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MidReal Story
Billionaire Bae
Scenario:Kevin Kenmore, Jr. has led a hard broken life, a poor orphan, and his girlfriend is leaving him for a richer prospect. But his fortune is about to change dramatically. Kevin inherited immense wealth from his grandfather, shocking everyone. He was the heir to one of the two only multi-Quadrillonaire families in the world. He endures constant criticism and judgment from those around him. He vowed that those who had labeled him a failure would eventually bow at his feet. Now, how will he use his new-found wealth to shape those around him, as he reclaims his life? With a new-found sense of responsibility, Kevin will get revenge on those who treated him badly. Will he succeed?
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Kevin Kenmore, Jr.
He is the son of a single mother, raised in a poor neighborhood after being abandoned by his father. He is resilient, determined, and proud. Kevin faced immense poverty and judgment but never gave up. His life took a drastic turn when he inherited a vast fortune from his deceased grandfather. Despite being labeled a failure, he proved everyone wrong. His relationship with Sarah ended due to her greed, but he remains hopeful about love. He enjoys swimming and indulges in luxury items, embracing his new lifestyle.
Grandfather
He was a wealthy patriarch who left his vast estate to Kevin. He was wise, supportive, and influential. Grandfather played a significant role in Kevin's life, helping raise him in the city while working as a businessman. His untimely death leaves Kevin unexpectedly inheriting his entire fortune, which serves as a turning point in Kevin's journey from poverty to wealth.
Lana
She is Kevin's younger sister who was adopted by a wealthy family. She is spoiled, materialistic, and selfish. Lana struggles with the idea of sharing the same social status as her older brother after he becomes wealthy. She resents him for having it all while she had to work hard for her lavish lifestyle. Her jealousy and pride lead to conflict with Kevin, highlighting their differing personalities and backgrounds.
I was born to be poor.
My dad left my mom before I was born, and my mom did her best to raise me.
She worked two jobs and did everything she could to provide for me, but we were still very poor.
I grew up in a slum neighborhood with other poor families, and while it wasn’t the worst life, it certainly wasn’t the best.
I had to fight for my food and my education, and even then, it seemed like no matter what I did, I would never be able to escape my circumstances.
People looked down on me, judged me, called me a failure before I was even eighteen.
They said I would never amount to anything, that I was doomed to live in poverty forever.
And maybe if things had gone differently, if my grandfather had passed away just a little later, they would have been right.
But he didn’t, and instead, I inherited the first multiquadrillion dollar fortune the world had ever seen.
My life changed overnight, just like that.
No one could understand how a poor boy like me could suddenly become one of the richest men in the world.
Not even my own sister could wrap her head around it.
She had been adopted by a wealthy family when she was ten, and now she had all the money she could ever want.
But for me, it was different.
I had grown up with nothing, and now I had everything.
It was a strange feeling, but I was determined to make the most of it.
I stroll down the cracked sidewalks of my former neighborhood, my Italian leather shoes clicking on the uneven pavement.
The rusted chain-link fences surrounding the yards are still covered in overgrown weeds, and the graffiti on the walls hasn’t changed in years.
It’s as if time has stood still here while I’ve been gone.
I pass by Mrs. Rodriguez’s house, and she’s still sitting on her front stoop, fanning herself with yesterday’s newspaper.
She doesn’t even look up as I walk by, probably because she doesn’t recognize me in my tailored suit and designer sunglasses.
The corner store where Mom used to buy our groceries on credit is still open, the neon sign flickering weakly in the afternoon sun.
It looks smaller than I remember, but maybe that’s just because I’ve seen so many bigger and better stores since then.
I pause at the end of the block, looking up at our old apartment building.
The paint is still peeling off the brick walls, and one of the second-floor windows is broken.
A group of kids playing basketball in the street stop to stare at me as I stand there. They’re all wearing worn-out sneakers and clothes with patches sewn into them, just like I used to wear.
One of them steps forward, eyeing me warily.
"Can we help you?" he asks gruffly.
I reach into my pocket and pull out a thick stack of hundred-dollar bills.
"Depends," I say, flipping through them casually.
"What do you need?"
Their eyes widen at the sight of all that cash, and they exchange nervous glances.
"We don’t need anything," one of them says quickly.
"Just passing through," I say with a shrug.
"Well, be careful then."
A voice calls out from behind me, and I turn to see my sister standing there, arms crossed.
"You really think throwing money around will fix everything?" she asks, her tone sharp.
I hesitate, then reply, "No, but maybe it’s a start."
I walk through the dimly lit hallway of my old apartment building, running my fingers along the cracked walls.
The super, Mr. Martinez, trails behind me as I inspect each floor.
Exposed wiring dangles from the ceiling, and the stench of mold fills my nostrils.
Through a shattered window on the third floor, I watch kids playing on the rusty fire escape outside.
Mr. Martinez explains how the landlord ignores repair requests and raises rents whenever he feels like it.
Families are forced to live in squalid conditions, with leaky faucets and broken heaters.
I pull out my phone and make a call to my lawyer, instructing him to start negotiations for purchasing the building.
"We’re going to fix this place," I tell Mr. Martinez, pointing at the broken window.
Mr. Martinez looks at me, disbelief etched on his face.
"You mean it? You're really going to buy this place?" he asks, his voice trembling with hope.
"Yes," I reply firmly, "and we're going to make it livable for everyone."
I gather the tenants in the building’s lobby, setting up folding chairs I borrowed from Mr. Martinez.
The fluorescent lights flicker overhead as families file in.
Mrs. Rodriguez comes with her three kids, the elderly Chens from 4B, and Jorge who works night shifts at the local diner.
They all sit cautiously, whispering among themselves.
I stand before them in my tailored suit, feeling out of place in my old home.
"Good evening," I begin, surveying the room.
"I'm sure you're all wondering why you've been gathered here tonight."
Heads nod, and I continue, "I have some news to share with you. I intend to buy this building and renovate it."
Gasps fill the room, followed by a flurry of questions.
"Does that mean our rents will go up?"
"What about our leases?"
"Can we stay during construction?"
I pull out my notebook and write down every concern, every suggestion.
As I speak, I notice their initial skepticism slowly give way to tentative hope.
"We'll keep your rents affordable," I assure them.
Mrs. Rodriguez raises her hand, her voice quivering slightly.
"And what about the repairs? Will you really fix everything that's broken?"
I nod, meeting her gaze with determination. "Yes, every single thing."
I sit at the polished conference table in my new office, surrounded by three contractors vying for the renovation project.
The first one, dressed in an expensive suit, suggests ripping out everything and installing high-end finishes.
"It'll be a luxury building," he says, "and you can charge top dollar."
I shake my head.
"That's not what I want. The current tenants can't afford that."
The second contractor proposes demolishing the entire building and constructing a new one from scratch.
"It'll be more efficient," he argues, "and you'll have a brand-new structure."
But I know that would displace everyone during construction.
The third contractor, Mike, speaks up last.
He has a kind face and a no-nonsense attitude.
"We can preserve the original character of the building while modernizing the essential systems," he explains.
"New wiring, plumbing, and heating. But we keep the architectural details that make this place special."
I lean forward, intrigued.
"Go on."
Mike pulls out blueprints and spreads them across the table.
"We'll start with the foundation. Make sure it's stable before we do anything else. Then we'll work our way up, floor by floor."
I study the plans, asking questions as I go.
"How will you handle tenant relocation?"
"We'll set up temporary housing within the building itself," Mike replies.
"One floor at a time. They won't have to leave their homes for long."
I check my watch and realize we've run over time.
"I'll be in touch soon," I say, standing up.
"Thank you all for coming."
I sit at my desk, reviewing Mike's proposal one last time.
The floor plans are detailed, showing how we'll upgrade each apartment while preserving the original moldings and hardwood floors.
The timeline breaks down the work into manageable phases, with clear temporary housing arrangements for each family during construction.
I'm about to call Mike when he walks through the door.
He has a large portfolio case in his hand and a smile on his face.
"Hi again," he says, extending his hand.
"I wanted to follow up and answer any remaining questions you might have."
I gesture for him to take a seat, and he opens his case, revealing samples of materials.
"These are some of the finishes we could use," he explains, holding up a piece of tile.
"It's durable and matches the building's historic character."
He pulls out a small tin square.
"This is what we'll use to restore the lobby's ceiling. It'll shine like new again."
His eyes light up as he talks about the project, and I know I've made the right decision.
"Mike," I say, reaching for the contract on my desk.
"I think you're the man for the job. Let's get started."
He sits next to me at my mahogany desk, and I hand him the contract.
He reads each page methodically, asking questions about the tenant relocation schedule and material sourcing.
The afternoon sun streams through the floor-to-ceiling windows behind us, casting a warm glow over the room.
I explain my vision for the building – to create dignified living spaces while keeping rents affordable.
Mike nods along, his eyes scanning each clause.
He pulls out his worn leather planner and begins marking important dates with a red pen.
He jots down notes in the margins, asking for clarification on certain points.
Finally, he reaches the last page.
Straightening his posture, he picks up my Mont Blanc pen from its holder.
With a flourish, he signs his name across the dotted line.
It's a signature practiced over years of hard work and dedication.
He hands the contract back to me with a smile.
"Let's build something that matters," he says, sealing our partnership with a firm handshake.
I lean against the construction fence, watching workers remove old drywall from the third floor.
The sound of hammers and drills fills the air.
Suddenly, Mike rushes over with a thick envelope in his hand.
His work boots are covered in dust, and sweat beads on his forehead.
"Look what just came in the mail," he says, unfolding the official-looking documents.
I glance at the letterhead – it's from the city's housing development department.
"The grant was approved," I exclaim, reading through the contents.
"Two million dollars for adding a community center, daycare, and rooftop garden to our renovation plans."
Mike spreads out the blueprints on a makeshift table, pointing to where we can expand the ground floor into the unused alley.
"We can knock down this wall," he explains, "and create an open space for community events. The daycare will go here, with large windows for natural light."
He pulls out his pencil and begins sketching potential layouts.
"And on the roof, we'll install raised gardens for residents to grow their own herbs and vegetables."
I grab the pencil from his hand and add another room next to the daycare.
"A computer lab," I say.
He nods, and we spread the updated blueprints across my dining room table.
The large windows of the community center will flood the space with natural light, perfect for after-school programs.
Mike points to the rooftop garden design, explaining how the reinforced structure will support raised beds and a greenhouse.
I mark specific areas with Post-it notes, jotting down questions about security systems and accessibility.
We need to address every detail before facing the tenants.
While reviewing the community center plans in my office, an elderly man in a well-worn blazer knocks on my open door.
He introduces himself as David Chen, a retired architect who lives in the building next door.
Looking at our blueprints spread across my desk, he points out potential issues with the daycare's emergency exits and suggests a better layout for the rooftop greenhouse.
His expertise is obvious as he sketches quick alternatives on tracing paper.
When he offers to volunteer his time to help perfect the designs, I notice his hands trembling slightly from age but still steady enough to draw precise lines.
I arrange to meet him at a local diner near the construction site the following day.
He's already seated at a booth when I arrive, his worn leather portfolio spread across the table.
We order coffee and he begins pulling out yellowed blueprints from past projects.
"This was a community center I designed in Brooklyn thirty years ago," he explains, his fingers tracing the lines of the old blueprints.
"Natural light and open spaces are key to making people feel welcome."
I watch as he points out details – large windows, high ceilings, and flexible room layouts.
His passion for design is evident in every sketch and explanation.
As we finish our coffee, I officially offer him a consulting position with our project.
His eyes water slightly, but he smiles, pulling out a pen from his pocket.
He signs the agreement with a steady hand, sealing our partnership and the future of our community.
