Billionaire Tycoon's Son Stole My Inheritance; I Bought His Company With His Own Gold!

The Tycoon's Threat

The air outside St. Augustine Elite Academy was thick with the scent of rain and old money. A freezing autumn drizzle slicked the cobblestones, mirroring the imposing wrought-iron gates and the sleek Maybachs idling within. Mist swirled like ghosts around the stone pillars, catching the amber glow of gas lamps. It was a scene of opulent wealth, a stark contrast to the salt-crusted Pelican case at my feet.

Armand Dubois, a man whose silver-streaked hair and manicured goatee couldn't quite hide the sneer etched onto his patrician features, stood before me. His charcoal cashmere overcoat and burgundy silk cravat screamed 'old money,' his polished gold-tipped umbrella tapping an impatient rhythm on the wet pavement. He was a monument to arrogance, and he was here to deliver his final blow.

“You’re drowning in harbor debt, Mateo, begging outside my son’s academy like a washed-up beachcomber.”

His voice was a venomous drawl, laced with the condescension of a man who had never known hardship. He stepped forward, the tip of his umbrella landing inches from my steel-toe boot with a sharp, metallic clatter. The sound echoed the aggression in his eyes. I remained silent, my gaze locked onto his, letting the cold hazel of my eyes speak volumes. My chest rose and fell in a steady, unbothered rhythm. Let him think he had the upper hand.

“Sign over your salvage vessel today, or I’ll have the harbor police confiscate your scrap-metal barge by nightfall.”

He leaned in, rain pattering against his silk umbrella, his gloved finger jabbing towards my chest. The cruelty in his eyes was palpable. He thought he had me. He thought this was the end of Mateo Cruz, the independent deep-sea salvage diver. He saw only a debt-ridden fool, not a man holding the keys to his downfall.