Seeing the scene unfold before her, the salesperson's gaze hardened, her expression twisting with disdain. She wasn't stupid. One man had just walked in, casually depositing twenty thousand dollars into his fiancée's account and the other was here begging for a loan.
And not just that. There was tension between them, something unspoken but sharp, like a crackle in the air.
Of course, she knew exactly whose side to take.
"The loan you requested has been rejected," she said coldly, her tone clipped and dismissive. "Try again another day."
Her words dripped with mockery, and her eyes flicked briefly toward Jace, as if silently asking, Did I do well?
Adrian's expression didn't change, but a muscle in his jaw twitched. He looked at the teller for a long moment, not with anger, but quiet disappointment.
He'd expected this. The arrogance, the bias, the mockery hiding behind polite words. The world hadn't changed one bit.
"Alright," he said finally, voice calm. "Thank you for your time."
He turned to leave, but Jace's voice cut through the murmuring crowd.
"Leaving so soon, brother-in-law?" Jace drawled, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Don't tell me you're angry because the bank rejected you again. You should've told me you needed help — I could lend you a few hundred dollars."
Laughter rippled through the line. Even the teller struggled to hide her grin.
Adrian didn't reply. He adjusted his coat, his movements unhurried, controlled.
"Money," he said quietly, glancing back at Jace, "isn't something I'll ever beg you for."
Jace scoffed. "Then what are you even doing here?"
Adrian met his eyes and smiled faintly — a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "You'll find out soon enough."
Something in his tone made Jace's smirk falter. For a split second, he saw something different — the calmness of a man who wasn't desperate anymore, but waiting. And that angered him. Who does he think he is? Adrian is nothing but worthless trash. What gave him the right to speak that way?
Perhaps he should teach this fool a lesson to remind him of his place.
Adrian turned and walked out of the bank, ignoring the whispers behind him. The sunlight outside hit his face, and for the first time since waking up in this old life, he felt something burn inside him again.
Not anger. Not regret.
Determination.
He'd wasted his last life chasing the wrong things. This time, he'd build everything back from nothing — power, respect, and the future he lost.
And when that time came, every person who mocked him today… would kneel.
*****
Now that his loan wasn't approved, Adrian couldn't help but groan softly in frustration. Maybe it was time to take this a step further. Just one careful step.
He could vividly remember Ben — his assistant, best friend, and confidant. Though it would take another twelve years to actually meet him and three more years to stop hating each other, Ben had once told him that he'd spent over two decades working as the owner of a huge bank.
Adrian frowned, trying to remember the name. What was it again?
Stonebridge Local Bank.
Of course. The same bank he was standing right in front of.
But there was one problem. The security guards already knew his face — the man with a reputation for drunken brawls, unpaid loans, and chaos. The moment Adrian tried stepping closer, one of them raised a hand to stop him.
"Sorry, sir, but we can't let you in," the guard said flatly. "You've caused enough trouble here before. The manager said not to let you past the door."
Adrian remained calm and composed. Yes. It was just as he had expected. His gaze drifted to a middle-aged woman walking toward the entrance, holding a stack of documents.
"Excuse me, ma'am," he said politely. "Can I ask a small favor?"
The woman hesitated, wary, but something in his tone made her pause. Adrian quickly scribbled a note on a folded piece of paper he had in his coat pocket. His handwriting was quick, almost messy, but every word was chosen carefully.
He handed it to her. "Please give this to one of the employees inside, tell them to give this letter to an individual named Ben Hart. Tell the employee that someone outside asked Mr. Hart to read it immediately."
The woman frowned but nodded, taking the paper and heading in. Adrian stepped back from the door, waiting quietly as people glanced at him with the usual mixture of disgust and mockery.
Inside, the woman walked straight to one of the tellers and asked for Ben. The teller blinked in confusion, whispering something about "the owner," but still sent the message along.
Moments later, inside his glass-walled office, Ben Hart leaned back in his chair, tired after a long day. He took the folded note from a clerk, opening it absentmindedly. His eyes moved across the page, and his entire expression shifted.
Ben Hart, I know you don't remember me, and maybe you never will. But I also know you still dream about the accident on NY Bridge. You remember her scarf caught in the gear before the car went down. You never told anyone you were the one behind the hit-and-run accident, did you? Not even your wife. You let the papers blame someone else instead.
I'm not here to judge you. I just need your help. One more time.
— James
Ben's hand went cold. His breath stilled. The paper trembled in his grip. That accident… he hadn't heard those words in three years. Nobody knew. He'd buried the file, the truth, everything.
How—
He stood so abruptly his chair scraped across the tiles. His employees looked up, startled.
"Where did this come from?" he asked the nearest teller.
The young woman pointed toward the door. "A man outside. Said to give it to you."
Ben didn't even think. He walked out, fast, ignoring the startled greetings from his staff.
Through the glass, everyone saw it — the owner himself leaving his office, hurrying toward a shabby man in almost torn clothes.
The guards tried to block him, but Ben waved them off.
"Mr. Hart, sir—"
"It's fine."
Ben stepped outside, eyes narrowing on James.
"You," he breathed, anger coursing through his eyes. "How the hell do you know about that?"
Adrian's mouth twitched into a thin, tired smile.
"Because someday, you'll tell me yourself."
And inside the bank, every employee who watched through the glass couldn't believe it — the mighty Ben Hart, owner of Stonebridge Bank, standing in the dust, talking to a man who looked like he didn't even have lunch money.