The security guard nearby adjusted his stance, muscles tensing behind the polished uniform. A customer in a tailored suit chuckled, slapping his thigh. “Throw the kid out,” he said. “He doesn’t belong here.” Laughter rippled through the room, quick and merciless. Eliot’s chest tightened. He had been taught by his grandmother to stand tall, even when the world sought to crush him.
“My grandmother opened the account,” Eliot said, holding up a worn envelope. Inside were papers, a bank card, and a letter penned in shaky but loving handwriting. Tristan scoffed, rolling his eyes so violently it seemed to mock the boy’s very existence. “Let me guess,” he said, “she left you a mansion too?” Laughter echoed again. Eliot felt the sting but kept his gaze forward.
Tristan snatched the envelope, rifled through the documents, then froze momentarily as his eyes landed on the black, platinum-tier card. Eliot’s card. One glance revealed the truth: this was not charity. It belonged to a high-net-worth client. Confusion flickered across Tristan’s face but was quickly buried under prejudice.