The Fortune System: Son Of Wealth

Ignore Him

The man's words hung in the air like poison. Nathan slowly lowered his phone from the payment terminal, his eyes tracking the retreating figure. The man had stopped a few displays away, browsing through luxury watches with an air of superiority that seemed to fill the entire store.

Sera touched Nathan's arm. "Just ignore him," she whispered. "He's not worth it."

But Nathan was already moving. He walked calmly toward the man, his movements deliberate and unhurried. The casual nature of his appearance—the black shorts, the white tank top—only seemed to amplify the contrast between him and the suited figure before him.

"Excuse me," Nathan said, his voice polite but carrying clearly through the boutique.

The man turned, one eyebrow raised in obvious annoyance at being interrupted. Up close, he was perhaps in his early forties, with salt-and-pepper hair slicked back with product that probably cost a hundred dollars a bottle. His suit was charcoal gray, custom-tailored to fit his frame perfectly, with a designer tie that shimmered subtly under the boutique's lighting. A gold Rolex—real gold, not plated—gleamed on his wrist, catching the light with every movement.

"Yes?" The single word dripped with condescension, like he was doing Nathan a favor by even acknowledging his existence.

"I couldn't help but overhear your comment about standards," Nathan said, his tone conversational, almost friendly. "I was wondering—what exactly gave you the impression that I don't belong here?"

The man's lips curled into a smirk. He set down the watch he'd been examining and turned to face Nathan fully, clearly pleased to have an audience. Several other shoppers had paused in their browsing, sensing the brewing confrontation.

"Do you really need to ask?" The man's eyes traveled deliberately from Nathan's uncombed hair down to his bare feet and back up again. "Look at yourself. You're dressed like you just rolled out of bed. This is the Grand Luxe Mall, not some street market where you can haggle over fake designer goods."

Nathan nodded slowly, as if considering this. "Interesting perspective. So you're saying that wealth and class are determined by how someone dresses?"

"Obviously." The man adjusted his already-perfect tie. "Appearances matter. They show respect—for yourself and for the establishments you patronize. People who truly belong here understand that."

"I see." Nathan's expression remained neutral. "And I suppose that expensive suit of yours—what is it, Brioni? Kiton?—that's proof of your wealth?"

The man's smirk widened, pleased that Nathan recognized quality. "Tom Ford, actually. Custom tailored. Not that someone like you would understand the difference."

"Oh, I understand the difference," Nathan said. "A Tom Ford suit of that quality probably runs about fifteen thousand dollars. The shoes—those are John Lobb, if I'm not mistaken—another three thousand. That watch is a Rolex Day-Date in eighteen-karat gold, so we're looking at forty, maybe forty-five thousand depending on the year." Nathan paused, his ice-blue eyes fixed on the man. "All in all, you're wearing about sixty-three thousand dollars' worth of merchandise. Very impressive."

The man blinked, clearly surprised that Nathan could identify—and price—his outfit so accurately. But he recovered quickly. "At least I made the effort to present myself appropriately. Unlike some people who think they can just wander in wearing gym clothes."

"You're absolutely right," Nathan agreed, and the man's smirk returned. "Presentation is important. But here's what I find interesting—you spent sixty-three thousand dollars on your outfit to come here and shop. To show everyone that you belong, that you have money, that you deserve respect."

Nathan took a step closer, his voice dropping slightly but still audible to the growing number of onlookers. "But the thing about real wealth? Real wealth doesn't need to prove anything. It doesn't need designer labels and custom suits to feel validated. It's secure enough to show up in shorts and a tank top because it knows that what matters isn't the price tag on your clothes—it's the money in your account."

The man's smirk faltered. "That's easy to say when—"

"When what?" Nathan interrupted. "When I've spent the last three hours shopping here? When I've dropped over two hundred thousand dollars this morning alone? When I paid for everything without once asking for a price, without wincing at a total, without needing to check my account balance?"

The boutique had gone completely silent. Even the soft classical music seemed to have faded into the background.

The man's face had begun to redden. "Anyone can claim to have spent money—"

"Sarah," Nathan called out, turning toward the attendant who'd been helping them. "Would you mind telling this gentleman our total for this morning?"

The young woman glanced between Nathan and the suited man, clearly uncomfortable being put on the spot. But she pulled out her tablet and scrolled through the records. "Um, yes sir. Between Luminère, Stiletto & Grace, Éclat, Essence, Chronos, and the handbag boutique, your total comes to... two hundred seventeen thousand, four hundred ten dollars and ninety-nine cents."

A collective intake of breath swept through the watching crowd.

The man's face had gone from red to pale. "That's... there's no way—"

"Sarah, would you be kind enough to show him the transaction records?" Nathan asked politely.

The attendant hesitated for only a moment before walking over with her tablet extended. The man stared at the screen, his eyes scanning the list of purchases, the amounts, the timestamps. All paid in full, all within the last three hours.

His mouth opened and closed, but no words came out.

Nathan wasn't finished. "You know what the real difference is between us? You spent sixty-three thousand dollars to look rich. I spent two hundred thousand dollars to make my sister happy. You dress up to impress strangers in a mall. I dress comfortably because I don't need to impress anyone. You judge people by their appearance because you're insecure about your own worth. I judge people by their character—which is why I know exactly what kind of person you are."

The man's face had cycled back to red, now flushed with anger and humiliation. "You arrogant—"

"Arrogant?" Nathan's eyebrows rose. "I'm not the one who walked past a stranger and made loud, insulting comments about them. I'm not the one who assumed someone's worth based on their clothing. I'm not the one who needed to put others down to feel superior." He paused. "But you're right about one thing—this mall does have standards. And you just failed to meet them."

Security guards had appeared at the edges of the confrontation, drawn by the commotion. One of them, an older man with graying temples, approached the suited man. "Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to leave."