The billionaire's Son

In the city of Clayland, a land believed to be named after the reddish, clay-rich soil in the west of Arkansas, lived Mr. Christopher, a young, devoted Christian. He was the only son of Frank More, one of the wealthiest and most revered men in the country. Frank More was not just any businessman—he was the gold dealer behind Alternate Gold, a company so successful it was listed on the Clayland Stock Exchange. His legacy stretched across borders, his wardrobe rivaled royalty, and he wore the scent of rose, wine, and frankincense wherever he went. His presence was impossible to ignore. More than just rich, Frank More was influential. Presidents and governors often visited his mansion in Vein Kingdom—Clayland's political and commercial heart—to seek his endorsement. At one point, the late King of Vein had named him a senior cabinet member, a role he held with quiet pride. His wedding to Vero, now his wife, was a national spectacle. For a whole month, newspapers couldn't stop talking about the grand event. Vero was once the lead chorister in their church—famous for her soft voice, elegance, and grace. Though many men tried to win her heart, it was Frank More, enchanted by her songs of worship, who succeeded. He traveled far, often to a country called Lizland, over 10,000 kilometers away, to buy gold and resell it in Clayland. It was a risky business, but Frank More had built a monopoly around it. His profits were legendary. With warehouses and shops lining the streets of Vein Kingdom, and a major stake in Gross Link Bank, a state-owned financial giant, Frank More’s name became synonymous with wealth. It was a bright morning, and Frank More sat in his usual spot in the parlor, watching the news with a cup of lemon tea. That calm was broken when his head guard, Mr. Valentine, burst in shouting: “Sir! Sir! Your son—your son—there’s been an accident!” Frank More dropped his cup. “What happened to my son? Is he... is he dead?” “No, sir,” Valentine stammered, clearly shaken. “But—” “But what?!” Frank thundered, rising to his feet. “He’s been injured, sir. Hit by a passing car. He’s at St. Charles Hospital.” “Maid!” he roared. “Yes, sir!” answered Miss Linda, rushing in. “Get me my car keys. Now.” She handed him the keys without a word. Moments later, the convoy was on its way. At the hospital gate, a man in black—face cap, boots, and gloves—opened the gate, stepping aside as Frank More arrived, his walking stick thumping rhythmically on the floor like a war drum. As he entered, memories of his own youth surged forward—he, too, had once faced death in his son’s age. Inside, a man in his thirties, dressed in a white coat with a stethoscope hanging from his neck, walked briskly toward him. “Your son will be alright, sir,” the doctor said calmly. “Is he breathing?” Frank asked anxiously. “Yes, he just received a round of injections. The accident wasn’t too severe, but he needs rest and careful monitoring.” “Let’s go,” said Frank. They walked into the doctor’s office and sat. “So tell me—how much is the bill?” Frank asked. “About $10,990,” the doctor replied. “He’ll need oxygen, IV drips, and some expensive medications.” “That’s fine,” Frank replied without hesitation. “Just save my son.” As they spoke, the door banged open—Gbiim! Gbiim! Gbiim! “Come in,” said the doctor, slightly startled. A young nurse in her early twenties entered, breathless. “Sir, the patient in Ward C just woke up and insists he wants to go home.” “That’s my son she’s talking about,” Frank interrupted. They rushed to the ward. Christopher sat upright, his face pale but eyes alert. “Dad! Dad!” he cried out, reaching for his father. “Calm down, my son,” Frank said, his voice softening. “How are you feeling, Mr. Christopher?” the doctor asked. “I’m okay, but there’s pain in my lower abdomen,” he winced. “That’s expected. But you’ll recover with rest,” the doctor reassured him. Overcome with emotion, Frank More raised his hands and began to sing praises. “Thank You, God! You’ve done it again. On Sunday, I will buy a fat ram for thanksgiving!” The next morning, Frank sent crates of groceries, fruits, and nutritional drinks to the hospital through one of his maids. He had over three maids and several pets, but remained a man of one wife—his devotion to God and family unshaken. His wife, Vero, returned home that night. As Chief Operations Officer at Alternate Gold and manager of her own luxury restaurant, she was rarely home, only sleeping there three nights a week. Lying beside her husband, she asked gently, “My heart, how was the hospital trip? How is Christopher?” “It’s good news,” Frank replied, stroking her hand. “He’s healing. The accident wasn’t as bad as we feared. God is faithful.” “I’m relieved,” Vero sighed. “I haven’t slept since yesterday.” “Now you can. And before I forget—we're going to church tomorrow morning for thanksgiving,” Frank said. They held each other closely, murmuring soft prayers and sharing laughter between the sheets. The next morning, their driver brought Christopher home. Together, they dressed in white and gold and drove to Saint Theresa Parish, where the family offered thanks to God amidst cheers and prayers from a congregation that had watched their rise and rejoiced in their survival.