Rebate King: Every Beauty I Spoil Makes Me a Billionaire

That video was spreading fast. And with each share, each screenshot, each group chat reaction, the narrative was quietly rewriting itself.

Stan Harrison wasn’t a predator. Stan Harrison was a man who’d been framed by a jealous nobody. And the nobody was currently facing a defamation lawsuit with video evidence.

The tide was turning. Slowly, but unmistakably.

He met Zack for lunch at the cafeteria. They grabbed their usual spot near the windows and settled into the comfortable, undemanding rhythm of two friends who didn’t need conversation to enjoy each other’s company.

Halfway through his meal, Stan’s phone buzzed.

A message from Sarah. He read through it silently.

She was updating him on the lawsuit. Quinn had been formally served that morning, the court summons had been delivered to his dormitory, signed for in front of his roommate, which meant the entire floor would know about it by sundown.

Sarah’s attorney was pushing for an expedited hearing, arguing that the defamation was ongoing and the damages were accumulating daily.

Stan read the update and felt a quiet pulse of appreciation.

Sarah wasn’t just pursuing this case, she was driving it. Aggressively, methodically, with the focused energy of a woman who had decided that clearing Stan’s name was her personal mission.

The fact that she’d voluntarily presented video evidence that exposed the most painful, embarrassing details of her own life, her family’s bankruptcy, the debt, the thirty-million-dollar bailout, in order to prove Stan’s innocence told him everything he needed to know about how far she was willing to go.

She cared. Not in the abstract, polite way that most people cared. She cared in the way that costs something.

He typed a brief reply, [Thank you Sarah. You’re doing great]

Taking a deep breath, he set the phone down.

”Good news?” Zack asked, noticing the faint smile.

”Quinn’s been served.”

Zack’s face split into a grin so wide it threatened to dislocate his jaw.

”Beautiful. That weasel’s finally going to get what’s coming to him.” He raised his water bottle in a mock toast. ”To justice.”

”To justice,” Stan agreed, and they clinked plastic bottles over the cafeteria table like two kings celebrating a victory.

After lunch, Stan made an unexpected purchase.

A bicycle.

Not a cheap, utilitarian campus bike like the one he’d ridden before, the one that had become a punchline in Kyle Jennings’s jokes and a symbol of everything the second-generation rich kids thought they knew about him.

This one was different. A high-end road bike with a carbon-fiber frame, matte-black finish, and the kind of clean, aggressive lines that made it look less like a commuter vehicle and more like a piece of engineering art.

He bought it on impulse, and the reasoning, when he stopped to examine it, surprised him with its simplicity.

He was rich. Extraordinarily, absurdly, almost incomprehensibly rich. Money was entering his accounts faster than he could conceive of ways to spend it. The Lamborghini was parked in his garage. The apartment was furnished. The wardrobe was stocked. Every material desire he could identify had been satisfied within the first week of the system’s activation.

And yet there was a stillness settling into him, a quiet, persistent hum of restlessness and boredom that expensive things couldn’t cure.

The money was thrilling in the abstract, but it was also, increasingly, just there. A number on a screen. A balance that grew and grew and never seemed to connect to anything that made his heart beat faster.

The bicycle was different. The bicycle was effort, it cured and cleared that boredom, even though it’s only for a while.

Pedaling through the city for more than an hour, lungs burning, legs aching, wind pushing against his face, produced a kind of satisfaction that no amount of spending could replicate. It was analog. It was physical. It was real in a way that digital transactions and system notifications could never be. It cured his boredom and took his mind off rebate, money and girls for a while. It’s what he needed to fill in that last gap in his life.

He rode it for over an hour that afternoon, weaving through the city’s quieter streets, pushing himself hard enough to feel the lactic acid build and the sweat soak through his shirt. By the time he rolled back to his apartment, his legs were trembling and his mind was clear.

’This,’ he thought, leaning the bike against the wall of his garage beside the Lamborghini, ’is worth more than everything else I own. While the Lamborghini was worth more, when compared in a qualitative level, the bicycle gave him a thrill and level of excitement Lamborghini can never give him unless he takes it to a race or something.’

Sighing, he showered, dressed, and stood in front of the full-length mirror in his bedroom.

The outfit had come together without much deliberation, a fitted leather jacket over a dark graphic tee, slim dark jeans, a subtle chain at the collar. Simple. Sharp. The kind of look that didn’t try too hard and succeeded precisely because of it.

Stan studied his reflection for a moment.

The man looking back at him was, by any honest assessment, handsome. Not in the manufactured, money-bought way that Felix Lawn or Kyle Jennings achieved through expensive grooming and designer labels, but in the natural, structural way that came from good bones, clear skin, and the kind of quiet confidence that no stylist could fake.

The jawline was clean. The shoulders filled the jacket well. The eyes held a steady, settled intensity that hadn’t been there a week ago, the look of a man who had walked through fire often enough that it no longer made him flinch.

’No wonder,’ he thought, tilting his head slightly, ’I keep ending up surrounded by beautiful women.’

He held his own gaze in the mirror for another second, then let out a short, self-aware laugh and shook his head.

’God, listen to yourself. You’re standing in front of a mirror admiring your own face like a peacock at a pond. Get a grip, Stan.’

But the smile didn’t fade entirely. It lingered at the corner of his mouth, small, private, slightly incredulous, as he turned away from the mirror, grabbed his keys, and headed for the door.

Sophie was waiting.

And the evening, he suspected, was going to be interesting.