I won $200 million in the lottery—and the first thing I did was go back to the orphanage that kicked me out at 15…
It was pouring rain on the gray streets of Chicago. Jackson Cole sat in his new Aston Martin, looking through the rain at the old red brick building called St. Jude’s Home for Boys.
A month ago, Jackson had been a night welder living in a cockroach-infested basement apartment on the South Side.
Today, he was the winner of a $200 million Powerball jackpot.
Money had changed everything on the outside: the clothes, the cars, the high-class handshakes. But it had not changed the hole in his chest. The hole that had opened on his 15th birthday, when Director Martha had pushed him out the door of the orphanage in the middle of winter with a plastic bag containing a few torn clothes and the cold words: “You’re trash, Jackson. No one takes thugs here.”
Jackson had survived. He slept under bridges, fought for food, and taught himself a trade. He hated this place. But when he had $200 million, his first thought was not revenge, but a proud demonstration.
He wanted to go back there, throw $50 million in their faces and say: “Look, the kid you threw away can now buy this whole neighborhood.” He wanted to rebuild the dormitory, the library, the football field… not because he loved them, but because he wanted the name Jackson Cole engraved on the gate, so that every day they passed by they would remember their mistake.
And there was another reason. Tomorrow, Jackson would fly to New York to sign the biggest investment contract of his life with Vane Enterprises. Arthur Vane, the legendary real estate billionaire, known as the “King of Manhattan”, had his eyes on Jackson. He wanted to mentor this “new billionaire”. Jackson needed to shake off his Chicago past and enter Arthur Vane’s world as a new man.
Jackson walked into Martha’s office. The smell of mold and disinfectant was the same as it had been 20 years earlier.
Martha was old now, hunched over, her hands shaking. When she saw Jackson in his Tom Ford suit, she almost dropped her teacup.
“Jackson?” she whispered hoarsely. “Are you… are you alive?”
“More than alive, Martha,” Jackson coldly placed the briefcase on the table. He opened it. Inside was the donation pledge and a pre-filled check: $50,000,000.
“I’m here to make a donation. Fifty million dollars. Enough to rebuild this prison into a paradise. In return, I want a public apology for how you kicked me out back then under the false pretense of petty theft.”
Martha looked at the check, then at Jackson. He waited for shock, regret, or even greed.
But no.
Her face drained of color. Her eyes widened in horror. She backed away, hitting the filing cabinet behind her.
“No…” She stammered. “You can’t… You shouldn’t have come back here. Take the money. Go!”
Jackson frowned. “Are you crazy? This is 50 million dollars!”
“It’ll kill you! And me!” Martha rushed forward, slammed the briefcase shut, and shoved it toward Jackson. “They said you were dead. Or you should have rot in jail. Why did you win the lottery? Why are you famous? God…”
“Who are they?” Jackson grabbed the old woman’s shoulders. “What the hell are you talking about?”
Martha trembled. She looked out the window as if afraid someone was watching, then abruptly pulled Jackson into the secret storage room behind him and locked the door.
The room was dark, lit only by the yellow light from an old desk lamp. Martha stumbled to a small safe hidden behind a pile of old blankets. She turned the combination. The safe opened, and inside was no money, just a yellow envelope covered in dust.
“Twenty years ago,” Martha said, tears streaming down her wrinkles. “The day I sent you away… it wasn’t because you stole. You were the best kid here, Jackson.”
Jackson was stunned. “Then why?”
“Because of their orders. They pay this orphanage a huge amount of money every month, not to take care of you, but to torture you. To make sure you don’t get an education, you don’t get loved, and when you turn 15 you’re out on the streets to become a criminal or starve to death.”
“Who?” Jackson’s voice roared.
Martha handed him the envelope. “Your mother left this before she… died in an accident. I hid it. If they knew it still existed, they would kill me.”
Jackson snatched the envelope. On the outside was written in neat handwriting: “To my son, when you are old enough to understand.”
He tore the envelope open. Inside was a letter and an original birth certificate.
“My dear,
If you are reading this, I apologize for not being able to protect you. Your real name is not Jackson Cole. You are Julian Vane.
Your father was an ambitious man. When I was pregnant with you, he was preparing to marry a Senator’s daughter to pave the way for a career in politics and business. The existence of you and me—a poor secretary—was a stain he needed to erase.
He didn’t want to kill you (or maybe he didn’t dare to at the time), but he wanted you to disappear from his world forever.
y. He hired someone to take you to St. Jude and I had to sign a non-disclosure agreement to keep you alive. But I know he won’t let it go.
Be careful with Arthur Vane. He’s not human, he’s evil.”
The birth certificate attached clearly stated: Father – Arthur Vane. Mother – Elena Rossi.
Jackson dropped the letter.
Arthur Vane.
The man he admired.
The man he was going to meet tomorrow in New York to sign a $200 million investment cooperation contract.
The man who smiled in Forbes magazine and said: “I don’t have a son to carry on the family line, that’s the biggest regret of my life.”
Jackson no longer flew to New York as an innocent partner. He came there as a hunter.
The Vane Tower towered over Manhattan. In the VIP meeting room on the 80th floor, Arthur Vane – a 60-year-old man with silver hair and a deadly charming smile – was waiting with a glass of whiskey in his hand.
“Jackson, my boy!” Arthur opened his arms. “Welcome to the Vane empire. I’ve seen your profile. From welder to millionaire. A story of great American courage. You remind me of my younger self.”
Jackson squeezed Arthur’s hand. He could feel the blood of the man standing before him flowing through him. Cold blood.
“Thank you, Mr. Vane,” Jackson smiled, a sharp smile. “I’ve always admired you. You’re the reason I want to rise.”
“Sit down, sit down,” Arthur pointed to the Italian leather sofa. “My lawyer has prepared the contract. You put 200 million in my investment fund, I’ll guarantee 15% annual returns, and you’ll have a seat on the Board of Directors. Together we’ll rebuild the New York skyline.”
Jackson took the contract. He flipped through the pages, pretending to read.
“Mr. Vane,” Jackson said absentmindedly. “Before I sign, I have a somewhat personal question. I hear you don’t have any children?”
Arthur’s eyes wavered for a moment, but he quickly regained his composure. “That’s true. My wife died early, and we weren’t that lucky. That’s my tragedy.”
“What a coincidence,” Jackson said. “I was an orphan. I don’t know who my father was. But recently, when I went back to my old orphanage in Chicago to do charity work, I found something interesting.”
Arthur Vane paused, his glass of wine stopping in mid-air. “Chicago? Which orphanage?”
“St. Jude,” Jackson looked him straight in the eye. “Have you ever heard of it? It seems your company has been making generous ‘donations’ to that place for 15 years.”
The air in the room thickened. The gentle smile on Arthur Vane’s face vanished, replaced by the true face of an old, ruthless shark. He set his glass down on the table, the clink of glass resounding dryly.
“What do you want, Jackson?” His voice was low and menacing.
Jackson pulled a copy of the letter and birth certificate from his vest pocket. He threw it on the table, right on top of the billion-dollar contract.
“I don’t want 15% of the profits, Father,” Jackson said. “I want to know why you paid to make your son’s life hell. I want to know why you put me out on the street at 15 to freeze to death, instead of just leaving me alone.”
Arthur picked up the paper. He didn’t tear it. He laughed.
“You’re smarter than I thought. I told that Martha bitch to burn everything.”
“Why?” Jackson yelled.
“Because you’re a risk!” Arthur stood up and walked to the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. “I was running for City Council that year. My wife, who held the family finances, wouldn’t accept a bastard child. I couldn’t kill you, it was too much of a risk. So I did something else. I wanted you to grow up stupid, poor, and a criminal. I wanted you to disappear into the prison system so no one would believe you if you ever claimed to be related.”
He turned and looked at Jackson with contempt. “But I didn’t expect you to win the lottery. Fate is a joke. Now you’re sitting here with $200 million, and what do you think you can do to me? This piece of paper is worthless in court. I have the best legal team in the world.”
Arthur Vane pressed a button on his desk.
“Guard, go see the guest off. And make sure Cole here has a little ‘accident’ on the way back.”
The door opened. But it wasn’t security that came in.
It was two FBI agents in black suits, along with the New York District Attorney.
Arthur Vane’s face changed completely. “What is this? Who gave you permission to come in here?”
Jackson stood up, buttoning his jacket. “You think I came here alone, Arthur? You think I’m naive enough to bring original evidence to the enemy’s lair?”
He pointed to the expensive fountain pen tucked into his breast pocket. A hidden camera.
“The entire conversation was live-streamed to the FBI office. And it wasn’t just about me.”
Jackson stepped closer to Arthur, who was now trembling and backing away.
“When I found out you were my father, I didn’t just find out about my past. I used $50 million in cash—the money I was planning to donate—to
“I’ve hired the best private investigators, the best forensic auditors to dig through Vane Enterprises’ files.”
Jackson threw another file down on the table.
“Money laundering, bribery, and… oh, and my mother’s car accident. It looks like the brakes were cut. The case file is closed, but I found the mechanic. He’s in dire need of money, and I have a lot of it.”
Arthur Vane slumped in his chair. His empire, the reputation he’d built for 40 years, had just crumbled in 10 minutes at the hands of the bastard son he once considered trash.
“You…” Arthur whispered. “You’re my son. You’re destroying your own legacy.”
Jackson leaned down, close to his cruel father’s ear.
“You’re wrong. My legacy isn’t this tower. My legacy is the truth.”
Six months later.
The Vane empire collapsed. Arthur Vane was serving a life sentence for murder and money laundering.
Jackson Cole stood in front of the gates of St. Jude’s Home for Boys.
Mrs. Martha had retired (after giving crucial testimony in exchange for clemency). Jackson had bought the entire property. He didn’t just fix it up. He tore it down.
On the old site, a modern boarding school was being built. A place for abandoned children, where they would be educated, loved, and taught to stand on their own two feet.
The sign in front of the school was covered with a red cloth. Jackson pulled it down.
Not his name. Not Arthur Vane’s.
The sign read: Elena Rossi Boarding School.
Jackson smiled, looking up at the bright blue Chicago sky. He kept the Aston Martin, but he knew what he would do with the money he had left. He didn’t need 200 million dollars to be happy. You just need to know who you are.
And you are Jackson Cole – son of Elena, who defeated the devil with the very coins he worshiped.
