C2 The Meaning of Money

Royse hailed a cab straight to Citibank.

He forked over the fare—over 600 yuan—without a second thought.

This time, the expense didn't sting as it might have before. Royse was, through and through, a rich second-generation heir. When money was tight, he could scrape by, but now that he was flush with cash, why should he suffer any discomfort?

It was just 600 yuan, after all.

By the time he stepped out of the taxi, it was past noon.

Despite it being the typical hour for lunch, the front of Citibank was bustling with people.

He recalled a family member's words: the service industry never rests. Whether it's eating, drinking, or showering, it all revolves around the customer's schedule. It wasn't unusual to encounter a client who could hold out, or to have lunch as late as four or five in the afternoon.

To the masses, Citibank represented an international banking giant, mysterious and seemingly out of reach. Yet to the Stewarts, it was simply another player in the service industry—a place to manage a modest sum of money.

Royse approached the entrance, patted his pocket, and strode into the lobby.

A receptionist promptly approached him.

"Hello, sir. My name is Tracy, and I'm a receptionist here. May I ask whom you're looking for?"

The speaker was a woman with a distinctly Asian appearance, her figure balanced and her looks above average. Her voice, though youthful, lent an intriguing edge to her allure.

Royse appraised her briefly before responding, "I'm here to facilitate an asset transfer."

"Asset transfer?" Tracy echoed, her voice tinged with confusion as she scrutinized him.

She assessed Royse: his attire was plain, his skin bronzed from the sun, and his fingers bore the marks of hard work.

He looked like a poor man.

She deduced that he couldn't possibly be a Citibank client.

"Sir, the minimum asset transfer we handle here is one million," she informed him.

Her generous salary ensured she remained polite, though her words carried a hint of sarcasm. "How much are your assets worth?"

Royse paused, then answered with a touch of resignation, "I'm not exactly sure of the total."

He truly wasn't certain of the exact figure. His investments had propelled the Stewart Family's business assets into a state of explosive growth. As for how much 1% of the total assets amounted to? He couldn't say for sure.

"But it's definitely not a mere million."

Royse was confident of that much.

Tracy eyed Royse with skepticism, doubting his composed demeanor.

Nonetheless, she maintained her professionalism and gestured towards a section of the counter area, "This section handles transactions above five million. What do you think?"

Royse shook his head, "Too little."

"Over here we have the zone for transactions exceeding ten million."

"Still too little."

"And this is the zone for over fifty million."

"Still too little," he reiterated.

Tracy fell silent, giving Royse a look that barely concealed her scorn. "Sir, fifty million is the maximum transaction limit for our standard business zone. Are you implying that you have assets exceeding a hundred million?"

Tracy had every reason to be doubtful. To her, no one who truly wanted to keep a low profile would dress as shabbily as he did. How could someone who looked more like a vagrant possibly possess a hundred million in assets?

Royse simply shook his head. "No..."

Tracy was momentarily speechless.

"A hundred million is far too modest. We're talking in the realm of several billion," Royse added.

Tracy was dumbfounded.

It took her a moment to regain her composure, after which she let out a derisive laugh. "There's a limit to boasting. Do you really think that's plausible?"

She didn't even bother with formalities anymore, dismissing Royse as nothing more than a disruptive charlatan. Few people dared claim they had billions in assets!

Royse sighed.

He had no interest in justifying himself to someone so dismissive. There were far too many people ready to underestimate others, and he couldn't possibly explain himself to each one.

Deciding to take matters into his own hands, he lifted his head, scanned the area, and upon spotting the VIP reception room sign, he strode confidently towards it.

Tracy was momentarily taken aback before she frantically gave chase. "Hey! What are you doing?! Security..."

But it was already too late.

Royse strode to the door and pushed it open without hesitation. Inside the reception room, a middle-aged man behind the desk looked up, visibly startled at the sight of Royse.

His gaze then shifted to Tracy, who was hurrying after him, and his expression soured. "Tracy, what's going on here?"

"I'm so sorry, Manager Juarez, so sorry!" Tracy stammered out apologies, her panic escalating as she tried to tug Royse out. "I'll remove him immediately..."

But Royse stood firm, unyielding to Tracy's feeble attempts to pull him away. "Manager Juarez, is this how you treat VIP clients?"

With a composed motion, Royse removed Tracy's hand and walked to the desk, taking a seat with ease. Manager Juarez, caught off guard, managed a slight smile. "Sir, are you here for some business?"

His voice dripped with condescension, clearly skeptical that Royse had the means to back up his presence. Without engaging in idle chatter, Royse produced an item from his pocket and slapped it onto the desk.

"Take a look," he said, his tone even.

Manager Juarez let out a dismissive chuckle and glanced over nonchalantly. But then, he leapt to his feet in shock.

"Manager Juarez."

At that moment, the security team finally arrived. Several burly men entered the office, reaching out to escort Royse away. Yet, Royse, seemingly oblivious to the unfolding drama, casually inspected his nails. "Manager Juarez, if you're too busy, I can always take my business elsewhere."

"No!" Manager Juarez snapped to attention, his panic evident.

The prospect of losing such a significant transaction could cost him his job. Quickly realizing his misstep, he scrambled to rectify the situation. "What I mean is, there's no need for any hassle. Mr. Stewart, it's a pleasure. Let me take care of your business right away."

Manager Juarez chastised the security guards with a sharp tone, "This doesn't concern you. Clear out, now! If you end up frightening Mr. Stewart, can you handle the consequences?"

The guards were stunned, their earlier assumptions about a troublemaker now turned on its head. Why were they suddenly referring to him as Mr. Stewart?

Exchanging puzzled glances, they reluctantly shuffled out, still shrouded in confusion.

At the door, Tracy's eyes were wide with shock. What was happening? Could this unassuming man in casual attire actually be a wealthy scion, a Rich Second Generation, concealing his true status?

"What are you standing around for? Go make tea for Mr. Stewart—and use your eyes to find the best tea leaves!"

Manager Juarez then rounded on Tracy with a rebuke. "Remember, only the finest tea. Got it?"

"Uh... Yes, yes, of course..." Tracy, too intimidated to inquire about which tea was considered the best, hurriedly exited, her mind a whirl of bewilderment.

"Mr. Stewart, there seems to have been a slight misunderstanding. Please accept my sincerest apologies."

With the room now cleared, Manager Juarez's demeanor grew even more obsequious. He addressed Royse, who sat comfortably, "May I inquire about the nature of the business you wish to conduct?"

Manager Juarez was inwardly rattled. He had recognized the document Royse presented as a certificate of asset safekeeping, indicating that he had leased the most secure safes within Citibank—five of them, no less, in a single transaction.

The annual rent for these safes was a staggering one million dollars.

It was clear that the contents must be of extraordinary value.

Yet, the true significance lay in the three signatures on the certificate: one from the CEO of Citibank's headquarters, another from the CEO of the Asia-Pacific division, and the last from the bank's own branch president.

With his extensive training, Manager Juarez understood the gravity of these endorsements: they signified involvement by the corporate elite, a rare occurrence reserved for special custodial requests.

Realizing he had nearly turned away a project of great importance to the higher-ups, Manager Juarez's heart raced with fear. The thought of Royse retracting his business was enough to make him fear for his job on the spot.

"I need to handle a transfer of assets, and I'd like to withdraw some cash as well."

Royse gave him a look and added, "Find me an asset manager, too. I have some questions that might require their expertise. I need someone experienced, someone who's managed assets over ten billion dollars."

Billions...

Manager Juarez's legs shook, and he broke out in a cold sweat. "Mr. Stewart, I'm afraid I don't have the authority to deal with projects over a billion dollars. Just give me a moment, I'll call CEO Liu."

With Royse's nod of approval, Manager Juarez pulled out his phone and stepped towards the door to make the call.

At that moment, Tracy arrived with the tea, catching snippets of Manager Juarez's conversation.

She only caught bits and pieces - "billions," "asset management," "authorization" - but it was enough to terrify her.

She had just scorned the very man who now required Manager Juarez to seek higher-level approval for his business dealings. What did that imply?

It implied that with just a single word, he could cost her the job she had worked so hard to secure.

In a state of panic, she entered with the tea, her gaze scattered and unfocused.

It wasn't until she set the teacup down and watched Royse leisurely take a sip that she snapped back to reality, her face ashen.

"Mr. Stewart, Mr. Stewart."

Tracy clutched Royse's hand, her face a picture of entreaty, "I was wrong. I was so wrong to judge. Please, I'm begging you, don't tell Manager Juarez..."

"Tracy, what are you doing! Let go!" Manager Juarez, having finished his call, walked in and saw what was happening. His face turned to thunder as he barked, "You have the nerve to bother Mr. Stewart after what you've done! Out, now!"

But Tracy didn't move; she couldn't bring herself to leave. She knew that if she walked out now, she wouldn't have a job to return to the next day.

She still clung to Royse's sleeve, her voice growing increasingly wretched as she implored, "Mr. Stewart, I realize my mistake, I..."

"Enough."

Royse set down his teacup.

Initially, Royse had intended to give Tracy a hard time. He was human, after all, and no human is immune to emotion. Since Tracy had shown him disdain, he saw no harm in teaching her a lesson.

Yet, as he watched the once radiant woman plead desperately before him, Royse found himself unexpectedly disinterested.

He reminded himself, "Royse, you were born at the pinnacle of the pyramid. The vast majority of those who share the streets with you are destined to spend their lives adding value to yours. Is it really worth your time to engage with someone like her on equal terms?"

Royse decided it wasn't. With a dismissive wave, he said, "Leave. I'm not bothered by this incident."

Overwhelmed with relief, Tracy burst into tears, repeatedly bowing and expressing her gratitude before exiting with her hand over her mouth.

Watching her retreat, Royse had an epiphany about the true significance of wealth. A single utterance from him could alter the destiny of an ordinary person. Such was the formidable power of money, he realized.

And then, amidst his contemplation, a robust laugh broke through.

"Mr. Royse, how I've longed for your arrival!"