The next morning began with fog crawling over Lake Erie, wrapping the city in white.Ethan stood by the window, coffee in hand, watching the world fade in and out like a dream deciding whether to continue.
Behind him, Tom was snoring on the couch, half-covered by a blanket, last night's movie still paused on the screen. The Rolls-Royce key fob sat on the counter beside Ethan's phone — sleek, heavy, and ridiculous.
He sipped his coffee, the bitterness grounding him.
This can't all run on magic forever.
He opened his banking app again, the same one that used to taunt him with negative balances.Now it displayed Account Balance: $100,000,000.00 — Trust Account (Miller Foundation Holdings).Below it, a new notification blinked:
For questions or verification, please contact your account manager at Redwood Private Trust.
Ethan exhaled slowly. "Well, Hal… guess it's time to make this real."
Hal's voice hummed softly.
[Verification step approved.][Contact may reveal interesting human reactions.]
"Yeah, thanks, robot Socrates."
[Pleasure's mine.]
He dialed the number.The ringtone was crisp, professional — the kind of tone that made you sit up straighter even if you didn't know why.
"Redwood Private Trust, good morning," a woman's voice answered, polished but warm. "This is Elaine. How may I assist you?"
"Uh, hi," Ethan said, immediately regretting his lack of a script. "My name's Ethan Miller. I, uh, seem to have… an account with your trust?"
There was a brief pause, the sound of rapid typing. "One moment, please."
He waited, pacing the kitchen. Tom groaned from the couch. "If that's telemarketers, tell 'em I already bought enough extended warranties."
"It's… not telemarketers," Ethan muttered.
The woman's voice returned, slightly more cautious. "Mr. Miller, could you please confirm your date of birth?"
He did.
"Thank you. And your current residence?"
He gave the Orion address, still feeling absurd saying it out loud.
Another pause.
"Perfect," she said finally, her tone softening. "Everything matches our file. How are you finding your accommodations so far?"
Ethan froze. "Wait, you know about that?"
"Of course. The apartment was included in your initial disbursement package."
"Disbursement… package." He laughed nervously. "That's what we're calling miracles now?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"Nothing. Sorry. It's just been a weird month."
"I understand," she said with practiced calm. "Mr. Miller, your trust account was established under a high-confidentiality clause. You have full liquidity, no withdrawal limits, and dedicated portfolio management through our executive branch."
Ethan blinked. "I… do?"
"Yes, sir. Your assigned portfolio manager is Mr. Nicholas Harrington. Would you like me to connect you?"
His stomach did a slow, nervous roll. "Sure. Why not? Let's meet the man behind the money."
The line clicked.A smooth baritone came through — confident, deliberate. "Mr. Miller! A pleasure at last."
"Uh, hi. You're—"
"Nicholas Harrington. I manage your holdings at Redwood. I've been expecting your call."
"You have?"
"Yes. It's not every day someone receives nine figures overnight and doesn't immediately demand a yacht."
Ethan rubbed his temple. "Yeah, I'm more of a burrito-and-budget-socks guy."
Harrington chuckled. "Good. Sensible. You'd be surprised how many clients lack that instinct."
"So… look," Ethan said slowly, "I need to ask — where did this come from? Because nobody just wires a hundred million dollars into a delivery driver's account. I don't even know how to file taxes on that without triggering Homeland Security."
There was the faint rustle of papers, or maybe just the sound of an expensive suit brushing a desk.
"Mr. Miller," Harrington said, his tone gentler now, "your trust is what we call structured discretionary. The benefactor remains anonymous, by clause. But I can assure you, it is entirely legitimate. Fully documented, taxed, and cleared."
Ethan frowned. "Anonymous. Right. So, what — some billionaire had a conscience attack?"
Harrington laughed softly. "Let's just say your benefactor has a keen eye for potential."
"Potential for what?"
"That," the man said smoothly, "is up to you."
Ethan leaned against the counter, the phone warm in his hand. "So, you're saying I can spend this money however I want? No strings attached?"
"Not quite," Harrington replied. "Redwood's charter emphasizes ethical reinvestment. You're free to live comfortably, of course, but the trust performs best when you do good with it."
Ethan arched an eyebrow. "Do good?"
"Yes. Donations, community impact, employment initiatives — that sort of thing. Every action you take contributes to your portfolio's 'human value index.' Think of it as dividends in goodwill."
Ethan's mouth twitched. "You realize how suspiciously spiritual that sounds for a bank."
Harrington chuckled again. "Money and morality aren't strangers, Mr. Miller. They just attend different galas."
Tom's voice interrupted from the living room: "Ask him if the galas have free snacks!"
Ethan sighed. "That was my dad."
"I see he's keeping you grounded," Harrington said with a smile audible in his tone. "Good. We like that."
As the call wound down, Harrington added, "You'll receive a follow-up packet with your trust credentials. I'd also encourage you to schedule a brief consultation next week. We prefer clients to understand the mechanisms of their fortune."
"Mechanisms. Right. Because that doesn't sound like a sci-fi movie at all."
"Consider it your onboarding to abundance," Harrington said pleasantly. "And, Mr. Miller — congratulations. You've joined a very small club."
"Yeah," Ethan said quietly. "The accidentally rich club."
Harrington laughed once more. "Accidents have a funny way of choosing the right people."
The call ended with a polite click.
For a long minute, Ethan just stood there, phone still in hand, staring at nothing.Tom shuffled in, scratching his head. "So? Who was that? Publisher's Clearing House?"
"Trust manager," Ethan said faintly. "Apparently, I have a portfolio."
Tom blinked. "Do portfolios come with coupons?"
Ethan laughed, the tension cracking. "No, Dad. Just existential dread."
He set the phone down and leaned against the counter.Outside, the fog was lifting, sunlight glittering on the lake again. Somewhere deep down, he felt a strange mix of relief and unease — like stepping into a story that still hadn't explained its rules.
Hal's voice surfaced softly.
[Verification successful.][New contact established: Nicholas Harrington.][Observation: Trust requires both people and principles.]
Ethan sighed. "You rehearsed that, didn't you?"
[Maybe.]
He smiled faintly. "So what now, Hal? I start a charity? Buy Cleveland?"
[Maybe just buy breakfast first.]
Tom, already digging in the fridge, nodded in agreement. "Listen to the robot, champ. He's got priorities straight."
The fog outside finally cleared, revealing the bright line of the horizon.Ethan watched it for a long time — thinking not about the money, or even the miracles, but the weight of it all.The world hadn't changed overnight; it had just gotten louder, asking questions he didn't yet know how to answer.
But at least now, he wasn't asking alone.