"Grandfather, the family ban has been lifted. I can finally access the family fortune," Grayson said.
"Yes, I received the notice yesterday. I was wondering when you'd call your old grandfather—didn't expect it so soon! Ha!" The elderly voice of Grandpa Jenkins sounded delighted over the phone.
"Grandpa Jenkins, I need to warn the Sterling Gate Group about something," Grayson continued.
"No problem—consider it done. Wait a moment while I check." Jenkins's tone was calm and assured. "I've located Sterling Gate Group's subsidiary here in Oregon, which falls under our family's western branch. I'll contact the Western Branch director, Sebastian Caldwell, right away. Young Master Grayson, what exactly do you want me to tell Sterling Gate Group?"
"Tell them: hands off SilverStream Company…" Grayson summarized Lila's situation briefly.
"Understood."
"But do it quickly."
"Rest assured, Young Master Grayson—I'll have this taken care of within half an hour."
"That's good," Grayson replied, hanging up.
As the saying goes, when a higher-up gives an order, the subordinates spring into action. Within minutes, Grandpa Jenkins had sent an encrypted message through the family's private network to Sebastian Caldwell, instructing him to handle Grayson's request immediately.
In Salem, Oregon, the phone on Daniel Prescott's desk rang. As Director of the Oregon Department of Revenue, Daniel recognized the number instantly. He set aside his paperwork and answered.
"Hello, this is Daniel Prescott."
"I'm Sebastian Caldwell," came the crisp reply.
"President Caldwell, hello, it's an honor." Daniel's tone was deferential. Sebastian Caldwell wasn't a government official nor a conventional businessman—he wielded influence that made even the state governor think twice.
"Mr. Prescott," Sebastian said crisply, "I'm reaching out about Sterling Gate Group. They've been causing trouble lately."
"They're acting up again? Understood—leave it to me. I'll handle it immediately." Daniel put down the phone and ordered his assistant to prepare a car. He himself would drive to Sterling Gate's regional office to deliver a warning in person.
A moment later, the department secretary knocked and peered into Daniel's office. "Mr. Prescott, Mr. Prescott is here to see you."
"Tell him to come back tomorrow," Daniel said with a wave of his hand, slightly impatient.
"But Mr. Prescott says he's been waiting for almost two hours," the secretary protested softly.
"I said tomorrow!" Daniel glared, his patience wearing thin. The secretary understood—calling on Sterling Gate's office took priority over any other meeting today. Daniel knew Sebastian Caldwell would not brook any delay, and that Sterling Gate's missteps with SilverStream had to be corrected immediately. As Oregon's tax chief, he had the power to make life difficult for a company that stepped out of line, and today he intended to use it.
Meanwhile, Grayson sat alone by the campus lake. The scene was peaceful: wind-stirred willow branches arched over the clear water, the white academic building gleamed in the distance, and a few waterfowl skimmed the surface as a gentle breeze whispered through the air. In this quiet, Grayson realized how good it felt to be single. When he'd been dating Sienna, she had depended on him for everything—meals, laundry, even her essays and sanitary supplies. His every living moment had revolved around her. Now, alone and unburdened, he could breathe and simply exist.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. The caller ID was unfamiliar.
"Hey, Grayson. Come to the tennis courts—Court Three over in West District Four," a female voice said, sharp and commanding.
"Um, I—" Grayson hesitated.
"Don't 'um' me! You're ignoring the club president? Hurry up—I'm only saying this once!" The call ended with a click.
Grayson was content to stay by the lake, but he finally rose, straightened his shirt, and headed for the tennis courts.
At Court Three in West District Four, a group of tennis club members waited. As soon as they saw Grayson, they waved him over.
"There you are—our ball boy is here!" one of them called.
"Over here—hurry up, you're so slow!" another taunted. "Put some speed into it!"
"Can't even run a few steps, huh?" The teasing jabs continued as Grayson approached.
Among the group was a young woman who stood out. She wore a baseball cap, a Nike sports jacket, pink athletic shorts, and Adidas sneakers—youthful and radiant. She glanced at Grayson with a hint of impatience.
"Why are you so late? I called you ten minutes ago. This court rents for fifty dollars an hour. Because you didn't show up, we wasted that time," she said, narrowing her eyes.
"Sorry, President, I'm really sorry," Grayson stammered. He knew this woman was Quinn, president of the tennis club. Everyone else here, including him, was a member of the club.
"Enough apologies. Just stand by the side and collect our balls," Quinn said coldly, ignoring him as she turned to signal to her teammates. "All right, ball runner's here—let's start!"
"Got it!"
"Let's go!"
With that, Quinn and the others began their match, while Grayson took a seat in the shaded resting area by the court. Whenever a ball flew astray, he dashed to retrieve it and tossed it back to the players.
After a few rounds, a girl who Grayson didn't recognize walked over and sat beside him, striking up a conversation.
"Why do you keep fetching balls for them? Why don't you play?" she asked.
Grayson shrugged. "I don't know how to play tennis. I'm here just to collect balls."
A smirk spread across the face of a lanky tennis-club member named Matthew Johnson, who had recently finished a game and was catching his breath nearby. "If he doesn't know how to play, he can learn. But come on—look at the court price. Can he afford it? This club's for people who can shell out a few hundred dollars on a racket. He's just a couch-sufferer pretending to be fancy."
Matthew, clearly sniffing with superiority, reached behind him and brandished his tennis racket. "See this? Under Armour—over twenty hundred dollars. Tennis is a rich person's sport; ordinary people couldn't dream of keeping up."
He paused to let that sink in, then turned to Lauren—the young woman chatting with Grayson. "You came with the president, right? I'm Matthew, also in the tennis club."
"Oh, I'm Lauren," she said, her tone polite. "I'm not from this school. Quinn brought me along to play tennis, but I don't know how to hit a ball either. Haha."
"That's easy," Matthew said, seizing the opportunity to show off. "Here, use my racket—Under Armour. You'll learn quick."
"Ah, I'm fine. I'll just watch," Lauren replied, politely declining as she turned back to Grayson. "By the way, what's your name?"
"Grayson," he said.
"Well, now I know," Lauren said with a warm smile that transformed her entire face under the dappled sunlight. It was striking. "You don't know how to play; I don't know how to play. Want to learn together someday?"
In that moment, something in Lauren clicked, and she added, "Don't worry about the court fee—I'll cover it."
Grayson glanced at her, surprised. She was beautiful: sunshine filtering through tree leaves painted her hair with golden highlights, and her eyes—slightly crinkled as she smiled—genuinely sparkled. There was no hint of condescension in her gaze, even though she wore branded clothes and sneakers, while Grayson was in plain, well-worn attire, running around collecting stray balls. Yet Lauren treated him with nothing but sincerity and respect.
Suddenly, Matthew's voice cut through the moment from across the court. "Hey, Grayson—are you dumb? Go fetch the ball!"
Matthew had tried to chat up Lauren, but she'd shown more interest in Grayson. Now he felt awkward lingering by her side, so he returned to the game—although his attention stayed fixed on Grayson and Lauren. Watching their brief exchange bred jealousy in Matthew. He resolved to disrupt them.
With a vicious swing, he deliberately sent the tennis ball flying off the court, smashing it against the fence and into the thicket beyond. Then he yelled, "Go get it!"
"Don't bother," Lauren frowned. "It went way out there. How will you get it? And it's dangerous in those bushes."
"It's fine," Grayson said with a tight smile. Though annoyed, he'd come all this way—he might as well do as they asked, if only to avoid gossip.
The thicket was thick with tangled weeds and brambles. Grayson fought his way in, branches scratching at his clothes. Eventually, he found the ball and tossed it back to Matthew, but the effort had left fresh scrapes on his forearm. His shirt was torn, and a trickle of blood ran down his arm.
Lauren rushed forward. "Oh my God, your arm's bleeding."
Grayson brushed the blood off on his pants. "It's nothing."
"Don't be ridiculous. Let me help you stop the bleeding." Lauren removed a wad of tissues from her bag, tore one open, and then unscrewed a bottle of water. She held Grayson's arm under the stream, washing away the dirt and sap, then pressed the tissue to the wound.
For a moment, Grayson felt a surge of warmth in his chest. This girl was really something.
At that moment, Quinn's burly figure appeared, dripping sweat from her recent game. She saw Lauren tending to Grayson's arm and wrinkled her nose. "Ugh, aren't you grossed out?" she asked.
"Gross? What's gross about it?" Lauren replied without looking up from cleaning the cut.
Quinn stared at her friend in surprise. She had not expected Lauren to be so kind to Grayson. After all, to Quinn's eyes, Grayson barely measured up to her standards. She already regretted letting him join the tennis club in the first place.