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MidReal Story
The Billionaire Rebirth
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
first_person_protagonist, male. He is a former orphan who was raised in foster care, discovering he was the secret heir to a multibillion dollar inheritance. He is resilient, determined, and sarcastic. Shane faced a life of hardship, being labeled as a failure by those around him, including his abusive foster parents and their children. His life changes when he learns of his wealthy heritage, propelling him into a world of luxury. Despite his newfound fortune, Shane remains fiercely independent and skeptical of others' intentions.
Helen
side_character, female. She is Shane's supportive and curious friend. She is perceptive, witty, and loyal. Helen remains one of the few genuine connections in Shane's life after his exgirlfriend's departure. Although she is curious about Shane’s recent wealth and its implications, she respects his boundaries and offers a sense of normalcy amidst the changes in his life. Her friendship provides Shane with muchneeded balance and comfort as he navigates his new reality.
Isabella
side_character, female. She is the daughter of one of Shane's foster families. She is deceitful, entitled, and manipulative. Isabella falsely accused Shane of rape to gain leverage for her own personal gain, revealing her father’s abusive behavior masked as paternal concern for their children’s wellbeing was actually a form of control over them. Her actions highlight the depth of hostility and betrayal Shane faced in his foster home environment.
I was an orphan, poor, and my girlfriend left me for a richer guy.
I thought my life was doomed to be like this forever.
But little did I know, my fate was about to change.
I was the last person anyone expected to inherit a multibillion-dollar inheritance.
My life was never going to be the same.
"Shane, I'm sorry. I didn't want it to be like this. I still care about you," Julia said, tears streaming down her face as she held her new boyfriend's hand.
"It's ok, I understand," I replied, trying not to sound too broken.
"I just wish you told me sooner. I wouldn't have waited for you all these years."
"You wouldn't have waited for me?"
Julia gasped.
"Of course not. Why would anyone wait for a broken person like you to get a life together?"
She shook her head and laughed bitterly.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to say that. It's just... well, I've met someone else and he's really good for me. He can provide for me in ways you can't."
I nodded, my hands clenched around the inheritance papers in my coat pocket.
"It's okay, Julia. I get it. You deserve better than me."
She continued to ramble on with her excuses and apologies, but I tuned her out.
My mind was elsewhere, thinking about the future and what lay ahead.
The afternoon crowd bustled around us in the coffee shop, their chatter a dull roar.
A barista called out another order, and the smell of espresso filled my nostrils.
I took one last look at Julia's perfectly made-up face, her designer handbag, her manicured nails gripping her boyfriend's arm.
After she stormed out, I remained at the corner table, my hands shaking as I pulled the thick envelope out of my coat pocket.
The café's afternoon crowd thinned out while I methodically spread the papers across the wooden surface.
Columns of numbers and lists of assets blurred together before my eyes.
My coffee grew cold beside me, forgotten in the chaos of my mind.
I dialed the lawyer's direct number, written in crisp blue ink at the top of the first page.
Between the detailed inventory of islands and yachts, a sleek black credit card slid out.
Heavier than normal plastic, with an embossed platinum W catching the light.
I realized, in that moment, the world was finally mine to shape.
I pulled out my phone and found the lawyer's business card tucked between the inheritance papers.
My hands were still shaking as I dialed the number, watching the last few café patrons filter out around me.
The call connected, and a crisp female voice answered, "Weber & Associates."
I cleared my throat, remembering the script I'd rehearsed.
"This is Shane Weber. I need to speak with Mr. Harrison about my grandfather's estate."
There was a pause, then a flurry of activity.
"One moment, Mr. Weber. Mr. Harrison has been expecting your call."
As I waited, the weight of my new reality settled in, and I knew this was just the beginning.
Mr. Harrison's polished voice came on the line, his words clear and precise.
"Mr. Weber, thank you for reaching out. I trust you've had a chance to review the documents?"
I grabbed a napkin and pen, jotting down notes as he spoke.
"Yes, sir. I'm going through them now."
"Excellent. As outlined in the paperwork, there are several immediate steps we must take to ensure a smooth transition of assets. First, we need to visit the bank tomorrow morning to activate your accounts. Second, you'll meet me at the Weber Industries headquarters to sign some paperwork. And third, we'll conduct a tour of the main estate."
I scribbled furiously as he rattled off instructions.
"Got it," I said, my hand shaking slightly as I wrote.
"And what's the address of the estate again?"
He provided the details, and I jotted them down.
My eyes widened as I read the address back to myself: 12345 Weber Drive.
My grandfather's - my - mansion.
A barista started stacking chairs nearby, giving me pointed looks.
I gathered up the documents quickly, tucking them into my worn backpack.
Before hanging up, Harrison added one final detail: "I've already arranged for a car to pick you up at 8 AM sharp tomorrow morning."
"Thank you, Mr. Harrison," I replied, trying to keep my voice steady.
"Shane," he said, his tone softening slightly, "there's something else you should know about your grandfather's legacy."
I paused, the weight of his words hanging in the air.
I leaned forward in my chair, the café now empty except for the baristas cleaning up.
A janitor pushed a cart past my table, his mop squeaking against the floor.
"Your grandfather left a sealed letter for you," Harrison continued.
"It's dated decades ago, and it involves a family scandal that's been buried for years."
He paused again, his voice growing tense.
"It's about Isabella's father. Apparently, he blackmailed your grandfather years ago. And this letter contains proof."
My hands gripped the inheritance papers tighter, memories flooding back.
Isabella's false accusations had nearly ruined my life.
Now, it seemed, her family was involved in something much darker.
"Do you want me to read you the contents of the letter now?"
Harrison asked, breaking the silence.
I glanced at my watch: 9:47 PM.
"No," I replied finally.
"I need to see it for myself. Can you have it delivered to me tomorrow?"
"Of course, Mr. Weber. I'll ensure it's with the driver when he picks you up."
"Thank you, Mr. Harrison. This changes everything."
I gathered my papers and credit card from the table, my mind racing with questions about Isabella's father.
The barista gave me a pointed look as she jingled her keys, clearly wanting to close up shop.
I nodded and made my way out into the dark parking lot.
Walking to my car, I pulled out my phone and opened the old foster care file I'd kept on my device.
I scrolled through the entries, looking for any connection between Isabella's father and mine.
The names and dates blurred together until one entry caught my eye: a suspicious transfer of funds from a Weber Industries subsidiary to Isabella's father's construction company in 2010 - the same year I lived with them.
I sat in my cramped studio apartment, the clock ticking toward midnight.
The inheritance papers and black credit card lay scattered across my bed while I researched Weber Industries on my laptop.
Old news articles revealed that my grandfather's company had acquired Isabella's father's construction firm in a hostile takeover shortly after the 2010 payment.
I pulled out a notebook and created a timeline, connecting the dots between the acquisition, Isabella's accusations, and my sudden removal from their home.
At 3 AM, I booked an Uber for 6:30 AM the next morning.
I wanted to arrive at Weber Industries before the scheduled driver could pick me up.
I needed answers, and I wasn't going to wait.
As the sun began to rise, I stood outside the imposing glass facade of Weber Industries, clutching my notebook tightly.
"Shane?" a voice called from behind me, startling me.
I turn slowly to face Isabella, her tailored business suit and designer heels a stark contrast to the girl I once knew.
She stands near the entrance, her eyes widening as she takes in my disheveled appearance.
The notebook slips from my trembling hands, scattering the timeline pages across the concrete.
She steps forward to help gather them, but I block her reach with my foot.
Through the glass doors, early employees stream into the building, some glancing curiously at our tense standoff.
Isabella's eyes dart to the Weber Industries logo above us, then back to me.
Her mouth opens to speak, but before she can utter a word, I pull out the sealed letter from my jacket pocket.
"Is that what I think it is?" she asks, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Yes," I reply, watching her expression shift from surprise to something unreadable.
"Then you know about the deal my father made with your grandfather," she says, her voice tinged with regret.
I lead her to a quiet corner of the building's courtyard, away from the arriving employees.
She sits across from me at a stone bench, her hands fidgeting with the designer watch on her wrist.
I lean forward, my voice low and urgent.
"Tell me everything."
Isabella takes a deep breath, her eyes avoiding mine as she begins to speak.
"My father discovered your true identity during a renovation project at Weber Industries in 2010. He found old documents hidden away in the basement, detailing your grandfather's secret heir. He knew it was you."
She pauses, collecting her thoughts before continuing.
"He threatened to expose you unless your grandfather paid him off. The false accusations were meant to get you out of our house before you could learn the truth."
I feel a mix of anger and disbelief bubbling up inside me.
"Why didn't you tell me any of this before?" I demand, my voice rising despite the quiet setting.
"I was scared," Isabella admits, her eyes finally meeting mine, filled with regret.
I guide her to a secluded bench in the courtyard, watching as her hands fidget with the designer bracelet on her wrist.
The morning sun casts long shadows across the concrete as early workers hurry past, some glancing curiously at our tense conversation.
When I mention working together to uncover the truth, her eyes widen with surprise, then narrow into a calculating gaze.
She pulls out her phone, showing me encrypted emails between her father and my grandfather from 2010.
I lean closer to read them, noticing how she tenses as I invade her personal space.
She explains how her father stored more evidence in a private safe, offering to help me access it.
"Why would you help me now?" I ask, skepticism lacing my words.
"Because," she replies, her voice steady but her eyes betraying a hint of vulnerability, "I want to make things right, for both of us."
"And what if this evidence implicates your father?" I press, searching her face for any sign of hesitation.
She checks her watch, then pulls out a business card and scribbles something on the back.
"My father will be at a charity event tonight until midnight. We have a two-hour window to get in and out."
She hands me the card, explaining that the safe is located in his study, hidden behind a bookshelf.
"The combination is 10-44-23," she says, her voice steady but her hands betraying a slight tremble.
As the morning crowd thins out, we finalize our plan.
Before leaving, Isabella hesitates, then adds one last warning: "My father keeps a loaded gun in his study."
I watch her walk away through the dispersing crowd, her heels clicking against the pavement.
Pulling out my phone, I research the charity event.
It's a black-tie gala at the Ritz Carlton downtown, starting at 7 p.m.
The invitation details a strict dress code and mentions a security detail.
I make a mental note to find a suitable outfit and head to an upscale menswear store.
The saleswoman greets me with a smile, guiding me to the tuxedo section.
I browse through the racks, finally selecting a tailored black suit with a crisp white shirt and bow tie.
The saleswoman rings up my purchase, swiping my new black credit card without hesitation.
She offers to alter the suit to fit me perfectly, and I agree.
While she works on the alterations, I take the opportunity to study the store's security cameras, practicing how to move naturally in formal wear without drawing attention.
As I leave the store, my phone buzzes with a message from Isabella.
"Meet me at the side entrance of the Ritz at 11:30 p.m.," it reads.
I reply quickly, "I'll be there. Let's make sure this ends tonight."
I adjust my new tuxedo while crouching behind a marble column at the Ritz's service entrance.
The valets park luxury cars as guests in evening wear stream into the charity gala.
Through the glass doors, I spot Isabella's father laughing with other wealthy patrons, his champagne glass catching the chandelier light.
My phone buzzes - a text from Isabella confirming she's running late.
I check my watch: 11:15 p.m. The night air feels cold against my face as I observe the security guards' patrol patterns, noting their positions and timing.
At 11:29 p.m., Isabella slips through the side entrance, her eyes meeting mine with a silent resolve.
I tug at my bow tie as we step through the service door, blending into the flow of guests moving between the ballroom and lobby.
Isabella leads confidently, her black evening gown catching the light.
I follow closely, mimicking the relaxed posture of the other attendees.
We pass waiters carrying champagne trays and weave around clusters of laughing socialites.
When Isabella's father appears nearby, deep in conversation with potential donors, we smoothly pivot toward a marble column.
I press against the cool stone, my heart pounding in my chest.
Isabella leans in, whispering urgently, "We need to move now while he's distracted."
I nod, glancing around to ensure we're not being watched.
"Remember," she adds, her voice barely audible over the gala's hum, "once we're inside, there's no turning back."
I follow Isabella down a service corridor, our formal shoes clicking softly on the polished floor.
The sounds of the gala fade behind us as we pass by storage rooms and maintenance closets.
Isabella's perfume lingers in the air as she leads the way, her eyes checking each door number.
When we hear voices ahead, we duck into an alcove, pressing ourselves against the wall.
A maintenance worker passes, pushing a cart of dirty dishes.
Once clear, Isabella points to a heavy wooden door at the end of the corridor.
We exchange a final look of determination before pushing it open, stepping into the unknown.
I step into the study behind Isabella, our footsteps muffled by thick Persian carpets.
The room is dimly lit, moonlight filtering through tall windows that overlook the city skyline.
Shadows dance across gilt-framed paintings and bronze sculptures adorning the walls.
Isabella moves purposefully toward a massive mahogany bookshelf while I scan the room for any signs of security.
Above an antique desk hangs a Rembrandt self-portrait, watching us with knowing eyes.
My hands feel clammy inside my gloves as Isabella locates a hidden panel in the bookshelf, revealing a safe.
She hesitates, her eyes darting toward a nearby Degas ballerina sculpture on a pedestal.
I move closer to examine it, but she quickly steps between me and the shelf.
"We should split up," she says, her voice low and urgent.