My father publicly humiliated me at my own wedding by tossing Grandpa’s gift—a faded passbook—into a tub of ice. I took it to the bank anyway. The moment the teller saw the balance, she whispered, trembling: “Do not walk out of this branch.”
Chapter 1: The Cold Stone at the Wedding
My wedding, Leo Vance’s, was held at the prestigious Greenwich Country Club. It was a meticulously planned event, not to bless Sarah and me, but to flaunt the power of my father – Richard Vance, CEO of Vance Investments.
Richard stood on the stage, microphone in hand, his face flushed red from expensive champagne. He always liked to be the center of attention.
“Today,” my father said loudly, his voice echoing throughout the opulent hall. “My son is getting married. I’ve given him a penthouse in Manhattan. I’ve given him a Porsche.”
Applause erupted. I stood beside Sarah, forcing a smile. I knew those gifts weren’t in my name. They were in his company’s name, and I was only allowed to use them if I behaved well.
“But,” my father continued, a smirk playing on his lips, pulling a small, old object from his jacket pocket. “There’s someone else who sent a gift too. Your grandfather, Arthur.”
The atmosphere became somber. Everyone knew how much my grandfather Arthur and my father hated each other. My grandfather was the founder of the corporation, but he lived a simple, austere life, a complete contrast to my father’s extravagance. My grandfather had passed away six months ago, and his will remained a mystery.
“The old lawyer gave this to me this morning, saying my grandfather instructed me to give it to you personally at the wedding,” my father said contemptuously.
He held up a moss-green savings passbook, its cover worn and yellowed. A handwritten passbook from the 1980s that nobody used anymore.
“A savings passbook,” my father burst out laughing. “Probably the old man’s meager pension. Leo, look, what was your grandfather going to do with this? Buy candy?”
I stepped forward to take his memento. I loved my grandfather. He was the only one in the family who truly cared about me.
But my father pulled his hand back.
“Trash,” he said. “It’s ruining this fancy wedding.”
And in front of 300 guests, my father tossed the passbook into a large ice bucket filled with bottles of Dom Pérignon Champagne.
Splash.
The passbook sank into the icy water, trapped between the thousand-dollar bottles.
“Leave it there,” my father ordered as I lunged forward. “Let it get cold like your fatherly affection. Don’t disgrace me, Leo. Smile.”
I stood frozen. Humiliation burned my face. Sarah gripped my hand, her eyes brimming with tears of anger.
I looked at my father. This man had never respected me, and now he was trampling on his deceased father’s last wishes.
I pushed Sarah’s hand away. I didn’t laugh. I didn’t argue.
I walked to the ice basin. I plunged my hand into the icy water, pushed the bottles aside, and pulled out the soaking wet passbook. Water dripped down onto my groom’s suit.
“Excuse me,” I said, my voice colder than the ice basin. “The party is over.”
I took Sarah’s hand, and we walked out of our own wedding, leaving behind my father’s shouting and cursing and the stunned guests.
Chapter 2: The Old Wall Street Bank
The next morning.
Sarah and I sat in the car, parked in front of the headquarters of the First National Trust Bank on Wall Street. It was an old, privately owned bank that had served only America’s wealthiest families for generations.
The passbook had been dried overnight. It was crumpled and ugly, but the handwriting inside was still legible. Account holder names: Arthur Vance & Leo Vance.
“Are you sure?” Sarah asked. “There might only be a few hundred dollars in there. Your father said your grandfather donated it all to charity.”
“I don’t care about the amount,” I said. “This is the last thing he left me. I want to know what he meant.”
I walked into the bank. The interior exuded an air of ancient grandeur with its marble floors and brass teller counters.
I approached an empty counter.
“Good morning,” I said to the teller, a middle-aged woman whose name on the board read Mrs. Higgins. “I’d like to check the balance of this passbook.”
I pushed the crumpled passbook through the glass.
Mrs. Higgins looked at the passbook skeptically. “Sir, we digitized all our data from 2000. These kinds of passbooks… are rarely useful anymore.”
“Please,” I said patiently. “My name is Leo Vance. This is my grandfather’s passbook.”
She sighed, put on her glasses, and began typing the faded account numbers into the computer.
At first, her expression was calm, a little bored.
But then, her fingers froze.
She blinked. She leaned closer to the screen. She took off her glasses, wiped them, put them back on, and looked closely again.
Her complexion changed from rosy to pale. Her lips trembled.
She looked up at me. That wasn’t the contempt my father had shown. It was a look of utter horror and awe.
She pressed a mute button under the desk.
“Mr. Vance,” she whispered, her voice trembling, almost breathless. “Don’t leave this branch. Please. Stay right where you are.”
“What’s wrong?” I asked anxiously. “Has the account been closed?”
“No… no…” she stammered. ”
“It’s just… I’m not in a position to speak to you anymore.”
Two large security guards suddenly appeared behind me. I jumped. “Hey! I haven’t done anything wrong!”
“They’re here to protect you, sir,” Mrs. Higgins said quickly.
A large oak door behind the counter swung open. A man in a luxurious three-piece suit, with silver hair, strode out. It was Mr. Sterling, the bank’s chairman. I’d seen him on television before.
Mr. Sterling walked straight to me, ignoring all the other VIP clients waiting. He bowed to me—a deep, respectful bow.
“Leo Vance,” Mr. Sterling said, his voice trembling. “We’ve been waiting for you for 20 years.” “Please come into the safe.”
Chapter 3: Secrets in the Underground
Sarah and I were led down to the bank’s most secure underground vault. Mr. Sterling placed my soaking wet passbook on the mahogany table.
“Do you know what this passbook is?” Mr. Sterling asked.
“Grandpa’s savings passbook?”
“It’s not just a savings passbook,” Mr. Sterling smiled mysteriously. “This is a Compound Interest Escrow Account, created in 1980, right when you were born. But more importantly, it’s the only key to activating the Vance Group’s ‘Phoenix Protocol’.”
“I don’t understand,” I shook my head.
Mr. Sterling opened his secure laptop, turning the screen toward me.
“Your father, Richard, always thought he was the owner of the Vance Group after your grandfather retired. But in reality, Arthur never transferred his original voting shares.” “He only transferred the management rights.”
Mr. Sterling pointed to the numbers on the screen.
“The entire 51% controlling stake in the Vance Group, plus the accumulated dividends over the past 40 years, is held in this account. Mr. Arthur established a fiduciary clause: This asset will remain dormant, its existence unknown, until…”
Mr. Sterling picked up the ledger.
“…Until the true heir – you – personally brings this original ledger to the bank. Mr. Arthur instructed: ‘If the boy keeps this ledger, it means he cherishes the past.'” If he throws away the notebook because he thinks it’s old and tattered, he doesn’t deserve it.
I remembered my father throwing the notebook into a bucket of ice. He had unknowingly thrown away his true power.
“So… what’s the balance?” Sarah asked, her voice trembling.
Mr. Sterling pressed Enter.
A long string of numbers appeared. I had to count the zeros.
$2,450,000,000.00 USD (Two billion four hundred and fifty million dollars).
And with that came ultimate ownership of the Vance Corporation.
“Leo,” Mr. Sterling said. “The moment you walked into this bank, the system automatically triggered the transfer. You are now not the CEO’s son. You are the Chairman of the Board.” “You have the right to fire your father immediately.”
Chapter 4: The Twist of Punishment
My phone rang. It was my father.
“You little brat!” my father yelled into the phone. “You dare leave the wedding? I’ll cut all your credit cards! I’ll take back the house! You’ll be crawling back begging for my forgiveness!”
“Dad,” I said, my voice strangely calm. “Where are you?”
“I’m at the company! I’m in a meeting to remove your name from the will!”
“Good,” I said. “Stay put. I’ll be there. And remember to keep that bucket of ice from yesterday.” “I think you’ll need it, Dad.”
An hour later.
I walked into the Vance Group’s boardroom. I was still wearing the same suit from yesterday, still stained with dried water.
My father was sitting at the head of the table, surrounded by the directors. Seeing me, he jumped up.
“Security! Who let this guy in here?”
No one moved.
Mr. Sterling entered after me, accompanied by a large team of lawyers.
“Richard Vance,” Mr. Sterling said emphatically. “You no longer have the authority to give orders here.”
“What the hell are you talking about, Sterling? Your bank is just a partner…”
“No,” I interrupted. I tossed the crumpled passbook onto the polished table, it sliding across my father’s face.
“Do you remember this?”
My father looked at the passbook, then at me, and then laughed. “This rag again?” “Are you here to beg for loose change?”
“Open the last page, Dad,” I said.
My father snorted, roughly picking up the ledger. He flipped to the last page.
There, newly printed this morning by the bank, was the ownership confirmation: Owner of 51% of shares: Leo Vance.
My father’s face turned from red to purple, then white. His hands trembled, dropping the ledger.
“This… this is fake…” he stammered.
“It’s real,” Mr. Sterling asserted. “Mr. Arthur played a game of chess for 40 years. And you, Richard, lost on the very last move when you threw your father’s legacy into the trash.”
I walked to the head of the table.
“You said I embarrassed you,” I looked him straight in the eye. “You used money to control me, to trample on me and my mother (who died of depression due to your coldness).” “Dad thinks money is everything.”
“Leo… son…” My father’s voice changed, sweat pouring down his face. “I just… I just wanted to teach you to be tough. All of this… sooner or later it will all be yours.”
“It’s me. We’re family.”
“No,” I shook my head. “Families don’t throw each other’s mementos into the ice.”
I turned to the board members, who were watching with bated breath.
“As the largest shareholder, I make my first decision: Remove Richard Vance from his position as CEO. Reason: Lack of ethical competence and risk management.”
“You can’t do that! I’m your father!” Richard yelled.
“And I also request a full audit of Richard’s personal assets,” I continued coldly. “Repossess the penthouse, the Porsche, and all the corporate assets he’s misusing.”
Two security guards approached. Not to arrest me, but to “escort” my father out.
“Leo! Don’t do that!” “Dad, please!”
I watched my father being dragged away, just as he had driven me out of his life for so many years.
Chapter 4: The Value of an Old Passbook
I stood in the CEO’s office, looking down at the bustling Manhattan.
Sarah came over and took my hand. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I said.
On my desk lay the old passbook. It was ugly, crumpled, but to me, it was more beautiful than any gold bar.
Grandfather didn’t just leave me money. He left me a character test. He knew my father would never appreciate things that looked ordinary. He knew only someone who truly loved him would cherish that passbook.
I picked up the passbook and carefully tucked it into my breast pocket, close to my heart.
“What are we going to do with this money?” Sarah asked.
“First,” I smiled. “I’m going to buy back the club in Greenwich.” And he’ll rename it Arthur’s Place. It won’t serve champagne to the snobbish anymore. It’ll be a free community center for seniors.
And my father? He’ll have to learn to live off his real pension. Perhaps he’ll realize that when the ice melts, what remains isn’t expensive bottles of wine, but the things we’ve cherished.
I stepped out of the building, breathing in the free air. In my pocket, the savings passbook seemed to radiate my grandfather’s warmth.
