CHAPTER 5
1316 Words
“I know this is sudden. But everything will make sense soon.”
Chris stepped back.
“I’ve been lying to you for eighteen years,” Alexander said with a small smile, “but only because I had to.”
Chris blinked. “You said you were going to find a better job.”
Alexander chuckled. “And I did. I just happened to be CEO of the most powerful consortium in this country at the time.”
Chris stared at him like he’d just confessed to being Batman. “I cleaned gum off a locker last week while my billionaire father apparently ran a third of the country?”
Alexander nodded. “Thirty-two percent, to be precise. We own stakes in everything from construction, media, transport, education… even the chain that sells the energy drinks you consume to pull all-nighters.”
Chris’s jaw dropped slightly. “So basically, I’m the heir to the Illuminati.”
Alexander smiled. “Close enough.”
With a snap of his fingers, two butlers entered. One carried a sleek black card in a silver tray, the other held a velvet box with a golden family crest embedded on top.
The butler bowed. “Your Westminster identity card and badge, young master.”
Chris picked up the card. It felt heavy, cold. Like a key to a different world. The gold lettering sparkled under the chandelier.
Alexander raised his glass. “With that card, you’ll never need to wait in a queue again. Not for food, not for first class, and certainly not for justice.”
Chris examined the badge. “Is this a security pass or… a magical amulet?”
Alexander grinned. “That badge represents your name. You show that, and people will bow before you. Figuratively, mostly.”
Chris frowned. “Why now? Why tell me all this after I’ve already been humiliated in front of the entire gym like the world’s saddest janitor?”
Alexander’s gaze turned steely. “Because now, they’ve touched a Westminster.”
Before Chris could respond, his phone buzzed in his hoodie pocket. He pulled it out and checked the screen:
Mia Caldwell
He smiled faintly. “Mia?”
A bright voice chirped on the other end. “Chris! Where are you? You promised to come to my birthday party today—did you forget?”
Chris’s eyes widened. “Oh shoot—I did forget.”
He turned toward his dad. “I kinda promised a friend I'd be there tonight…”
Alexander chuckled. “Then go. Steven will prepare a car for you. Might as well show up in something that’ll make those shallow classmates of yours rethink their life choices.”
Chris scratched his head. “I was just going to bring cupcakes from the campus store…”
Alexander’s eyes twinkled. “You’ll bring presence. That’s enough.”
Uncle Steven arrived right on cue, holding a small remote. “Young master, shall I select something subtle… or something that says ‘everyone who mocked me will weep tonight?’”
Chris followed Steven into the Westminster family garage—a building so large it echoed like a cathedral.
Rows upon rows of cars gleamed under the soft glow of crystal lights. It wasn’t just a garage. It was a mechanical art gallery. Ferraris, Lamborghinis, Bentleys, even a few concept vehicles that looked like they hadn’t hit the market yet.
Chris stood frozen, mouth slightly ajar. “I thought you were joking when you said we had ‘some’ cars.”
Steven chuckled, holding his hands behind his back like a tour guide. “This is just the first floor, young master. The second is for classics, the third for track cars.”
Chris blinked. “This place has floors?”
Steven nodded. “And an elevator for helicopters, in case you’re in a hurry.”
Chris rubbed his temple. “Steven, I just need something that doesn’t make me look like I’m trying too hard. Something normal. You know… four wheels, A/C, maybe a working stereo.”
Steven arched an eyebrow, clearly struggling to comprehend the concept of “normal.” “That… may be difficult, sir.”
Chris walked past a Bugatti Chiron, past a McLaren Speedtail, and paused in front of a black sedan tucked in the corner.
It was sleek, clean, and didn’t scream “billionaire” from a mile away.
“This one,” Chris said, pointing. “That’s more like it.”
Steven looked where he was pointing, then burst out laughing. “Oh, young master. That’s a VW Phaeton W12. A special edition we commissioned from Volkswagen. Cost us two hundred grand. We use it when we want to look… humble.”
Chris stared at the car, then back at Steven. “You spent two hundred grand trying to look poor?”
Steven shrugged, smiling. “Image is everything, sir.”
Chris shook his head and muttered, “Alright. At least no one will know it’s worth more than a house.”
With Steven’s help, he slid into the plush leather seat and started the engine. It purred with a gentle growl, understated but powerful—kind of like how he wanted to walk into Mia’s party.
As he cruised toward the city, Chris glanced at his reflection in the rearview mirror. His hoodie had a faint bleach stain, and his jeans looked like they’d lost a fight with a paper shredder.
“Great,” he murmured. “I’ve got a luxury car and the wardrobe of a sleep-deprived mechanic.”
And worst of all—he had no gift for Mia.
So, naturally, he detoured into the nearest upscale shopping mall. He parked near the entrance and got out, planning to pick something modest but thoughtful.
Just as he locked the door, a blood-red Ferrari screeched to a halt beside him. The driver’s window rolled down, revealing a man with designer shades, frosted hair, and a jaw so sharp it could slice cheese.
“Yo!” the man called out. “Move your car.”
Chris blinked. “Excuse me?”
“Yeah, this spot.” The man pointed. “Move your little VW. I’m not about to let a ten-thousand-dollar clown car ruin my Ferrari’s reflection.”
Chris tilted his head. “You know, for someone driving a Ferrari, you sure sound like you skipped every etiquette class.”
The man leaned forward, smirking. “I don’t need manners when I’m worth more than your entire bloodline. Now scoot.”
Chris smiled politely. “Sorry. I parked here first.”
The smirk vanished. “Are you seriously saying no to me? You? In that… that Peasantwagen?”
Chris leaned against the door of the VW, arms folded. “It’s called a Phaeton. But don’t worry, most people who live off their dad’s money wouldn’t know the difference.”
The man’s nostrils flared. “You got jokes? You want to go viral for getting kicked into a mall fountain, bro?”
Chris didn’t flinch. “Only if you go viral for crying about it in the parking lot.”
A small crowd had begun to gather, mostly drawn by the absurdity of someone picking a fight in designer loafers.
A girl in the crowd whispered, “Is that a Phaeton W12?”
Her friend gasped. “Those are crazy rare. My uncle tried to buy one last year—they’re worth more than a Ferrari!”
The man in the Ferrari looked shaken for a split second. “You’re bluffing. That thing’s just a fancy Passat.”
Chris stepped away from the car and pulled out the key fob. He popped the trunk with a gentle click. Inside was a polished Westminster emblem stitched into the interior lining.
The crowd leaned in. Cameras clicked. Someone even zoomed in to livestream.
The Ferrari guy’s jaw clenched. “Who the hell are you?”
- Writer
