Share
MidReal Story
The Billionaire Orphan's Revenge
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?
Create my version of this story
Shane Weber
He is a former orphan who was raised in foster care, labeled as "unruly" and "ungrateful." He is resilient, determined, and sarcastic. After being treated poorly by others, Shane inherits a vast fortune from his unknown billionaire grandfather. Despite being labeled a failure, he successfully builds his own wealth. His exgirlfriend returns, and he must navigate his new life of wealth while remembering his harsh beginnings. He remains fiercely independent, often using humor to mask vulnerability.
Grandfather
He is Shane's wealthy grandfather who secretly raised him from infancy without revealing their connection to Shane. He is wise, protective, and secretive. The grandfather leaves Shane a vast fortune after passing away, which changes his life dramatically. His decision to remain anonymous to Shane influences Shane's journey of selfdiscovery and resilience. The grandfather's actions indirectly shape Shane's determination to succeed against all odds and create a new life based on personal strength rather than inherited privilege.
Lindsey
She is Shane's exgirlfriend who left him for someone wealthier. She is materialistic, selfish, and manipulative. Lindsey tries to return to Shane after realizing her mistake. She wants a part of his new wealth, despite her past treatment of Shane being callous and dismissive. Her attempts to reconcile with Shane are fraught with tension and old arguments. Lindsey's desire for financial security overrides any emotional loyalty or empathy she once claimed for Shane.
I was an orphan, a foster kid.
I had been told all my life that I was useless, that I would never amount to anything, that I was just a waste of space.
"Look at you!
You’re so fucking broken!"
The words cut through me like a knife.
I heard them in my sleep, I heard them when I was awake, they were always there, following me wherever I went.
"You will never be more!
You will never have more!
You are fucking nothing!"
I was a failure, or so they said.
But the joke is on them because now I have more money than they could ever dream of having.
It’s their worst nightmare.
The whole world is upside down and I am laughing as I watch them scramble to get to my side.
They all want a piece of me now.
My exgirlfriend even came crawling back, acting like nothing ever happened between us.
But I’m not buying it.
Not one bit.
"I love you Shane," Lindsey said as she tried to climb into my lap.
I looked at her with disgust as I pushed her away from me.
She was the main reason I knew I wasn’t loved for who I was.
She left me for someone who had more money than me.
I stand up from the leather couch, my movements deliberate and controlled.
Lindsey’s perfume, once intoxicating, now nauseates me.
She reaches for my arm, her manicured nails grazing my sleeve, but I shrug her off without a word.
My footsteps echo across the marble floor of my new penthouse as I walk toward the floor-to-ceiling windows.
The city lights twinkle below, reminding me of all the nights I spent alone after she left.
I hear her heels clicking behind me, her voice rising with desperate explanations.
Without turning around, I press the elevator button and listen to the soft ding announcing its arrival.
"Shane, please, I made a mistake," Lindsey pleaded, her voice cracking with a vulnerability I hadn't heard before.
"A mistake that cost me everything, Lindsey," I replied, finally meeting her gaze, my eyes cold and unyielding.
"But you have everything now," she insisted, desperation lacing her words as the elevator doors slid open.
I watch her reflection in the polished elevator doors, her mascara starting to run, leaving streaks of black down her cheeks.
She makes one final attempt to stop me, her hand shooting forward just as I step inside.
But I’m too quick, pressing the lobby button before she can reach the doors.
They slide shut, and I catch a glimpse of her last expression—a mix of greed and panic that confirms everything I suspected about her true intentions.
The elevator descends smoothly, each floor a countdown away from the toxic relationship that nearly consumed me.
My phone buzzes with incoming texts from Lindsey, but I delete them without reading, determined not to give her another moment of my time.
The doors open into the marble lobby, where the doorman nods respectfully as I pass by.
"Mr. Shane, everything alright?" the doorman asked, noticing the tension in my stride.
"Just leaving behind some old baggage," I replied, my voice steady and resolute.
"Understood, sir," he nodded, a knowing look in his eyes as he held the door open for me.
I walk past the high-end boutiques lining Fifth Avenue, their window displays glittering with luxury items Lindsey once coveted.
My footsteps echo against the empty sidewalk, the city lights casting long shadows behind me.
I pull out my phone, scrolling through my contacts until I find the number I need.
The same lawyer who helped me secure my inheritance can now help me ensure Lindsey never gets near my assets again.
I pause at a street corner, watching late-night traffic flow past.
A sleek black car pulls up to the curb, and my driver steps out, having tracked my location through the GPS on my phone.
He opens the door for me, and I slide into the backseat, giving him his next instructions.
"Take me to the law office. I know he’s working late."
"Of course, Mr. Shane," the driver replied, closing the door with a firm click.
As the car glided through the city streets, I leaned back and closed my eyes, feeling the weight of finality settle over me.
Tonight would mark the end of one chapter and the beginning of another, one where I was finally free.
The law office's glass doors slide open with a soft whoosh, welcoming me into the marble-floored lobby.
My lawyer, Mr. Harrison, stands by the reception desk, his tie loosened and his jacket draped casually over his arm—a sign of the late hour.
He extends a hand, and I shake it firmly before we step into the elevator.
We ride up to his office in silence, the only sound the soft hum of the elevator.
Once inside, he motions for me to take a seat by his desk as he retrieves a stack of papers from a nearby file cabinet.
He spreads them out on the polished surface, revealing restraining order forms and documents for asset protection.
"Tell me what’s been going on," he says, his pen poised over a notepad.
I recount Lindsey’s recent appearances at my office and her attempts to contact me through various means.
He takes meticulous notes as I speak, occasionally interjecting with questions to clarify the details.
Once I’ve finished, he hands me each document to sign.
The weight of the pen feels heavy in my hand as I sign each form, but with every stroke of my signature, I feel Lindsey’s presence lifting further away from my life. When I’m done signing, Mr. Harrison files copies in a cabinet behind his desk and hands me my set of documents.
"These will be submitted to the court first thing tomorrow morning," he assures me as we stand to leave.
I shake his hand firmly, gathering the copies he’s prepared for me.
"Thank you, Mr. Harrison. I appreciate your promptness."
We walk through the quiet hallway of the law office, our footsteps echoing off the walls.
As we approach the elevator, I pull out my phone to check the time.
There are more missed calls from Lindsey, but I ignore them, knowing that with these documents, her attempts to reach me will soon be futile.
The elevator takes us back down to the lobby, and as we step out, I nod my gratitude to Mr. Harrison once more before heading toward the glass doors that lead back into the city night.
The cool air greets me as I exit the building, a refreshing contrast to the tension that had built up inside.
The marble lobby is dimly lit now, with only a few late-night security guards patrolling the area.
My footsteps echo against the polished floor as I make my way toward the glass doors that lead out onto Fifth Avenue.
The driver is waiting for me outside, standing by the car with the door open.
I slide into the backseat and place the folder of documents carefully beside me on the leather seat.
As I settle in, I take one last look at Lindsey’s number on my phone before blocking it completely.
With a deep breath, I instruct the driver to take me home, ready to reclaim my life.
I lean back against the leather seat, watching streams of yellow taxis flow past my window.
The manila envelope from Mr. Harrison's office sits heavy beside me, filled with the restraining orders and legal protections that will keep Lindsey away.
My driver, James, navigates through a sea of brake lights as I scroll through my newly peaceful phone notifications.
No more desperate texts or missed calls from her.
At the next red light, James glances in the rearview mirror.
"Would you like to stop for dinner, Mr. Shane?"
I consider it for a moment before shaking my head.
The thought of food doesn't appeal to me right now.
Too many memories of fancy restaurants Lindsey begged me to take her to flood my mind.
"Take the long way home," I instruct instead.
"Let’s go through Central Park."
The city lights reflect off the glassy surface of the lake as we drive through the park.
Through the car window, I notice someone sitting alone on a park bench near the lake.
It's a woman with her back to me, but something about her seems familiar.
She's dressed in worn jeans and a thin jacket, and she's reading a paperback under the glow of a streetlight.
I tell James to stop the car, and he pulls over to the side of the road.
The woman doesn't seem to notice us as I roll down my window.
She turns the page of her book, her hair falling across her face.
And then she looks up, and I see her face clearly for the first time.
It's Sarah.
Sarah from the orphanage.
The girl who used to share her lunch with me when I had nothing to eat.
The one who dreamed of becoming a writer someday.
I haven't seen her in fifteen years, not since she aged out of the system and disappeared from my life. My hand hovers over the door handle as I consider getting out of the car.
I can hear the sound of children playing in the distance, their laughter carrying through the night air.
I look back at Sarah, who is still engrossed in her book.
She looks thin, like she hasn’t been eating well.
Her clothes are tattered and worn, and there’s a look of exhaustion on her face that breaks my heart.
I gather up the papers from Mr. Harrison's office and place them carefully on the seat beside me.
The restraining order forms crinkle softly as I move them, reminding me of everything I've just left behind.
But right now, all I can think about is Sarah and how much she needs help.
I open the car door and step out, my shoes crunching softly on the gravel path.
"Sarah?" I call gently, not wanting to startle her.
She looks up, eyes widening in recognition, and whispers, "Shane? Is that really you?"
I approach her slowly, giving her time to process my presence.
Her eyes are wide with shock as I sit down on the bench beside her.
The wooden slats creak under my weight, and she flinches slightly, like she's not used to being close to anyone anymore.
She sets her book aside, and I notice that it's a tattered paperback, held together with scraps of tape and hope.
Her coat is threadbare, and her hands are cold even in the middle of summer.
"Shane," she says again, this time with more certainty.
"It really is you."
I smile softly and open my arms for a hug.
For a moment, she hesitates, like she's not sure if she should trust me.
But then she leans into me, and I can feel how thin and fragile she's become.
She trembles slightly against me, and I hold her tighter, trying to convey all the comfort and safety I can muster. When we pull apart, there are tears in her eyes.
"Shane," she whispers again, touching the sleeve of my expensive suit jacket like it's a foreign material.
"What are you doing here?"
I gesture toward the car waiting by the curb.
"I was just driving home when I saw you," I explain.
"I couldn't believe it was really you."
She nods slowly, still looking at me like a ghost from her past.
"Me neither," she admits.
"I never thought I'd see you again."
We sit there in silence for a moment, the only sound being the distant laughter of children playing in the park and the hum of James waiting patiently in the car.
Finally, Sarah speaks up again.
"Shane?" she asks hesitantly.
"What happened to you? You look so different."
I smile wryly, knowing that appearances can be deceiving.
"I made a lot of changes," I tell her simply. "I got a job as an investment banker," I explain.
"And then I started my own company. It did really well."
Sarah nods slowly, taking it all in.
"You look happy," she says finally.
"But what about you? What happened after you left the orphanage?"
Sarah takes a deep breath before answering.
"I tried to find a job," she admits quietly.
"But no one would hire me without any experience. So I ended up working odd jobs here and there."
I listen intently as Sarah tells me about how hard it's been for her since leaving the orphanage.
I gesture toward my waiting car.
"Come on," I say gently.
"Let me give you a ride home."
But Sarah shakes her head, her eyes darting away nervously.
"No, no, it's okay," she insists.
"I don't want to impose."
She clutches her tattered book closer to her chest, like it's the only thing she has left.
I remember how she used to do this at the orphanage - always making excuses for why she didn't need help, even when it was obvious that she did.
I sigh softly, knowing that I can't force her to accept my help if she doesn't want it.
"Okay," I say finally.
"But promise me you'll be careful out here tonight."
Sarah nods slowly, still staring at the ground.
"I will," she promises quietly.
As I stand up to leave, James steps out of the car and opens the back door for me.
He gives Sarah a friendly smile before returning to his seat behind the wheel. Sarah stares at her worn sneakers, her shoulders slumped in defeat.
I can tell that she's struggling to keep it together, but I also know that she won't let me help her if she thinks it's charity.
So instead, I try a different approach.
"Hey," I say gently, crouching down in front of her so we're at eye level.
"Do you remember that little diner we used to go to when we were kids?"
Sarah looks up at me curiously, and I can see a glimmer of recognition in her eyes.
"You mean the one where we used to dream about being writers?" she asks softly.
I nod, smiling at the memory.
"That's the one," I confirm.
"Well, it's still there. And they still have those amazing burgers we used to love so much."
Sarah looks uncertain for a moment before finally nodding slowly.
"Okay," she says quietly.
"I could use a good burger right about now." "Great," I say with a smile.
"Why don't we grab some dinner there first? And then I'll drive you home afterward."
Sarah nods again, this time with more confidence.
"Okay," she agrees softly.
I offer her my hand and help her up from the bench.
As we walk toward the car, I know this is just the beginning.
Inside the dimly lit diner, Sarah picks at her fries while I watch her hands shake slightly.
The smell of grease and coffee wafts through the air, familiar and comforting.
I remember how we used to share a single plate of fries between us, savoring every bite.
Now, she has her own plate, but she's still hesitant to eat.
When the waitress comes by to refill our cups, Sarah flinches slightly, her shoulders tensing up.
But I just smile at the waitress and wave away her attempt to pay for our meals.
"It's on me," I tell her with a wink.
She smiles back and moves on to the next table.
Sarah looks at me uncertainly, like she's not used to people treating her kindly anymore.
"Thanks," she says softly, picking at her fries again.
"So, what have you been up to all these years?"
I ask gently, trying to keep the conversation light.
She shrugs, avoiding my eyes.
"Just trying to survive," she admits quietly.
"I never finished my novel."
I nod sympathetically, remembering how much writing meant to her when we were kids.
"Well, maybe it's time to pick it up again," I suggest gently. She looks at me skeptically, like she doesn't believe it's possible anymore.
"I don't know," she says softly.
"I've been so busy just trying to make ends meet."
I take a sip of my coffee and wait for her to continue.
"Tell me about your story," I say gently.
"What was it about again?"
Sarah takes a deep breath before answering, like she's not sure if she should trust me with her dreams anymore.
"It's about a girl who grows up in an orphanage," she explains quietly.
"She always dreamed of being a writer one day."
I nod encouragingly as Sarah starts telling me more about her characters and plot twists.
As she talks, I can see the passion in her eyes growing stronger again, like a fire reigniting inside of her. "You should finish it," I tell her seriously when she finally stops talking.
"You have so much talent."
Sarah looks at me uncertainly, like she doesn't know if she believes me anymore.
"I don't know," she says softly again.
"I haven't written anything in years."
I reach into my pocket and pull out one of my business cards.
It's embossed with my name and title in fancy letters - Shane Weber, CEO of Weber Investments Inc.
I pull a leather-bound notebook and a Mont Blanc pen from my briefcase and slide them across the table to her.
She stares at them like they might disappear at any moment, her coffee growing cold beside her half-eaten burger.
When she finally touches the cover of the notebook, her fingers tremble slightly.
"Write the first sentence," I tell her gently.
"The one about the girl who becomes a writer."
She uncaps the pen slowly, opens to the first blank page, and starts writing in careful strokes.
As she writes, I can see her shoulders relaxing, like she's finally coming home to herself again.
I watch her pen move hesitantly at first, scratching out a few words before stopping.
Her shoulders remain tense as she stares at the page, but then something changes.
Her hand starts moving again, faster this time, the expensive pen gliding across the cream pages.
The diner's fluorescent lights catch the growing excitement in her eyes as she fills line after line.
She doesn't notice when the waitress refills our coffee cups or when a truck backfires outside.
I stay quiet, letting her write, remembering how she used to scribble stories in worn notebooks at the orphanage.
After a while, she looks up at me, her eyes bright with a mix of fear and hope.
"Do you really think I can do this?" she asks, her voice barely above a whisper.
I nod, leaning forward earnestly. "Sarah, you've always had it in you. It's just time to let the world see it."
I watch her carefully place the notebook in her worn bag, making sure it's secure.
The diner's fluorescent lights cast harsh shadows on her thin face, but determination has replaced the earlier desperation in her eyes.
When she mentions finding a publisher, I pull out my phone and scroll through my contacts.
My company has connections to several publishing houses.
Sarah notices and starts to protest, but I cut her off.
"My marketing team works with Random House," I explain.
"They're always looking for new voices."
Her eyes widen in disbelief, and she shakes her head slightly.
"Shane, I can't ask you to do that," she insists, her voice trembling with a mix of gratitude and apprehension.
I reach across the table, placing my hand over hers reassuringly. "You're not asking; I'm offering," I say firmly.
I pull out my phone while she watches with a mix of surprise and nervousness, her fingers tracing the edges of the leather notebook.
I dial the number of my contact at Random House, stepping away from the table to pace near the diner's front windows.
The publisher answers on the first ring, recognizing my number.
"Shane, what can I do for you?"
I explain Sarah's situation and her manuscript concept, emphasizing her raw talent and potential.
The publisher listens intently, intrigued by the idea of discovering a hidden gem.
After a few minutes of discussion, we agree on a meeting for the next day.
When I return to the table, Sarah's hands are clasped tightly together.
I slide back into the booth, meeting her anxious gaze.
"They want to meet you tomorrow morning," I tell her gently.
Her eyes fill with tears again, but this time they're tears of hope rather than despair.
"I don't know what to say," she whispers, her voice choked with emotion.
"Just say you'll be there," I reply, offering a reassuring smile.
She nods, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, and manages a small, grateful smile.
After sharing the publishing news, I suggest we explore the neighborhood like old times.
Sarah clutches her new notebook tightly as we walk past closed storefronts, the city's nightlife pulsing around us.
We turn a corner, and a dim light catches our attention.
Between two buildings stands a narrow bookshop, its weathered sign reading "Midnight Pages."
The store's windows are dusty, but through the grime, we can see floor-to-ceiling shelves crammed with leather-bound books.
Sarah's eyes light up when I push open the creaky door.
The elderly shopkeeper barely looks up from his desk as we enter.
He's surrounded by stacks of rare editions, his spectacles perched on the end of his nose.
A black cat watches us from atop a shelf, its eyes curious yet unbothered.
I guide Sarah through the cramped aisles, watching as she runs her fingers reverently over the spines of the books.
The shopkeeper finally notices our presence and rises from his desk, adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses.
He approaches us with a knowing smile, holding a leather-bound volume in his hands.
"For aspiring writers," he says softly, extending the book toward Sarah.
She steps back slightly, eyeing the clearly expensive volume warily.
The shopkeeper's smile widens as he gently opens the book, revealing pristine pages filled with writing advice from the 1920s.
"It's a first edition of 'The Art of Story,'" he explains, his voice filled with reverence.
Sarah's hands tremble as she accepts his offer to examine it more closely.
"How much is it?" Sarah asks, her voice barely above a whisper.
The shopkeeper chuckles softly, shaking his head. "For you, my dear, it's a gift," he replies, his eyes twinkling with a secret understanding.
Sarah looks at me, her expression a mix of disbelief and gratitude.
I watch as she cradles the first edition against her worn coat, her whispered "thank you" barely audible in the dusty shop.
The shopkeeper nods, his smile fading as he shuffles back to his desk, leaving us alone amidst the towering shelves.
Sarah's fingers trace the gold lettering on the spine, treating the book as if it might disappear at any moment.
When she carefully opens it, the pages crackle softly.
A small note slips out, landing on the floor with a silent flutter.
Sarah's hands tremble as she picks up the yellowed paper.
It's a handwritten note from the previous owner of the book, offering advice on storytelling and finding inspiration in unexpected places.
Tears form in her eyes as she reads the note, her voice barely above a whisper.
"This is exactly what I needed," she says, her voice thick with emotion.
I nod, feeling the weight of the moment. "It's like it was meant for you, Sarah."
She looks up, her eyes shining with a newfound determination. "I won't let this chance slip away."
A tall woman in a tailored suit browses nearby, pretending to examine books while clearly listening to our conversation.
Sarah reads a passage from her notebook aloud, and the woman steps forward, introducing herself as Victoria Chen from Penguin Random House.
I recognize her name; she's published several bestsellers.
She asks Sarah to read more, then pulls out her business card.
Victoria offers Sarah a meeting tomorrow morning to discuss a potential book deal, explaining she hasn't heard such raw talent in years.
Sarah's eyes widen, and she clutches the card as if it's a lifeline.
"Are you serious?" she stammers, glancing between me and Victoria.
Victoria smiles warmly, nodding. "Absolutely, Sarah. Your words have a spark that can't be ignored."
Under the dim bookstore lighting, Sarah's hands tremble as she studies the note more closely.
I watch as she squints at the faded handwriting, turning the paper at different angles.
Her breath catches when she notices tiny marks beneath the signature - a series of dots and dashes.
She pulls a pen from her bag and copies them onto her notebook, muttering about a pattern.
When she finally decodes it, she gasps and grabs my arm.
The message reveals that the note was written by J.D. Salinger himself, secretly encouraging young writers from this very bookstore.
I sit with her at a corner table in the bookstore's small café area, watching as she writes furiously in her new notebook.
Her earlier hesitation has vanished, replaced by a fervor that makes me smile.
Page after page fills with her handwriting, occasionally pausing to reference Salinger's note.
The shopkeeper brings us tea without a word, setting it down beside her elbow without charge.
Sarah barely notices, lost in her story world.
When she finally looks up, her eyes are bright with purpose.
She turns the notebook toward me, pointing to a passage about an orphaned girl finding her voice through writing.
The words are raw and powerful, reminding me of the stories she used to share in our orphanage days.
I pull up property listings on my phone while she continues writing.
My eyes scan the descriptions, but nothing catches my attention until I come across a cozy brownstone in Brooklyn.
The location is perfect - walking distance to the bookstore, with a small garden that could be her own sanctuary.
I imagine a writing room for her, with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and a vintage desk by the window.
The latest computer setup for her work, and maybe even a few antique typewriters for inspiration.
She glances up from her notebook, noticing me scrolling through listings.
"Hey, what are you doing?"
She tries to peek at my screen, but I turn away, a smile tugging at my lips.
"I have an idea," I say, turning back to face her.
"A place where you can write all day, surrounded by books and nature. A place where you can call your own."
Her eyes widen, understanding dawning on her face.
"Oh no," she says, shaking her head.
"You can't be serious."
"Why not?"
I ask, leaning forward.
"We've always dreamed of having our own places. Remember when we were kids in the orphanage? We'd talk about it all the time."
She looks down at her notebook, running her fingers over the pages filled with her words.
"I remember," she whispers.
"Okay," I say, holding up my phone to show her the brownstone listing.
"Just take a look."
She hesitates for a moment before nodding. I hand her my phone, watching as she scrolls through the photos of the brownstone.
Her eyes grow wider with each image - the exposed brick walls, the hardwood floors, and the large windows letting in natural light.
When she comes across the photo of the garden, she gasps softly and looks up at me with tears in her eyes.
"It's perfect," she breathes.
"We'll make it ours," I promise, sealing our shared dream with a nod.
I step outside the bookstore to make the call, leaving Sarah writing furiously at the table inside.
The agent answers on the first ring, her voice eager when I mention my name.
"Mr. Weber, it's an honor to work with you," she says.
"I've heard great things about your business ventures."
I smile, leaning against the brick wall outside the store.
"I appreciate that," I say.
"I'm looking for a place for my sister, something quiet and close to this bookstore."
"Oh, I know just the place," she replies.
"Let me check the schedule. When were you thinking of viewing?"
I glance through the window, watching as Sarah scribbles furiously in her notebook.
Her brow is furrowed in concentration, her hair falling in loose waves down her back.
"Tomorrow morning," I say, turning away from the window.
"Perfect," the agent replies.
"How about 9 AM?"
"That works," I say, checking my watch.
Sarah has a publishing meeting at 11 AM tomorrow, and this timing fits perfectly.
"Great," the agent says.
"I'll meet you there. Is there anything else you'd like me to bring?"
"Yes," I reply.
"If this place checks out, I want to close on it as soon as possible. Can you bring all necessary paperwork?"
"Absolutely," she says.
"I'll see you tomorrow then."
I end the call and step back inside the bookstore, finding Sarah still engrossed in her writing. "Hey," I say softly, not wanting to startle her.
She looks up from her notebook, a hint of surprise in her eyes.
"Oh, sorry," she says, setting down her pen.
"I got lost in my story."
"That's okay," I say with a smile.
"I made some progress on that other thing we talked about."
She raises an eyebrow, confusion etched on her face.
"What thing?"
I lean down closer to her, a mischievous glint in my eye.
"The thing that's going to change your life forever."
She rolls her eyes good-naturedly.
"You're impossible."
I pull out my phone and show her more photos of the brownstone's garden space.
"Trust me, you'll love it," I say.
She smiles, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
"Okay, I trust you."
I check my watch again, realizing it's getting late.
"We should get you home," I say, standing up and offering her my hand.
She takes it, and we walk together out of the bookstore.
The night air is crisp and cool as we make our way to the car.
James is waiting for us, opening the door as we approach.
"Where to?" he asks.
Sarah gives him the address of her current apartment - a small room above a noisy restaurant in a less-than-ideal neighborhood.
I watch as she settles into the seat beside me, a mix of emotions on her face.
The car pulls away from the curb, heading toward the city lights that stretch out before us like a canvas of endless possibilities. The drive is quiet, with only the soft hum of the engine breaking the silence.
I steal glances at Sarah, who stares out the window with a faraway look in her eyes.
We pull up outside her apartment building, and James opens the door for us.
"Thanks for everything," she says softly as she steps out onto the sidewalk.
"No problem," I reply with a smile.
"Just remember tomorrow morning."
She nods and waves goodbye before disappearing into the building.
I get back into the car and pull out my phone to make one last call before calling it a night.
Mr. Harrison answers on the first ring, his voice steady despite the late hour.
"Hello?"
"Mr. Harrison," I say, leaning back against the leather seat.
"I need your help with something."
"Of course," he replies without hesitation.
"What can I do for you?"
"I'm buying a brownstone for Sarah," I explain.
"I want to make sure everything is handled legally and efficiently."
"I see," he says, his tone shifting to professional mode.
"Do you have any specific questions or concerns?"
"Yes," I say, glancing out the window at the passing city lights.
"I want to make sure she has full ownership of the property. Can you handle that?"
"Absolutely," he assures me. "I'll draw up all necessary paperwork and ensure everything is transferred into her name. But first, we'll need to establish a trust fund in her name to cover all expenses related to this purchase."
"A trust fund?"
I repeat, frowning slightly at his words.
"Yes," he explains patiently.
"Think of it as a safety net. The trust fund will cover her housing expenses, living costs, and even any costs associated with her writing career. We'll structure it so she has access to the funds without worrying about taxes or financial burdens."
I lean back in my office chair, listening intently as Mr. Harrison explains the details of the trust fund over speakerphone.
The sound of his voice fills the room, echoing off the walls as he outlines the specifics of how we'll structure it to cover Sarah's housing expenses, living costs, and even any costs associated with her writing career.
I tap my pen against the brownstone listing on my desk, imagining Sarah finally having a real home - a place where she can write without worrying about survival.
Mr. Harrison's voice brings me back to reality.
"I'll need Sarah's signature tomorrow," he says.
"I'll send over the preliminary paperwork for your review."
I nod, even though he can't see me.
"Sounds good."
I end the call and pull out my phone to text Sarah.
"Hey, want to grab breakfast before your publishing meeting tomorrow?"
My phone buzzes with her quick reply.
"Sure! I'm excited and nervous about tomorrow."
A smile tugs at my lips as I read her words.
"Me too," I type back.
"I'll pick you up at 8 AM."
I set down my phone and wait for Mr. Harrison's email.
A few minutes later, it arrives, and I open it to find the preliminary paperwork attached.
I spread the documents across my mahogany desk, carefully reading each clause.
The brownstone purchase agreement sits to my left, while the breakdown of Sarah's living expenses fills the right side.
My pen hovers over each section as I double-check the monthly allowance, property taxes, and maintenance costs.
Mr. Harrison's sticky notes mark where Sarah needs to sign.
I make one final adjustment, adding a clause for Sarah's writing supplies and any conference travel expenses.
Satisfied, I review everything three times before sliding it all into a leather portfolio.
My assistant knocks softly on the door before entering with a smile.
"Courier service is here for the documents," she says.
I nod, handing her the portfolio.
"Thank you."
"Make sure it gets to her first thing in the morning."
She nods and leaves, and I lean back in my chair, watching through the floor-to-ceiling windows as the courier's motorcycle weaves through traffic below.
The leather portfolio grows smaller until it disappears around a corner.
My phone buzzes with a confirmation text from the courier service.
I forward it to Mr. Harrison, who responds immediately about meeting Sarah tomorrow.
Opening my calendar, I block out the morning to accompany her to the brownstone viewing.
The setting sun casts long shadows across my desk as I imagine Sarah's reaction to having her own writing space.
I lean back in my office chair, studying the brownstone photos on my computer when my phone buzzes.
The caller ID reads "Unknown," but something makes me answer.
"Hello?"
A calm, deep voice greets me.
"Good afternoon, is this Mr. Shane Weber?"
"Yes, who's this?"
"My name is Marcus Chen. I'm the CEO of First Light Publishing."
The name sounds familiar, but I can't place it.
"What can I do for you, Mr. Chen?"
"I'm calling about Sarah Jenkins," he says.
"I understand you're her friend."
"Yes, I am. What about her?"
"Well," he continues, "my wife Victoria called me after meeting Sarah at the bookstore. She was impressed by Sarah's raw talent and passion for writing."
I nod, even though he can't see me.
"That sounds like Sarah."
Marcus clears his throat.
"I'd like to help Sarah achieve her dreams."
"How so?"
I ask.
"I want to establish a permanent fund covering all of Sarah's writing expenses," he explains.
"From research trips to writing retreats, we'll cover everything."
"Are you sure?"
I ask, stunned by his generosity.
"Yes," Marcus replies.
"I believe in supporting emerging writers. My mother was an orphaned writer who never got her chance. I lost her too soon, but I want to honor her memory by helping others." I grab a pen and notebook from my desk drawer and start taking notes.
"Can you tell me more about what this fund would cover?"
"Of course," Marcus says.
"We'll cover all expenses related to her writing career, including travel, workshops, and any necessary equipment or software. We'll also provide a monthly stipend for living expenses so she can focus on her craft without worrying about money."
"That sounds amazing," I say.
"How will this fund be structured?"
"We'll set up a trust fund in Sarah's name with a dedicated account manager," Marcus explains.
"She'll have access to the funds as needed, and we'll provide regular financial reports so she can track everything."
I jot down some more notes and then ask, "What are the terms of this arrangement? Are there any expectations or obligations for Sarah?"
"There are no strings attached," Marcus assures me.
"Our only expectation is that she continues to pursue her passion for writing and shares her talents with the world. We'll provide support and resources whenever she needs them."
I smile at his sincerity.
"That sounds incredible. How soon can we set this up?"
"Thank you, Mr. Chen," I say, realizing that Sarah's future is about to change in ways neither of us could have imagined.
I sit in my office late at night, the glow of my laptop illuminating the room.
Marcus's proposal is open on the screen, detailing every aspect of his plan to support Sarah's writing career.
He's included everything from writing retreats to research grants and even publishing support.
It's a comprehensive plan that would give Sarah everything she needs to succeed.
My phone rings, and I glance at the screen to see Marcus's name.
"Hello?"
I answer.
"Shane, hope you're doing well," Marcus says, his voice warm and friendly.
"I'm great, thanks. How about you?"
"I'm good. I just wanted to follow up on the proposal I sent you. Have you had a chance to look it over?"
"Yes, I did. It's very generous of you."
"Thank you," Marcus replies.
"I really believe in Sarah's potential. I think she has a lot to offer the literary world."
"I agree," I say.
"So, what do we need to do next?"
"Well," Marcus says, "I'd like to schedule a meeting with you and Sarah to go over the details. We can sign the paperwork then."
"That sounds great," I reply.
"When were you thinking?"
"How about breakfast tomorrow morning? I'll be in town for a meeting anyway."
"Sounds good. What time?"
"How about 8 am at The Pierre? Do you know where that is?"
"Yeah, I do."
"Great. And can you make sure Sarah is there too? I want to meet her and explain everything in person." "Of course," I say.
"I'll make sure she's there."
"Perfect," Marcus says.
"And one more thing. Can you please have Sarah bring any writing samples she has with her? I'd like to take a look."
"Sure thing," I reply.
"I'll let her know."
"Thanks, Shane," Marcus says.
"I'm looking forward to meeting you both tomorrow."
"Me too," I say before hanging up.
I immediately text Sarah about the meeting and wait for her response.
A few minutes later, my phone buzzes with her reply.
"Wow, Shane, this is incredible! Are you sure this isn't some kind of prank?"
I chuckle and type back, "No prank, Sarah. This is the real deal. Marcus Chen is genuinely interested in supporting your writing."
