A black boy in worn shoes goes to the bank to check his account. The manager laughs until he sees the balance.
« Sir, I would like to check my account, » said ten-year-old Eliot, standing at the counter. His shoes were in tatters, his jacket too big. Tristan Vale stared at him and laughed so loudly that several customers turned to look at him.
« You? Here? With these shoes? Do you really think you have an account? Tristan said with a grin. « We’re not at the soup kitchen. »
The security guard approached, his hand hanging over his baton. Other customers laughed, shouted, laughed at him. « Kick him out! » The hall shook with shock. No one came to Wesley’s defense.
But Eliot remained inflexible. « Sir, my grandmother opened this account for me. She passed away two months ago and left me this. He clutched a brown envelope to him.
Inside were the documents, a letter, and a Black Platinum credit card. Tristan’s jaw unhooked slightly as he brandished it theatrically. « Ah, she also left you a mansion and a private jet? » Laughter filled the room again.
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