boyfriend bought me an iPhone 16 Plus—he loves me and has the means to give me everything I want, something you can never match. From now on, we have no ties. I wish you happiness."
Heh—at the end of the day, it comes down to one thing: money. Because he was poor; he had no money.
"Grayson, chin up."
Miles said, "I told you long ago that Sienna wasn't our type. She's way too beautiful and way too flirty: long legs, ample chest, that influencer face, always batting her eyelashes. Women like that are just for rich second-generation kids to warm their beds—you and I are ordinary. Better stay out of it, or we'll be the ones who get hurt in the end."
"Hey, at least you got to sleep with her — it's not a total loss, right?""What? No, I didn't," Grayson replied.
"Holy crap, really? You dated her for a year and never got with her? Didn't you two always go off and get a room on holidays?" Miles jumped up, heartbroken.
"We shared a double bed. She slept on one side, I on the other—nothing happened." Grayson said.
"That's insane! That's such a loss!"
Grayson thought about it and realized he'd indeed missed out.
But he truly liked Sienna and respected her, so he never pushed for anything.
Still, sigh, Grayson fingered the phone in his pocket. Maybe the only silver lining of breaking up with Sienna was finally ditching his old Moto G Play for an iPhone.
In his sadness, Grayson suddenly heard a "dong" from the iPhone SE and saw a text message:
"After family deliberation, the three year restriction has ended. Cole family's third-generation heir, Grayson Cole, is hereby released from the ban. As of receipt of this message, you have full control over your inheritance!"
Grayson stared at the text, "Holy shit, seriously? The restriction's lifted?"
He could manage his money? Stop pretending to be a broke dog?
The text arrived on Sienna's phone; Grayson wasn't shocked.
When he'd bought her the phone, he'd also registered the number and kept topping up its balance himself.
That number was the contact he left with the family. Actually, he did it to surprise Sienna: if she hadn't broken up with him and kept using the same phone and number, she'd see that strange text today. Then he'd confess he was actually a super-rich heir.
But the irony:
Sienna broke up with him and just handed the phone back—and the text arrived.
She dumped him because he was poor. She couldn't have even dreamed he was a rich second-generation kid.
Now that the ban was lifted and he could access his wealth, what was he waiting for?
Grayson left the campus and arrived before a grand building in downtown.
In front of it were parked all kinds of luxury cars—Porsche, Maserati, Ferrari, top-of-the-line Mercedes, BMW—and mostly business models.
People in and out wore expensive suits and leather shoes, the very image of success.
In his cheap clothes, Grayson looked shabby by comparison.
Yet he felt no pressure. He snorted, held his head high, and walked through the grand doors.
Above the entrance, big letters read "Sterling Royce Private Bank," where part of his family's funds were held.
"Good day, sir. How may I assist you today?"
In the lobby, a female teller in black professional attire smiled at him.
Though her lips curved, her eyes couldn't hide disdain.
Yes, Grayson in plain clothes, barely twenty, looked like a broke college student from a poor neighborhood.
Were it not for professionalism, she wouldn't have greeted him with a word.
Grayson eyed her, clicking his tongue: the service here was top-notch. She was beautiful, with a perfect face and figure; her skirt revealed smooth, slender calves, every inch poised.
He scanned the lobby: it resembled a modern luxury palace. The floor was Italian marble paired with handcrafted metal artworks, showcasing exquisite taste. Crystal chandeliers cast soft light across the spacious room, creating a noble yet welcoming ambiance.
"Hello, I'd like to withdraw some money," Grayson said politely, admiring the opulence.
"To withdraw, do you have one of our bank cards?" the teller asked.
"Um, no." Grayson scratched his head—he truly didn't have one.
At that, her disdain deepened. From the moment he walked in, she'd pegged him as a rube just sneaking a peek.
Like someone curious about a grand building, poking around cluelessly.
After all, Sterling Royce Private Bank served only high-net-worth clients: old-money families, international conglomerate heirs, hedge-fund managers, top celebrities. Such clientele wasn't for ordinary folk. Those who came here for business looked immaculate and were usually successful professionals over forty. Grayson's age and attire meant he clearly had no business here.
Hearing he didn't even have an account, she was totally confirmed in her judgment, and her smile vanished.
Then she said, with a mocking tone, "I'm sorry, sir, but without a bank card, you can't make a withdrawal. And we don't issue cards casually here—you need asset proof of at least five million, and the account must hold over one million to open. If you have no other business, please leave."
She openly ushered him out.
Just then, a well dressed middle aged couple entered. Their attire and bearing spoke of wealth.
"Mr. Prescott and Mrs. Prescott, welcome—how may we assist you today?"
At their appearance, the teller's demeanor instantly flipped, and she greeted them warmly.
"Emily, I feel this bank's standards have really dropped if you're serving anyone now," the couple said, eyeing Grayson with disgust, as if standing next to him was beneath them.
Indeed, some people love feeling superior by looking down on others.
"Mr. Prescott, Mrs. Prescott, you misunderstand. That idiot isn't my client—just some rube who wandered in to look around. I'll send him off right away," Emily said, her contempt for Grayson rising. If offending these VIPs cost her her job, she'd be ruined.
She shot Grayson an impatient glare. "When will you leave? Do I need to call security?"
"I'm sorry—my business isn't one you're qualified to handle," Grayson replied coldly and strode toward a glass door in the northeast corner.
Above it hung a sign: "VIP Client Reception Room."
"You—come back here!"
Emily clicked after him in her heels. Inside were the bank managers responsible for VIP client relations; if this kid barged in and got them in trouble, she'd be the one to pay.
But her heels slowed her; by the time she closed in, Grayson had already pushed the door open and gone in.
Emily, a mere service staffer, dared not follow.
"Why is my luck so bad today, running into such a broke jerk," she muttered in frustration.
"Don't worry, Emily," the Prescotts said, noticing her concern. "If your manager blames you, we'll vouch for you. We all saw he barged in against advice—none of it is your fault."
"Thank you so much, Mr. and Mrs. Prescott," Emily breathlessly replied, finally feeling some relief.