Grayson had already figured out how to spend the hundred million in cash.
First, he'd give Professor Camille Hart two million. One million he'd count as "lost money," and the other he'd hand over directly—after all, Professor Hart had been good to him, and she'd taken care of Jasmine all this time.
Then he'd stand on the staircase, scoop up fistfuls of bills, and hurl them with all his might at their faces—watching as they scrambled, shoved, and trampled each other at his feet like rabid dogs fighting over scraps.
Of course, he couldn't toss too much—just about ten million. Not because he was stingy, but because he didn't want them walking away rich. If they actually made a fortune off his cash, he wouldn't be too thrilled.
As for the rest, he'd take fifty million and burn it—find a huge cauldron, light it up, and watch those bastards choke on the smoke.
Finally, whatever remained—just over forty million—would go straight to Jasmine. Yes, every cent would go to her. And he wanted Sienna to see every last move.
Just wait, you bunch of snobs who look down on everyone!
And there was no way those bills were fake. Nathaniel would have security roll up in Fleur Bank's armored van to deliver them—hundreds of millions in cash weigh several tons. There was no chance a Sterling Royce Private Bank truck would be hauling counterfeit bills.
"Is this guy out of his mind? A hundred million? Does he even know how much that is?"
"I think he's totally losing it. Who in their right mind donates half a million right after finding a million? Call the cops and haul him off for questioning!"
"Yeah, get him out of here!"
People sneered—who would believe such nonsense?
"Grayson, cut it out! Come with me!" the dean of student affairs—pressed to his limit—snapped.
"Not yet!" Grayson shot back, furious. Damn it, who did this guy think he was, talking to him like that? Did he want him expelled? He could have him kicked out on the spot!
The dean, taken aback by Grayson's sudden defiance, froze, unable to respond.
"Mr. Cole," Nathaniel's voice came over the phone—sounding different than usual—"you can't withdraw the money...at least, not right now."
"What?" Grayson froze. "What's going on? Did I try to take out too much at once? Do I need to come down there?"
Grayson felt a knot in his gut. He'd wanted to be smooth and in control, but now he had to make the trip to Sterling Royce Private Bank in person. It was a hassle—time-consuming—but at least he'd still look impressive pulling it off.
"No, no, Mr. Cole—your account has been frozen," Nathaniel explained.
"Goddamn it, frozen?!" Grayson could hardly believe it. How could this happen? Had something gone wrong with the family? He slammed redial and called Grandpa Jenkins immediately.
The moment the phone rang, Grandpa Jenkins answered—as if he'd been waiting by the phone.
"Young Master Grayson," his grandfather greeted.
"Grandpa Jenkins, what's happening? Has the family run into trouble?" Grayson blurted out. His account being frozen was a big deal—Grandpa Jenkins would know what was happening without any explanation.
"Young Master Grayson, how could the family be in trouble? We're the first family on Earth. The only way we'd be in trouble is if aliens invaded," Grandpa Jenkins replied calmly.
"Well..."
"Here's the situation," Grandpa Jenkins continued. "The family's financial monitoring center has been watching your account. Ever since the wealth ban was lifted and you gained control of your funds, in less than two weeks you've already spent over forty million. They decided you were being too reckless. The Chief Financial Officer found out less than five minutes ago and immediately froze your account for two weeks. After that, you'll regain access to your funds..."
Grayson let out a silent gasp of despair. Five minutes ago—if only he'd known sooner... But what crushed him most was the fact that his account was frozen. Dammit!
"Grandpa Jenkins, this is June Cleaver's doing, isn't it? That woman—some low-level family CFO—what right does she have to freeze the heir's account? Grandpa Jenkins, call Cleaver and get my account unfrozen right now!"
Grayson was steaming.
"Young Master Grayson, you know Ms. Cleaver's personality..." Grandpa Jenkins began, but Grayson hardly heard him. He knew exactly what his grandfather meant: June Cleaver was ruthless and extremely competent. Once she decided to freeze his account, even his grandfather's call wouldn't change her mind.
Shit. This was awkward.
"Hey, Grayson, are you done on the phone? Where's my hundred million? When are you bringing it over?" Sienna's cold voice cut through his panic.
Sienna looked at him like he was an idiot. A hundred million? No one believed it.
Sweat dotted Grayson's forehead. Damn it, June, you're screwing me over!
"Where's the money? When are you bringing it?" Sienna pressed again.
"Yeah, man, we're all waiting. Bring it already."
"A hundred million? You're going to kill me with kindness?" someone jeered.
As Grayson stood there, dumbfounded, mocking laughter and taunts swelled around him.
"C'mon, Grayson, prove you're a real rich kid. Stop stalling—if you hand over that hundred million, I'd drop to my knees and beg you to take me back," Sienna sneered—a verbal dagger.
Their laughter stung. Grayson's body trembled; his hands shook.
"Enough, Grayson, stop denying it. This is ridiculous. Come with me. As a problem student, you won't get off easy. Go to the office—we'll call the police!" The dean of student affairs, having reached his limit, grabbed Grayson's arm and tried to pull him away.
Grayson shook violently—this time, he was truly cornered. He didn't care about himself; he cared about Jasmine. What would she do?
At that moment, Jasmine yanked her hand free from Grayson's grasp. He froze—what was she doing? Did she now think he was a con artist? Before he could react, Jasmine grabbed the dean's arm.
What on earth was she doing?
"I admit it," Jasmine declared to the dean, biting her lip as she spoke each word with unwavering resolve. Her eyes were steely, her voice certain, as if she believed every word. "I found the money. It had nothing to do with Grayson—he didn't know I picked it up. All that cash was my doing. I lied to him, told him I won the lottery. It was my greed. If you want to arrest someone, take me."
Grayson was stunned. Jasmine was willing to shoulder the blame so he wouldn't be punished. She'd throw herself under the bus for him.
Yes—when Grayson had started trembling, Jasmine, who'd been holding his hand, felt his panic. In that instant, a fierce desire to protect him surged through her. He'd given her warmth she'd never known—and she would reciprocate.
"Professor Camille Hart, I promise I'll pay you back. This had nothing to do with Grayson. My family is poor; I was desperate to be rich. I'm at fault—if you want someone to blame, blame me, not Grayson." Jasmine turned to Professor Hart as she spoke.
"In that case, take the girl away," ordered the dean.
"Bitch!"
"Greedy little tramp. What a waste of a pretty face!"
The curses rained down, sharp and cutting. Grayson's eyes welled with tears. Jasmine was suffering because of him—because of his stupidity. And now she was taking all the blame and enduring everyone's scorn. She was doing this for him. She cared for him so deeply.
No. He couldn't let Jasmine suffer.
"Stop!" Grayson cried out, determined. "I'm the one who picked up the money, not her!"
Who cared? He knew everyone assumed it was either him or Jasmine. Even though neither of them had actually found the cash, it was too late for denials. He'd rather take the blame himself than let it fall on her.
"Is it really you?" the dean frowned.
"Yes! It's me! I found Professor Camille Hart's million in that envelope. I found her bag. It was me! Jasmine didn't know anything—let her go!" Grayson bellowed at the crowd.
"It was me. I swear!" Jasmine instantly tried to back him up—yet she still sounded like she was protecting him.
"I'm the one," Grayson insisted, panic rising. He knew that if they both kept insisting, they might both get in trouble. He steeled himself, grabbed Jasmine's shoulders, and looked her squarely in the eyes. "Jasmine, listen to me—it was me. Really."
Jasmine had been ready to keep protesting, but as she met Grayson's earnest gaze, something clicked inside her. She hesitated, then whispered, "It was really you?"
"Yes. It was me. I found that million, and that's why I took you to buy clothes and make donations. I purposely placed that bag under the willow tree by the lake where we always go. It was me. I'm sorry—so sorry, Jasmine. And I'm sorry, Professor Hart..."
Grayson's heart felt like it was bleeding, but he had to look completely sincere to make Jasmine believe he was telling the truth. At first, she hadn't believed that he'd found the money. They'd both only been trying to shield each other. But now, with his solemn confession, she truly believed him.
"Was it really you?" Jasmine trembled, hardly daring to believe it.
"Yes."
Jasmine stared at Grayson in astonishment. In an instant, sorrow poured from her eyes. "Why you? Why you, Grayson? Why did you do this? I hate you—I hate you so much!"
With that, tears burst from her eyes. She turned, stumbled, and fled the infirmary. In that moment, her body seemed so fragile that a gust of wind could carry her away into the distance.