Grayson had by now broken into the VIP reception room of the bank.
Inside, a bespectacled man in his thirties, sipping coffee and poring over a report, sat in a grey-blue suit that lent him a certain air of refinement.
When he saw Grayson, he froze in surprise.
No wonder—this man was the manager of the bank's VIP department, whose job it was to host VIP clients. Sterling Royce Private Bank itself was the fighter jet of banks: even ordinary customers were no ordinary people, let alone VIPs. So every day the manager entertained wealthy figures from all walks of society. Most were in their forties or fifties; from their clothes and shoes down to their watches, everything broadcast their noble status. But Grayson, in his current guise, fitted none of that image.
"Good day, esteemed guest. May I ask if you are…?" the manager asked, still maintaining professional composure.
"Hello. My name is Grayson Cole, and I'm here to withdraw some funds," Grayson replied calmly but without any hint of deference.
"Do you have our bank's VIP card?" the manager asked, puzzled.
"I don't need a card," Grayson replied casually.
"How will you withdraw money, then?" The manager remained seated on the sofa, eyeing Grayson suspiciously. In his mind he thought, Maybe this kid's some kind of lunatic—and that Emily must be utterly clueless to let him waltz right in. Thank heavens there's no VIP client here right now; if this brash kid had startled someone, it'd be a real problem. I'll need to give Emily a serious dressing-down later.
"I'll use my fingerprint," Grayson said.
At that the manager's eyes went wide, and he sprang to his feet—not out of anger, but out of the basic etiquette and respect owed to a high-status client. After all, those of higher rank speak seated; those below stand. Indeed, though bank withdrawals normally require a card—even for VIPs—Sterling Royce Private Bank did offer cardless withdrawals via biometric authentication (fingerprint + iris + password) for their most exalted or uniquely important clients. Few in the entire client list qualified. Since becoming VIP manager, he'd never once encountered such a customer. Though Grayson hardly looked the part, the manager dared not show any slack—what if he really was that special?
He hastily summoned someone to bring a fingerprint scanner. Grayson pressed his thumb down.
A shrill alarm sounded.
The manager's face turned grave as he stared at Grayson, clearly about to summon security to evict him.
"Sorry—please don't be alarmed. It's my first time using this fingerprint withdrawal. I don't even know which finger or which hand was registered. Please be patient; let me try again."
The manager nodded, though his vigil remained unchanged. He thought: The more I look at this kid, the more he seems like a bored prankster.
Grayson ignored the manager's wariness and tried other fingers. At last, a soft "beep" signaled success: fingerprint verified!
Instantly the manager's expression shifted from stern vigilance to astonished flattery. "Ah, Mr. Cole—please forgive my offense just now. I'm Nathaniel Whitmore, manager of the VIP department. I hope you'll look favorably upon me in the future."
Once Grayson's verification succeeded, his name naturally appeared on the machine's display. Nathaniel Whitmore bowed low and extended both hands to shake Grayson's, adopting an extremely deferential posture.
"Honored guest, please follow me."
Nathaniel tapped the fingerprint terminal on the VIP room wall. As the recorded message "Verification successful" sounded, the wall silently split down the middle like something out of a movie, revealing a corridor lined in gleaming metal and bathed in golden light.
After walking a short distance, they reached a metal door with the nameplate "Cole."
"Mr. Cole, please verify your iris," Nathaniel said.
Grayson nodded and completed the iris scan. Only the password stage gave him pause—this password had been given to him by his family three years ago, but he'd never been able to access the family fortune in all that time and thus had never used it, nearly forgetting it altogether. After some arduous mental effort, he finally entered the correct code.
With the threefold verification of fingerprint, iris, and password complete, the metal door slowly swung open. Inside was a private room lined entirely with vaults.
"Mr. Cole, these eastern vaults are filled with gold bars," the manager said, opening the row to the east. Golden glints illuminated the room in waves: each bar weighed 2,000 g; every ten bars sat in a transparent case; ten cases lined each shelf; each vault had five shelves; and there were five such vaults. Grayson was too lazy to count the total.
"The western vaults contain luxury watches, jade artifacts, antiques, jewelry, and so on." Nathaniel opened the western set. Five vaults, each with five shelves. Every shelf displayed Swiss watches, most of them limited editions—just one commemorative Rolex easily worth over a million U.S. dollars. Jade, antiques, and jewelry meant little to Grayson: he couldn't tell real from fake, nor gauge their worth, so he barely glanced at them. But he knew there were five vaults on the west side, too.
"The remaining vaults hold U.S. dollars in cash." The manager pointed to the southern vault and opened it: stacks upon stacks of hundred dollar bills piled high.
Grayson said, "I'll withdraw one million dollars in cash first."
"Very well, Mr. Cole. Please wait a moment," the manager said with the utmost respect.
"Here's the bag," Grayson said, tossing the manager a grubby black plastic sack.
For a moment the manager was speechless: a plastic bag for cash? How casual! Then he reconsidered: looking at Grayson's attire and his wealth, a mere million was but a drop in the bucket; surely he didn't mind. He decided Mr. Cole must be a very low key sort.
Saying nothing more, the manager filled the plastic bag with one million dollars. Grayson, without another word, swung the sack over his shoulder and headed out. The manager wanted to follow, but he still had to lock each vault door and so couldn't emerge in time.
Meanwhile, in the main hall, Emily—the bank clerk who'd let Grayson in—was growing frantic. Grayson had been in there for ages and still hadn't reappeared. What on earth was going on? Emily was certain this fellow was a hick from a poor district. Though the VIP reception had glass doors, one could see out but not in, so she had no idea what was happening inside. She longed to go in, but bank rules forbade a clerk of her rank from entering the VIP room.
Just then Emily finally saw Grayson emerge, carrying that black plastic sack.
Huh—he went in empty handed, so what was he carrying now?
"Stop right there!" Emily barked, rushing forward to grab Grayson's arm.
"What are you doing?" Grayson demanded in indignation—he hadn't expected trouble from her. True, she had scorned him before, but he had no intention of revenge; he could easily report her to the VIP manager and get back at her, yet he simply planned to leave after getting his money.
Caught off guard, Emily seized his arm, and the sack fell open—cash spilled across the floor in a cascade.
Emily froze.
Chadwick and Vivienne Prescott, a married couple in the hall, froze.
Everyone who witnessed the scene froze. Though Sterling Royce's clients were well bred, none had ever seen such a thing.
"Did you steal this money? Catch the thief!"
Emily screamed—though inwardly she hardly believed it. Come on, the bank's security was so tight; there was no way a pauper could sneak in and steal a million. But if it wasn't stolen, where else could the money have come from? In her mind, Grayson must be a thief; she saw no other explanation.
"Seize him! Seize him!" Chadwick and Vivienne Prescott joined in, grabbing at Grayson.
The hall erupted in commotion: witnesses saw the sack, the scattered bills, and Emily's accusation—and most concluded Grayson truly was a thief.
Just then, Nathaniel, having finally finished locking the vaults, rushed out upon seeing the scene. In truth he needn't have come—Grayson's business was done—but after ten years at the bank he'd never met so discreet a tycoon, and he wanted to curry favor. Yet he never expected to find such a tableau! His own subordinates were humiliating a man whose vaults held gold bars, timepieces, and piles of cash worth perhaps tens of billions. If Grayson lost his temper, Nathaniel's career—and perhaps his life's work—could be over in an instant.
"What are you doing?" Nathaniel blurted, rushing forward to intervene before he could even explain.
Emily, eager to take credit, cried, "Mr. Whitmore, this man's a thief—we've caught him!"
And she beamed, thinking at last she'd win praise.
"Let go!"
To Emily's astonishment, Nathaniel roughly shoved her aside, then did the same to the Prescotts.
"Mr. Cole, are you all right? I'm so sorry—my fault entirely. Please accept my apology!" Nathaniel stammered, wiping cold sweat from his brow. He was genuinely terrified, wishing he could slap himself awake if it would secure Grayson's forgiveness.
Emily stood by in stunned silence as her boss fawned over Grayson, sweat beading on his forehead. Only now did she realize that the man she'd scorned—and verbally insulted—was a client of inconceivable rank. She'd never seen her manager behave this way before.
"What're you standing there for? Apologize to Mr. Cole!" Nathaniel barked at Emily, furious she'd nearly ruined everything.
Only then did Emily spring into action, bowing meekly and murmuring an apology—her deep bow exposing cleavage through her uniform's collar. Grayson didn't even look at her, which Emily regretted in her heart.
"Mr. Cole, I am profoundly sorry for today's ignorant behavior. I will punish this foolish woman, and on behalf of the bank I offer you our deepest apologies. I hope you will forgive us." Nathaniel offered yet another sincere apology.
"That's all right. Let's pretend it never happened. I have other matters; I'll be going now."
Nathaniel personally escorted Grayson to the exit, pressing his business card into Grayson's hand with a fixed smile. "Mr. Cole, even beyond banking matters, if there is anything I can do for you in life, please command me."
He was determined to get close to Grayson.
"All right—thank you, Brother Nathaniel." Grayson replied politely; after such warmth, he felt free to address him as "Brother." Nathaniel was thrilled—what a down to earth young master, calling him "brother"! Clearly, he'd secured his foothold.
Carrying his sack of cash, Grayson couldn't help but think of Sienna, feeling a pang of sadness. If she knew he was actually a super rich second generation heir, heir to half the nation's wealth, how would she feel?