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MidReal Story
The Billionaire Orphan's Legacy
Scenario:Shane Weber has led a hard broken life, a poor orphan, and his girlfriend is leaving him for a more richer prospect. But his fortune is about to change dramatically. Shane inherited immense wealth from his grandfather, shocking everyone. He was the heir to the only multi-googolaire family in the world. He endures constant criticism and judgment from those around him. He vowed that those who labeled him a failure would eventually bow at his feet. 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, Shane will get revenge on those who mistreated him? Will he succeed?
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Shane Weber
He is a former orphan who was raised in foster care,discovering he is the heir to a multibillion dollar fortune. He is resilient,sarcastic,and determined. Shane faced immense poverty and hardship but never gave up. His life took a drastic turn when his adoptive parents kicked him out due to financial struggles. His exgirlfriend left him for someone richer. Despite criticism and judgment,Shane inherits the wealth,vowing revenge and social climb.
Helen Weber
She is Shane's adoptive mother who kicked him out when financial struggles arose. She is coldhearted,judgmental,and manipulative. Despite adopting Shane in childhood,Helen showed hostility towards him due to his povertystricken origins. Her decision to send him away once financial difficulties emerged reflects her deepseated disdain for Shane's past and perceived worth as a person based on societal standards.
Penelope
She is Shane's exgirlfriend who left him for another man due to financial reasons. She is selfish,materialistic,and shallow. Penelope valued Shane only for his potential wealth,discarding him as soon as she found someone richer. Her relationship with Shane was marked by her constant criticism and belittling of his background and lifestyle choices. She represents the societal pressures and expectations that Shane fought against.
I was an orphan and I didn't know who my parents were.
All my life I had been poor, and I didn't even have a chance to go to school.
I was raised in a foster home with other kids, and when I turned 18, I left the foster home and started working as a laborer.
My life was very harsh, but I never gave up.
I always kept laughing, no matter what happened.
One day, I met a girl named Penelope.
I fell in love with her immediately.
She was also an orphan, just like me.
We didn't know much about each other, but we did know that we both came from very poor backgrounds.
Despite our poverty, our love for each other only grew stronger with time.
Penelope was very beautiful, with long black hair and big brown eyes.
I spot Penelope at our usual coffee shop, sitting at a small table by the window.
She's wearing a new dress, and her hair is styled in a way I've never seen before.
Her designer purse is on the table next to her cup of coffee.
I know that purse isn't something she could afford on her own, so it must be a gift from someone else.
I walk over to the table and sit down across from her.
She looks up at me, but she doesn't smile.
"Hey," I say, trying to sound casual.
"Hey," she replies, fidgeting with her cup of coffee.
We sit there in silence for a moment, both of us looking at our cups of coffee instead of each other.
Finally, Penelope speaks up.
"I need to tell you something," she says, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Okay," I reply, my heart starting to race.
"I met someone else," she says, her words cutting through me like a knife.
"What?"I ask, trying to keep my voice steady. "His name is Richard," she says, her voice filled with excitement.
"He's a stockbroker. I met him when I was working as a receptionist."
"Oh," I say, feeling like I've been punched in the gut.
"He's really nice," she continues.
"He can give me the life I deserve."
I grip my cup of coffee tightly, my knuckles turning white.
"I'm happy for you," I say, trying to sound sincere.
"He's really nice," she says again.
"We go to fancy restaurants and he buys me expensive gifts. He even promised to buy me an apartment."
"That sounds great," I say, trying to keep my voice steady.
"Yes," she replies, smiling slightly.
"I'm really happy."
I watch as she gathers her purse and stands up.
The scent of her expensive perfume lingers in the air as she moves away from the table.
She pauses for a moment, perhaps waiting for me to beg her to stay, but I remain silent.
My fingers trace the rim of my now-cold coffee cup as she walks away, the sound of her heels clicking against the tile floor echoing in my ears.
Through the window, I see her climb into a sleek black BMW.
Richard's car, I assume.
As the vehicle pulls away, I pull out my worn leather wallet and count the remaining bills.
Enough for rent this week, barely.
I decide it's time to start building a life I deserve, too.
Hands trembling, I push through the glass doors of the coffee shop into the chilly afternoon.
Across the street, the job listings board stands like a beacon, plastered with colorful papers that flutter in the gentle breeze.
Each step feels heavier than the last as I dodge through traffic and make my way toward the board.
My eyes scan desperately over the postings - dishwasher needed, night security guard, warehouse worker.
The same low-paying jobs I've been stuck in for years.
I rip down three listings that seem bearable and crumple them into my jacket pocket.
As I turn to leave, a sleek black BMW cruises past, and for a moment, I catch a glimpse of Penelope's perfectly styled hair through the window.
"Hey, you okay?" a voice calls out beside me, breaking my trance.
I turn to see an older man with kind eyes, holding a stack of job listings himself.
"Not really," I admit, surprised by my own honesty.
The kind stranger nods sympathetically.
"Sorry to hear that. Maybe you'll find something here."
He gestures toward the board, and I turn back, shoulders slumping.
My fingers brush past the crumpled listings in my pocket - more dead-end jobs that won't change anything.
A sudden gust of wind whips down the street, rattling the papers on the board.
That's when I see it, partially hidden behind a torn restaurant flyer: "Creative Director needed at Weber Industries. Salary: $150,000+."
My heart races as I read the requirements.
Despite my lack of formal education, the role emphasizes innovative thinking and raw talent.
With trembling fingers, I carefully peel back the flyer, revealing the full posting.
With trembling fingers, I pull out my worn notebook and cheap ballpoint pen from my jacket pocket.
The Creative Director listing at Weber Industries feels like a mirage that could vanish any second.
I write down every detail: the phone number, email, office address, and application requirements.
The kind stranger peers over my shoulder, nodding encouragingly.
A car horn blares nearby, making me jump, but I stay focused on getting every digit right.
This single piece of paper could change everything.
I walk home, the job listing clutched tightly in my pocket.
My footsteps echo on the cracked sidewalk of my run-down neighborhood.
As I approach my apartment door, I notice an official-looking envelope that had been slipped underneath.
The return address reads "Morrison & Associates, Attorneys at Law."
Curiosity piqued, I open it and pull out a formal letter.
The words blur together on the page as I read about a biological grandfather I never knew.
William Weber has passed away, leaving behind a fortune and a legacy.
Trembling, I read the final line: I'm his sole heir.
The letter requests my presence at their office tomorrow morning to discuss my inheritance.
I pace my tiny studio apartment all night, unable to sleep.
The letterhead's embossed gold text catches the dim light from my bedside lamp.
I reread the words for the hundredth time, as if they might change.
My phone glows 3:47 AM.
My only suit, bought second-hand for job interviews, hangs pressed on the bathroom door.
I lay out my documents: birth certificate, driver's license, social security card.
The letter mentioned bringing identification.
Every few minutes, I touch the papers to make sure they're real.
At 4:15 AM, I give up on sleep and start brewing coffee.
I leave my apartment at 6:30 AM, two hours before the scheduled meeting.
The Morrison & Associates building towers over me - all glass and steel, nothing like the rundown buildings I'm used to.
In the lobby, I study the directory.
The "William Weber Memorial Conference Room" is on the top floor.
A security guard eyes my worn suit suspiciously but lets me through.
I find an empty bench in the courtyard and pull out my phone.
I type "William Weber" into the search bar.
Articles fill the screen: business empire, philanthropy, and his recent death.
Each new detail about my grandfather makes my hands tremble more.
I step into the mirrored elevator, pressing the button for floor 50.
My reflection shows every flaw in my secondhand suit - the slightly frayed cuff, the shine at the elbows, the crooked tie I spent twenty minutes adjusting.
Two executives in pristine suits enter, giving me a quick, dismissive glance before huddling in the corner.
Their voices drop to a whisper, their words indistinguishable.
The elevator climbs past floor 30, each number ticking by in silence.
The men's Rolex watches catch the light from above.
My hands grow clammy around the letter in my pocket.
At floor 45, the doors open and the executives step out.
"Good luck," one of them says over his shoulder before the doors close again.
The elevator continues its ascent.
Each floor brings me closer to a life I never imagined possible.
Finally, it stops on floor 50.
I step out, ready to claim a future I never saw coming.
I follow the receptionist's directions down a marble hallway lined with oil paintings of men in suits.
The soft carpet muffles my footsteps, a stark contrast to the echoing halls of my apartment building.
Glass walls reveal offices where executives in tailored suits sit at mahogany desks, discussing business over steaming cups of coffee.
The air is thick with the scent of freshly brewed coffee and the distant hum of computers.
I clutch the letter tightly, the crinkle of the paper against my palm a reminder of my purpose here.
The room numbers tick by - 5001, 5002, 5003.
Outside room 5004, I pause, smoothing my wrinkled jacket and adjusting my secondhand tie for what feels like the hundredth time.
A brass nameplate reads "William Weber Estate Meeting."
Taking a deep breath, I reach for the door handle.
Inside, a woman with sharp eyes and a tailored suit looks up from her tablet.
"You're here for the reading of the will, I presume?" she asks, her voice crisp and professional.
"Yes," I reply, my voice barely steady, "I just found out yesterday that William Weber was my grandfather."
She nods, gesturing for me to take a seat.
I step into the opulent conference room, where polished mahogany and floor-to-ceiling windows dwarf my presence.
The woman, Ms. Morrison herself according to the nameplate on her desk, examines my letter with practiced precision while I lower myself into the leather chair.
The seat's pristine surface creaks under my weight, making me hyperaware of my ill-fitting suit.
She types something into her tablet, then slides a thick folder across the table.
"Your grandfather's personal effects," she explains, opening it to reveal a photograph of a distinguished elderly man with familiar eyes - my eyes.
The weight of legacy settles on my shoulders as I finally understand the path laid before me.
Ms. Morrison slides a sealed envelope across the polished conference table.
"This is a personal letter from your grandfather," she says, her voice tinged with a mix of formality and compassion.
"Please, take your time reading it."
My hands tremble as I break the wax seal bearing the Weber family crest.
The letter unfolds, revealing pages of elegant handwriting.
As I read, tears well up in my eyes.
My grandfather's words spill onto the page, a testament to his love and regret.
He writes about how he secretly watched over me all these years, documenting my struggles and resilience through private investigators.
He speaks of his pride in the man I've become, despite the hardships we both faced.
The letter ends with his final wish - to leave everything he has to me, his sole heir.
I look up at Ms. Morrison, my voice barely above a whisper.
"What does this mean?"
She offers a gentle smile.
"It means you are now the wealthiest heir in history. Your grandfather's assets amount to $400 googol, including companies, properties, and investments around the world." The room spins as I try to comprehend the magnitude of what she's saying.
I think back to Penelope's cruel words: "You're worthless."
But now, I'm anything but.
Ms. Morrison presents me with official documents outlining my inheritance.
I grip the armrests of my chair tightly as I sign each page with steady determination.
I lean forward in the leather chair, still trying to wrap my head around the staggering amount of money.
"What do I need to do first?"
I ask Ms. Morrison.
She pulls out another thick folder labeled 'Weber Estate Management Protocol' and begins to explain.
"First, we'll set up secure banking access for you. Then, you'll meet with the family's financial advisors to go over the corporate holdings and investments. We'll also arrange a tour of the properties and businesses around the world."
She pulls out a small notebook and begins to list off locations - New York, London, Tokyo, Paris, Dubai.
My own worn notebook seems pathetic in comparison.
"These are just a few of the places you'll need to visit," she explains.
"The Weber family has interests in everything from real estate to technology. You'll need to review each company and decide if you want to keep or sell them."
As she speaks, she slides a sleek tablet across the table.
"This contains a complete portfolio overview. I recommend reviewing it carefully before making any decisions."
I nod, taking the tablet and flipping through the pages.
The sheer scope of my grandfather's empire is overwhelming.
I see companies I've never heard of, investments in cutting-edge technology, and properties worth millions.
Ms. Morrison notices my confusion and smiles sympathetically.
"It's a lot to take in," she says.
"But don't worry, you'll have plenty of time to learn about each company and make informed decisions." She pauses, studying me intently.
"There is one more thing," she says finally.
"The position you were offered at Weber Industries - Creative Director? It wasn't just a coincidence. Your grandfather arranged for you to be offered that job as a way of testing your potential. He wanted to see if you had what it took to run his empire."
My eyes widen in surprise as I realize the extent of my grandfather's planning.
"He knew all along," I say, my voice barely above a whisper.
Ms. Morrison nods.
"Yes, he did. And he was very proud of you."
I sit back in my chair, trying to process everything I've learned.
My life has changed forever, and I'm not sure if I'm ready for the challenge ahead.
But with Ms. Morrison's guidance and support, I know I can do this.
I follow Ms. Morrison through the building's private elevator, which leads us to the executive garage.
A sleek black Mercedes is waiting, its engine purring softly.
The driver, a man named James with a crisp suit and a stern expression, opens the door for us.
As we settle into the plush leather seats, Ms. Morrison briefs me on what to expect at the New York headquarters.
"It's a 100-story glass tower in the heart of Manhattan," she explains.
"The entire building is owned by Weber Industries, and it houses our global operations."
She hands me a tablet with detailed floor plans and executive profiles.
"This will give you an idea of who you'll be working with," she says.
I glance through the documents, my mind racing with questions.
"What exactly will I be doing?" I ask.
Ms. Morrison smiles.
"As CEO, you'll be responsible for making key decisions and overseeing the company's direction. But don't worry, you'll have plenty of support from our team of experts."
I nod, feeling a mix of excitement and nerves.
"What if I don't know anything about running a company?"
I ask.
Ms. Morrison chuckles.
"Your grandfather left video tutorials explaining every aspect of the business. You'll have access to all of that information."
The car pulls up to JFK airport, and James opens the door for us.
We make our way to the private jet terminal, where our plane is waiting on the tarmac.
As we board the jet, I turn to Ms. Morrison with a lingering doubt.
"Why did my grandfather choose me, though? There must have been others more qualified."
She looks at me with a steady gaze, her voice firm yet reassuring.
"He believed in your potential and your heart. He saw qualities in you that couldn't be taught or bought."
I sink into the leather seat, still trying to process everything that's happened this morning.
Ms. Morrison hands me a glass of water and begins to review the day's itinerary on her tablet.
Through the window, I watch as ground crew members scurry around the plane, performing their pre-flight checks with practiced efficiency.
The cabin is sleek and modern, all chrome and mahogany.
It's a far cry from my cramped studio apartment, where I've spent countless nights sleeping on a lumpy mattress.
The flight attendant offers me champagne, but I decline.
I need a clear head for what's ahead.
Instead, I pull out my grandfather's letter and read it again as the engines start to hum.
Ms. Morrison glances over, noticing my furrowed brow.
"Is there something in the letter that concerns you?" she asks gently.
I hesitate, then nod. "He mentioned a secret project, something he never completed."