In the United States—Oregon, Cleveland City—on the campus of Hawthorne Private Elite University, there's a Dicos restaurant.
A pretty, long-haired girl sat there eating French fries, scrolling through her phone, and casually crossing and uncrossing her fair, long legs. On the table in front of her lay half-eaten chicken wings, a burger, and a cola.
Behind her, a male student was hunched over a textbook, brow furrowed as if wrestling with some incomprehensible concept. It was the classic university scene: a girl leisurely snacking on delicious food, and a boy immersed in diligent study.
After a while, the girl stretched and surveyed the remaining pile of food. Pouting slightly, she rose to leave, leaving more than half of her meal untouched.
The boy from the next table immediately fixed his gaze on the half-eaten meal. After confirming the girl really was gone, he sprang up, scooted into her seat, and began furtively devouring the leftover fries.
"Damn, she's got money to waste this much food. Waste is a crime—waste is wrong," he mumbled to himself, shoveling fries into his mouth as fast as he could. Even though the orange juice was hers and he was drinking it, he didn't care. He gulped it down without hesitation.
Roughly five minutes later, he sensed someone standing over him. Startled, he looked up. The girl who had left had returned without him noticing, and she stared at him with a face full of disbelief.
"Oh my god, you—you… I just went to the restroom, and you actually stole my food…" The girl honestly couldn't believe it. Even in today's society—especially on a college campus—someone actually had the nerve to pilfer another person's meal? Was there really someone that poor?
Everyone else in the Dicos—students eating or studying—turned at the commotion, shooting curious glances at the scene.
"Sorry, sorry!" The boy jumped up, mortified, clutching his textbooks as he bolted toward the exit.
"Damn. Thought she wasn't coming back. Why the hell did she come back? I should have made sure she was completely gone before eating," he muttered under his breath once he'd stepped outside.
He shook his head. "I, Grayson Cole, have sunk to this level—truly pathetic. If it weren't for the fact that I honestly had no money for food today, who the hell would do something this shameful?"
Grayson sighed and rubbed his belly—at least he'd managed to stuff himself halfway full. Better to head back to the dorm for a rest.
When he opened the door to his dorm, his roommate and good friend, Miles Carter, was walking toward him. Miles had short hair and carried himself with easy confidence.
"Grayson, Sienna came by a few minutes ago. She asked me to give you this." Miles handed him an iPhone SE.
Seeing the phone made Grayson's heart sink. Sienna Monroe was his ex-girlfriend. They'd broken up just three days ago, and it was her idea to end things. The iPhone SE had been the gift Grayson scrimped and saved for three months to buy—her birthday present. He still remembered how happy she'd been when she first received it. Thinking back to that sweet moment stung. Now, apparently, she'd already discarded it and returned it to him.
He unlocked the screen. On the wallpaper was a single message:
"Grayson, I'm returning this phone to you because I don't need it anymore. My new boyfriend bought me an iPhone 16 Plus—he loves me and has the means to fulfill every one of my wishes. You'll never measure up. From this moment on, we have no relationship. I wish you happiness."
Heh. Ultimately, it came down to one thing: money. He was broke, and she disliked him for it.
"Miles, try to stay positive," Miles said, offering a sympathetic grin. "I told you from the start that Sienna and us just aren't on the same page. She's too beautiful and too flirtatious—long legs, big chest, an influencer's face, always batting her eyelashes. Women like that exist to keep rich second-generation heirs warm at night. If you're an ordinary guy, don't even bother—otherwise, you'll just end up heartbroken."
"But hey, at least you two were intimate already, right? So you didn't lose out completely."
"Actually, we didn't," Grayson corrected him.
"What? No way! You dated for a year and never…? Didn't you guys ever stay in a hotel on the holidays?" Miles jumped up, dismayed.
"We were in a two-person room, each on our own bed. Nothing ever happened," Grayson explained.
"No way! That's such a rip-off!" Miles exclaimed.
Grayson considered it. True—it was a definite loss. Still, he'd really cared for Sienna and respected her, so he'd never been the one to push for more than she was willing to give.
He pinched the phone in his hand. Maybe the one silver lining of breaking things off with Sienna was that he could finally replace his old Moto G Play with an iPhone of his own.
Just then, the iPhone SE chimed with a new text message:
"After family deliberation, the three-year moratorium has ended. Grayson Cole, third-generation heir of the Cole family, the restriction is lifted. From the moment you receive this message, you have full control of the family wealth."
Grayson stared at the message. No fucking way, the restriction is lifted? He could finally access his family's money? No more having to pretend to be a penniless loser?
That message had come to the phone Sienna was using, which didn't surprise him. When he'd bought her the phone, the number had been purchased and topped up by him. It was also the contact number he'd given the family, hoping to surprise Sienna. If she hadn't broken up with him—if she'd continued using that number—she would have read this "odd" text today. Then he would have come clean and revealed he was actually a super-rich second-generation heir.
Instead, fate had smirked at him. Sienna dumped him—and just now handed his phone back—only for this message to arrive. She had left him because he was broke; she could never have dreamed that underneath, he was actually immensely wealthy.
Now that the restriction was lifted and he could freely access his inheritance, what was he waiting for?
Grayson walked out of campus toward the city center. He arrived before a grand building with sleek, mirrored glass. In front, luxury cars were parked in neat rows: Porsches, Maseratis, Ferraris, high-end Mercedeses and BMWs—mostly business-class vehicles. Men and women in expensive suits and polished shoes came and went, looking like successful professionals.
In his ratty thrift-store clothes, Grayson felt shabby by comparison. But he held his head high and strode confidently through the massive doors.
Above the entrance, shining chrome letters proclaimed: "Sterling Royce Private Bank." A portion of his family's funds was deposited here.
"Good afternoon, sir. How may we assist you today?" a bank employee in a black suit and name tag greeted him with a practiced smile. Although she wore a friendly expression, a flicker of disdain was unmistakable in her eyes. To her, Grayson looked like a penniless 20-something college kid from a rough neighborhood. If not for her job, she wouldn't have given him the time of day.
Grayson evaluated her. She was undeniably pretty: a flawless face, a perfect figure, and shapely calves extending smoothly from her pencil skirt. Even standing there, she exuded elegance. He turned to survey the lobby, which looked more like a lavish palace than a bank: imported Italian marble floors, hand-carved metalwork adorning the walls—hallmarks of exquisite taste. A massive crystal chandelier cast a warm glow over the open, airy space, creating an atmosphere of both luxury and welcome.
"I'd like to withdraw some money, please," Grayson said politely, still admiring the grandeur around him.
"Withdraw? Do you have a card with our bank?" she inquired.
"Uh—no, I don't." He scratched his head. He really didn't have one.
Her eyes narrowed. Ever since he'd walked in, she'd disdained him. Now that she'd confirmed he didn't even have an account, her contempt deepened. Sterling Royce Private Bank catered exclusively to high-net-worth clients: old-money families, heirs of international conglomerates, hedge-fund managers, and prominent celebrities. Anyone conducting business here was usually impeccably dressed and at least in their forties—a peerless success story. A 20-something dressed in thrift-store garb had no business in a place like this.
Her practiced smile slipped, replaced by a look of irritation. In a tone dripping with sarcasm she said, "I'm sorry, sir. Without a bank card, you cannot withdraw funds here. Also, not just anyone can open an account. You need to provide proof of assets—at least five million dollars—and have a minimum deposit of one million to activate the card. If you have nothing else, please leave."
She clearly wanted him gone.
As she spoke, a well-dressed middle-aged couple entered. Their tailored clothes and polished demeanor immediately marked them as affluent.
"Mr. Prescott, Mrs. Prescott, welcome. How may we assist you today?" the employee said in an instant—her entire demeanor shifting into one of utmost respect.
Mr. and Mrs. Prescott glanced at Grayson with disdain, as though being seen near him diminished their stature. Some people always enjoyed looking down on others, as if it made them feel superior.
"Emily," Mr. Prescott said, "I can't help but notice your bank seems to be lowering its standards. You're serving anyone now?" As they spoke, they gave Grayson a pointed look, making it obvious they found him revolting.
"Mr. and Mrs. Prescott, you must be mistaken. This gentleman is not our client. He's just a country bumpkin who wandered in to gawk at the place—nothing more. I'll have him escorted out immediately," Emily replied curtly. If she offended this couple, her own career might suffer, so she wanted him gone as quickly as possible.
She leveled a harsh glare at Grayson. "What are you still doing here? Should I have security throw you out?"
"I'm sorry," Grayson replied with cool composure. "I understand that you believe I have no business here." He turned and walked to a glass door in the northeast corner of the lobby. Above it hung a sign: "VIP Client Reception Room."
"Get back here!" Emily flounced across the marble floor, her high heels clicking as she chased after him. That room was reserved for bank managers and above—if he'd barged in, she'd be in trouble. She was now absolutely certain he was just a meddlesome pauper.
By the time she reached the door, Grayson had already pushed it open. Emily hesitated on the threshold—she wasn't a manager, and had no authority to follow him in.
"Damn, what rotten luck to run into such a pauper today," she muttered in frustration. Fearing her supervisors would penalize her, she stamped her foot in annoyance.
"Emily, don't worry," the Prescotts said kindly. "If your superiors scold you, we'll vouch for you. We saw it all—he was the one who wouldn't take the hint and barged right in. It's not your fault."
"Oh, thank you so much, Mr. and Mrs. Prescott," she said, relief flooding her face.
For his part, Grayson stepped into the VIP reception area, closing the glass door behind him. He exhaled silently. The day had been a roller coaster: from dumpster-diving for snacks to being humiliated at his own bank by people who didn't know his secret. But now that the moratorium on his inheritance was lifted, he wondered where this newfound wealth would lead him.