Grayson had already pushed through the glass doors into the bank's VIP reception room.
Inside, a man in his thirties—wearing glasses and sipping coffee while poring over a report—sat behind a small desk. He wore a slate-gray suit tailored to perfection, giving him an air of quiet prestige. When he noticed Grayson, he froze for a moment in surprise.
Of course he did—this man was Nathaniel Whitmore, the VIP department manager, whose sole responsibility was to receive the bank's most distinguished clients. Sterling Royce Private Bank prided itself on catering to an elite clientele: even "regular" customers were usually household names in business or inheritance. VIP clients were on an entirely different stratosphere. Every day, Nathaniel greeted men and women dripping in designer labels, usually in their forties or fifties, each look carefully curated to signal wealth and social rank.
But Grayson, in his faded hoodie and worn jeans, looked as far removed from that world as one could imagine.
"Good afternoon," Nathaniel began politely, masking his uncertainty with professional courtesy. "May I ask how I can assist you, sir?"
"Hello, my name is Grayson Cole. I'm here to make a withdrawal," Grayson replied calmly, raising his chin just enough to meet the manager's eyes.
"You have a VIP card with our bank?" Nathaniel asked, suspicion furrowing his brow.
"I don't need a card," Grayson said easily.
Nathaniel blinked. He remained seated on the leather sofa, leaning forward slightly, eyes narrowing. Was this kid with the scuffed sneakers some kind of prankster? Emily, the teller in the lobby, had let him in—and now Nathaniel worried what might happen if a genuine VIP showed up to see this ruffian lounging where only the bank's top-tier patrons were permitted. He owed Emily a serious reprimand once this was over.
"But… how will you withdraw funds?" Nathaniel asked, voice tinged with incredulity. He stared at Grayson as though expecting the boy to pull a rubber chicken out of his backpack.
"I'll use my fingerprint," Grayson said.
Nathaniel's eyebrows shot upward. He sprang to his feet, not out of anger but in reflexive respect—those of higher station stood to receive visitors, while subordinates only sat. Normally, even a VIP client carried a bank-issued card. But Sterling Royce did offer a no-card withdrawal service via triple biometric confirmation: fingerprint, iris scan, and password. This was reserved only for clients whose status was off the charts, clients Nathaniel had never once encountered in his entire tenure.
Grayson might not look like one of those exalted clients, but Nathaniel dared not risk rudeness. If this were indeed a billionaire's heir incognito, he needed to tread carefully. He nodded curtly and motioned for an assistant to fetch the fingerprint scanner.
A moment later, an assistant returned with a small biometric terminal. Grayson placed his right thumb on the glass. A high-pitched alarm beeped sharply.
Nathaniel's face went from mild surprise to grim alert. He stiffened, as though about to summon security guards at once.
"Sorry—sorry!" Grayson said quickly. "This is my first time using the fingerprint withdrawal. I don't know which finger I registered. Please be patient—let me try another finger."
Nathaniel grunted assent, though he did not lower his guard. He thought, This kid looks more and more like some bored fraudster seeking a laugh.
Grayson methodically ran through his other fingers. At last, with a soft "beep," the machine confirmed a successful match. The manager's expression shifted from suspicion to stunned wonder, and then melted into ingratiating warmth.
"Ah—Mr. Cole, my sincerest apologies. I am Nathaniel Whitmore, VIP department manager. It is an honor to serve you. Please allow me to escort you."
Once the fingerprint verified, the terminal automatically displayed the user's name: Grayson Cole. Nathaniel bowed, extending both hands to shake Grayson's in an almost deferential manner.
"Esteemed guest, please follow me," Nathaniel said.
He tapped the wall-mounted fingerprint reader again. A calm female voice intoned, "Verification successful." Instantly, the wall before them slid open silently—like a scene from a movie—revealing a corridor lined with shining metal panels and bathed in soft, golden light.
They walked down the corridor until reaching a gleaming metal door engraved with a single brass plaque reading "Cole." Grayson then proceeded with the iris scan and entered the password at the gate. Two confirmation tones followed: "Iris verification successful","Password verification successful." The heavy metal gate swung open.
Grayson entered a private vault room, its walls lined from floor to ceiling with heavy steel safes.
"Mr. Cole, the safes on this side contain gold bars," Nathaniel explained, unlocking the eastern bank of five safes. The interior of the vault glowed as dozens of gleaming golden bricks reflected the overhead lighting. Each bar weighed two thousand grams. Ten bars sat in a transparent box; ten such boxes occupied a single shelf. Each safe held five shelves neatly stacked with ten boxes apiece. And there were five identical safes.
Grayson didn't bother counting—they must run into the hundreds of bars.
"The safes on the west side hold luxury watches, jade carvings, antiques, and jewelry," Nathaniel continued, sliding open a second set of five safes.
Each of those safes also contained five shelves. On every shelf sat row upon row of Swiss-made timepieces—mostly limited editions—every Rolex Commemorative dated at over one million dollars apiece. As for the jade and antiques, Grayson lacked any expertise to judge their authenticity or value, so he merely glanced and moved on. This side's safes were also stacked five deep.
"The remaining safes contain U.S. dollar cash," Nathaniel said, pointing to a third bank of safes on the south wall. He unlocked one of them, revealing stacks of crisp one-hundred-dollar bills piled to the ceiling.
"I'll take one million dollars in cash, please," Grayson said.
"Very well, Mr. Cole. Please wait a moment," Nathaniel said, bowing slightly.
"Put it in here," Grayson added, tossing a grimy black plastic bag toward Nathaniel.
Nathaniel paused, taken aback. A plastic bag? That seemed so casual for a million-dollar withdrawal. Yet when he looked at Grayson's worn clothes, he realized a million dollars wouldn't even register to someone of his station. Perhaps this Mr. Cole was an extraordinarily discreet type.
Without another word, Nathaniel retrieved bundles of cash, counting out ten thousand stacks until he reached one million. He stuffed the bills into Grayson's black bag.
Grayson didn't linger. He slung the bag over his shoulder and started toward the secret door. Nathaniel wanted to follow but had to lock each safe behind him—he hadn't anticipated Grayson's swift departure.
Back in the main lobby, Emily paced anxiously. She'd seen Grayson disappear into the VIP room over ten minutes ago, and he still hadn't emerged. What on earth was happening in there? She was positive beyond a doubt now that Grayson was just a hick from a poor neighborhood. Normally, VIP rooms had tinted glass from the outside—one could see out but never in—so Emily had no idea what was transpiring behind that door. She wanted to slip inside for a peek, but bank policy strictly forbade staff of her rank from entering the VIP reception area.
Just as her impatience reached a boiling point, Emily spotted Grayson striding out—bag in hand, obviously weighty. Wait a minute…he'd gone in empty-handed; now he carried something.
"Stop right there!" Emily shouted, rushing to grab Grayson's arm.
"What are you doing?" Grayson asked sharply, startled by her sudden aggression. Though Emily had looked down on him earlier, Grayson harbored no desire for revenge. All he wanted was to leave the bank as quietly as possible—he'd even considered telling Nathaniel not to bother reopening the door for him.
But Emily seized his wrist, and in the struggle, the black plastic bag ripped open. Bundles of cash cascaded onto the marble floor with a thunderous clatter.
Emily froze, jaw agape. The couple by the door—Chadwick and Vivienne Prescott—gasped and stared as stacks of hundred-dollar bills rolled everywhere. So did every other customer in the bank. Although Sterling Royce's patrons included some colorful characters, no one had ever witnessed a man literally stepping out of the VIP room carrying a million dollars in crumpled bills.
"You stole this money?! Call security—there's a thief!" Emily cried, her voice trembling with disbelief. She couldn't fathom any other explanation for a kid rummaging around in the VIP vault and coming out with cash.
"Grab him—grab him!" The Prescotts, Mortified by the spectacle, lunged to seize Grayson themselves.
The lobby erupted in commotion. Onlookers huddled, exchanging confused, alarmed glances. With Emily's shrill accusation and the Prescotts' attack, most believed Grayson must be a crook.
Then, finally, Nathaniel emerged from the VIP corridor, having locked each safe. He'd been eager to at least offer a courteous exit—shutting the vault door behind Grayson if only to prevent a draft. But what he saw halted him in his tracks: Emily and the Prescotts tightly clutching Grayson's arms, pointing at the spilled cash, shouting "Thief!"
Nathaniel's heart pounded in his chest. He hardly knew Grayson's background, but he'd just seen what lay behind that vault door: gold bars, priceless watches, mountains of U.S. currency—wealth totaling in the billions. There was no way this young man was an ordinary pauper. Yet here was his own staff and two of the bank's esteemed clients humiliating the boy in full view. If Grayson lost his temper—if he threatened legal action—Nathaniel's career would be over in an instant. He could picture his termination notice already stapled to his personnel file.
"Stop this at once!" Nathaniel shouted, striding forward.
Emily beamed with triumph. "Mr. Whitmore, we caught a thief!" she crowed, as though this would surely earn her praise. But the moment she saw Nathaniel's enraged expression, she realized she'd miscalculated.
"Let go of him!" Nathaniel barked. He brushed Emily aside and pushed back Chadwick Prescott and Vivienne Prescott in a single sweeping motion.
"Mr. Cole, are you all right? I am so sorry—this is my fault. Please accept my deepest apologies!" Nathaniel stammered, wiping beads of perspiration from his brow. He was genuinely terrified—this boy, standing in front of him, was not some common swindler.
Emily gaped in confusion as Nathaniel bowed and graciously addressed Grayson, dabbing his brow with a silk handkerchief. He looked genuinely shaken, as if a ghost had risen from the vault itself.
Emily finally understood: the man she'd scorned and accused so flippantly was, in reality, one of the bank's most exalted clients. She had never seen her manager act like this before.
"What are you waiting for? Apologize to Mr. Cole at once!" Nathaniel snapped at Emily. She snapped upright, her earlier bravado evaporated. Emily swallowed hard, stepped forward, and gave a deep, contrite bow. As her head dropped, her uniform's neckline revealed just a sliver of cleavage—a desperate attempt to curry favor she barely understood. She even hoped Grayson might notice, though he stared resolutely ahead, ignoring her entirely.
"Mr. Cole, I cannot emphasize how deeply sorry I am," Nathaniel said to Grayson with a measured, earnest tone. "I will see to it that Emily is disciplined. On behalf of Sterling Royce Private Bank, I offer you our most profound apologies. Please forgive our ignorance."
"It's fine," Grayson replied, his voice steady. "Just pretend none of it happened. I have other matters to attend to, so I'll take my leave."
Nathaniel escorted Grayson to the main lobby's entrance before offering his business card with genuine warmth and respect. "Mr. Cole, even if it's not bank-related, if you ever need assistance in any capacity, please do not hesitate to call on me."
Clearly, Nathaniel intended to cultivate this relationship at all costs.
"Thank you. I appreciate it, Brother Nathaniel," Grayson said with a polite nod. His use of "brother" thrilled Nathaniel. A simple familial term from a young man of such wealth was the highest praise imaginable—proof that he'd already earned Grayson's trust.
With a black bag bulging with crisp bills slung over his shoulder, Grayson left the bank. As he stepped outside, his thoughts turned to Sienna once more, a bitter ache settling in his chest. He hadn't expected her to turn out like that—his mind replayed the insult. If only Sienna knew he was, in fact, one of the country's richest heirs—her entire world would be shattered.