The Undead Trillionaire Heir Wants Revenge

Chapter 5 || Confrontation

Arriving at the ATM, Phil inserted the card given to him, entered the pin, and while the machine scanned his card for authenticity, his eyes darted to a somewhat large concave mirror at the side.

In the reflection, he saw himself carefully, noticing the drastic change in his appearance and overall build. He had more facial hair than ever, glowing skin, a chiseled body, and a bulked-up physique. He looked different from his wimpy past self and wondered how he had glowed up during his coma.

Was it the medicines or the food they supplied him? Phil wondered as he checked out his massive muscles. His attention was drawn back to the ATM screen after it finished analyzing his card.

[Lord Platinum card analyzed, please select your desired amount: $10,000, $100,000, $1,000,000. You can input the desired amount needed.]

Phil's mouth hung open at the sight. He remembered that the highest you could withdraw from an ATM was usually at least ten thousand dollars. But why was the machine showing him these amounts? It had to be a glitch or something.

As he prepared to press the lowest option, Phil changed his mind halfway and tapped on the second-largest sum, thinking it might not work. Surprisingly, the machine accepted his input, and with widened eyes, he heard the machine counting money from within.

Like something out of a cliché heist movie, the ATM spat out ten-thousand banded dollar bills, only stopping after it released the tenth one. Phil was dazzled at the sight of the cash. He quickly stuffed them into his pockets, placing half on one side and the other on the other side.

It was fortunate that the clothes he exchanged his million-dollar outfit for had a wide variety of pockets.

“Holy crap, all this money just to buy some drinks?” Phil exclaimed after putting the last bill into his pocket. In the past, money like this would have helped him dearly, and he couldn't help but feel bad that now he had some, there was nobody he could share or spend it on.

He was dead to everybody he knew, and he couldn't even get close to his adopted mother or unborn child without raising questions and compromising himself or the Lords. He was a ghost, a product of the wrath of those at the top of the social hierarchy.

Blazing with a new storm of emotional pain and anguish, Phil tried to retrieve his card and go buy some drinks. But he stumbled upon an option to check his balance.

Out of curiosity, he did and was immediately appalled by the amount he saw. “A billion dollars?” Almost screaming, he quickly covered his mouth and said through his palm.

His neck reflexively turned to scan the area, but although there were some chattering individuals in close vicinity to him, it was unlikely they had heard him.

'She gave me all that money just for a drink? These people really are rich, huh?' Phil thought as he grabbed his card before the machine could fully dispense it and hurried out of that location.

Pausing at the casino's entrance, Phil took in the grand, futuristic ambiance of the casino before cautiously making his way inside. As he moved from the actual casino on the first floor to the bar upstairs, he thought that perhaps people were eyeing him because he had an unquestionable amount of money with him. Little did he know that it was because of his worn-out outfit and not anything else.

Arriving at the bar, Phil marveled at the place. The blend of luxury and nightlife came together perfectly. It was nicely illuminated with disco lights, although most of the bar was completely dark.

The music and the presence of strippers were the only turn-offs for him, but he shrugged and approached the bartender with eyes trailing him.

“Your most expensive drink here, please,” Phil called out to the bartender, who had his back facing him.

“Right away, Si—,” the bartender's words were cut short when he turned around to see who had just placed the order. He scrutinized Phil for a quiet moment and then burst into laughter.

“Okay… you got me. I see you came for the cleaning job. You'll have to come back later because—,” Phil cut his words short.

“I didn't come to apply for anything. I came to buy a drink,” Phil said indignantly. The bartender, now thinking he was a bum who had stumbled in for free drinks, tried calling security.

“Security, how did this lowlife pass you? Anyway another bum managed to enter here again. The boss would be so mad if he finds out about this. Come take him out now before he gets here,” the bartender said through some comms and turned to Phil. “I think you should leave before you get severely beaten up,” he said, his voice laced with disdain.

Phil was surprised. He knew that his clothes looked simple, but weren't they still suitable for an outing? Regardless, this bartender was jesting with both his tone and looks. He recalled what had transpired at Sinclair's party and how they had treated him like a dog; he didn't want such an experience to repeat itself.

He was in a different league now, as much as he wants to deny it, and wouldn't tolerate ridicule anymore.

“Here, to shut up!” Thrusting his hand in his pocket and pulling out a wad of cash, he said, and the bartender's eyes nearly popped out of their sockets.

“That's your tip,” sounding authoritative, he said, and then looked behind the stunned bartender. “What's your most expensive alcohol? Give it to me,” he added.

The bartender, still in shock, swirled around uncontrollably, first calling off the security guards who were about to intervene. In all his years of working here, not a single person had tipped him that much money, not even the wealthiest. This man must be something else, for he had just tipped him his entire five-year salary.

“Here, this is an Oxford Davis original whiskey. Only this one is available in the city,” showcasing a bottle made of clear see-through glass, the bartender said, and proceeded to call a servant to take the drink to Phil's table, but he stopped him.

“No worries, I'll take it myself.”

Producing more clips of money, he handed the bartender five clips, including his tip, and made his way to his reserved booth seating. Eyes followed him as he walked there, but most were now looking at him out of intrigue rather than disdain.

Phil noticed the stares and loved it.

Opening his bottle of whiskey, Phil gulped down a glassful and savored its warmth before exhaling deeply. The contents of the whiskey were definitely worth the price.

After drinking more than four shots and feeling the alcohol take effect, Phil relaxed in his chair and watched his problems dissolve into nothingness.

As he partook in this brief, fleeting pleasure, he heard familiar voices—voices that brought back memories of pain and humiliation. These were the voices of Ethan and Aiden.

Instinctively, he lowered his head, almost hitting it on the table.