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MidReal Story
The Billionaire Rebirth
Scenario:Mace Kenmore 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. Mace inherited immense wealth from his grandfather, shocking everyone. He was the heir to the only multi-Quadrillonaire family 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, Mace will get revenge on those who treated him badly. Will he succeed?
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Mace Kenmore
He is a previously impoverished orphan who took on the responsibilities of his grandfather's vast business empire after leaving an orphanage. He is resilient, determined, and proud. Mace faced immense wealth unexpectedly and the judgment of those around him, including his former girlfriend, Sarah, who left him for a richer partner. Haunted by past hardships, he seeks revenge on those who wronged him while embracing his new role as a powerful influencer. Despite challenges, he remains steadfast in his pursuit of justice and selfworth.
Grandfather
He was a wealthy entrepreneur whose mysterious death leaves Mace as his sole heir. He is wise, protective, and unspokenly supportive. The grandfather played a crucial role in shaping Mace's worldview and work ethic. Although he did not explicitly state his plans for Mace to inherit his empire, his actions suggest trust in the young boy's capabilities. His untimely death serves as a catalyst for Mace's transformation from an impoverished youth to a wealthy leader.
Helen
She is Mace's loyal and supportive housekeeper who stood by him through thick and thin. She is kind, practical, and resilient. Helen was a significant source of comfort for Mace, especially during his childhood at the orphanage. When Mace inherits his grandfather's business, she remains a crucial member of the household, helping navigate the new dynamics and offering guidance as he adjusts to his new lifestyle. Her presence symbolizes stability and unwavering friendship in Mace's life.
Mace Kenmore's life was about to change dramatically.
He was poor, an orphan with no idea who his parents were.
He had been kicked out of his apartment and had to return to the orphanage.
His girlfriend left him for a richer man.
But he inherited a vast business empire worth multiquadrillions of dollars from his unknown grandfather.
He was now the richest man in the world, and everyone was jealous of him.
Mace faced criticism and judgment from those around him, including his ex-girlfriend who tried to win him back.
He vowed that those who had labeled him a failure would eventually bow at his feet.
With his new wealth, Mace would get revenge on those who wronged him and make them pay for their mistakes.
He would make sure they regretted underestimating him and treating him poorly.
I stand outside the dilapidated building, my eyes scanning the chipped paint and broken windows.
The sign above the door reads "St. Mary's Orphanage" in crooked letters.
I can still remember the cold winter nights spent huddled under a thin blanket, my stomach growling with hunger.
I can still hear the sound of children crying themselves to sleep.
My lawyer hands me a folder filled with papers.
"Here's the purchase agreement," he says, his voice low and serious.
"You're sure you want to do this?"
I nod, my jaw clenched.
"I'm positive."
We walk inside, our footsteps echoing off the walls.
The air is musty and stale, filled with the scent of decay.
A woman stands behind a desk, her face stern and unyielding.
She looks up as we approach, her eyes narrowing as she takes in my presence.
"Can I help you?" she asks, her voice sharp and unfriendly.
"Mrs. Peterson," I say, my voice steady.
"It's been a long time."
She frowns, her brow furrowing as she tries to place me.
Then recognition dawns on her face, and she gasps.
"Mace Kenmore," she whispers, her face paling.
"What are you doing here?"
"I own this place now," I say, my voice cold and detached.
"I've come to inform you that your services are no longer needed."
Her eyes widen in shock as I hand her a severance check. "But... but what about the children?" she stammers, her voice trembling with fear.
"They'll be taken care of," I assure her, my voice devoid of emotion.
"Now get out."
She scurries away, her head bowed in defeat.
I watch her go, a sense of satisfaction washing over me.
This is just the beginning of my revenge.
I turn to my lawyer, who nods in approval.
"This is just the start," he says, his voice filled with excitement.
"We'll make sure those who wronged you pay for their mistakes."
I nod, my jaw clenched with determination.
"Oh yes," I say, my voice dripping with malice.
"They will pay dearly."
I walk through the dormitory, my eyes scanning the rows of narrow beds and thin mattresses.
The room is cold and drafty, the windows cracked and broken.
I smile, knowing that soon this place will be transformed into something far greater.
I walk through each room, taking detailed notes on my tablet as the contractors follow behind me.
The walls are crumbling, the ceilings stained with water damage.
But I can see beyond the decay, envisioning a bright future for this place.
We reach the kitchen, and I pause, my eyes fixed on the old stove in the corner.
It's the same one I burned my hands on when I was a child, trying to cook gruel for myself and the other kids.
I remember the pain and the fear that coursed through me as I watched my skin blister and peel.
But it's not just the physical pain that lingers in my mind; it's the emotional scars that still run deep.
I turn to the contractors, who are waiting for my instructions.
"How long will it take to renovate this place?" one of them asks, his voice filled with skepticism.
I smile, my eyes glinting with determination.
"Six months," he replies, his voice filled with doubt.
"I'll give you three," I say, my voice firm.
"Money is no object."
The contractors exchange nervous glances, but they nod in agreement. "We'll get started right away," one of them says, his voice filled with determination.
I nod, my eyes scanning the room once more.
This is just the beginning of my plan for revenge.
And soon, everyone will know that Mace Kenmore is not a man to be underestimated.
"Let's get started," I say, my voice filled with determination.
"We have a lot of work to do."
As we begin our tour of St. Mary's Orphanage, I notice a figure watching from the shadows.
It's Helen, her eyes fixed intently on me as she clutches a large folder in her hands.
I can tell by her expression that she has something important to share with me, but she's waiting for the right moment to approach me. As we make our way through the dilapidated building, I point out areas that need attention - crumbling walls, broken windows, outdated plumbing fixtures.
Helen steps forward, her voice steady as she says, "There's something you need to see."
Following her into what used to be Mrs. Peterson's office, I notice the musty smell and peeling wallpaper.
The contractors' voices fade into the background as Helen closes the door behind us.
Her hands tremble slightly as she opens the folder, releasing a cloud of dust particles that dance in the beam of sunlight streaming through the grimy window.
She spreads several yellowed documents across the desk, her eyes meeting mine with a mixture of determination and sadness.
"These are old admission records and financial statements from when you were here," she explains, her voice filled with emotion.
I scan the pages, my heart pounding in my chest as I notice discrepancies in the numbers.
It's clear that Mrs. Peterson had been embezzling funds meant for the children's support.
Helen points to specific entries, her finger tracing along the lines of figures.
"This is where she hid it," she whispers, her voice barely audible over the sound of my own ragged breathing.
"She stole money meant for your food and clothing." My fists clench involuntarily as memories flood back - countless nights spent going to bed with an empty stomach, wearing tattered clothes that barely fit.
I take a deep breath, knowing that justice will finally be served.
I sit at the mahogany desk, methodically organizing the evidence with Helen's help.
We separate bank statements, forged receipts, and doctored ledgers into neat piles.
The sound of construction echoes through the building as workers begin demolition upstairs.
Detective Morris arrives, his eyes widening as he takes in the volume of documentation.
I hand him the most damning evidence first - records showing Mrs. Peterson diverted $50,000 meant for winter clothing into her personal account.
Helen's hands shake as she recounts discovering the hidden files in the attic.
I maintain my composure, knowing that justice will finally be served.
I lean back in the creaking office chair, watching as Detective Morris reviews the documents spread across the desk.
His weathered hands carefully organize them into his briefcase.
The sound of hammering echoes through the halls, punctuated by the occasional shout from construction workers.
Morris takes detailed notes, his pencil scratching against the notepad as he asks Helen questions about her discovery.
She stands by the window, her hands clasped tightly together as she recounts finding the hidden files.
Her voice trembles slightly, betraying her nervousness.
The detective's eyes narrow as he examines a particularly incriminating receipt.
"This one is clearly forged," he mutters, his brow furrowed in concentration.
I nod silently, my gaze fixed on the documents scattered across the desk.
The weight of evidence against Mrs. Peterson is mounting, and I can feel a sense of satisfaction growing within me.
Justice is finally within reach. As the detective continues to review the evidence, I take a moment to glance around the room.
The once-stately office now bears the scars of neglect and decay.
Peeling wallpaper clings to the walls, and dust coats every surface.
But amidst the disrepair, there is a sense of hope in the air - a sense that this place can be restored to its former glory.
The sound of footsteps echoes down the hallway, followed by muffled voices.
The construction workers are making progress upstairs, their tools clanging against pipes and walls as they tear out outdated fixtures and crumbling plaster.
Their efforts will bring new life to this old building, transforming it into something vibrant and strong.
Detective Morris closes his briefcase with a resounding thud, his expression grim as he turns to face me.
"Mr. Kenmore," he says, his voice firm and authoritative. "Based on this evidence, I believe we have a strong case against Mrs. Peterson."
I nod curtly, my jaw clenched with determination.
"Good," I say, my voice low and even.
"I want her held accountable for what she did."
Morris nods sympathetically, his eyes filled with understanding.
"I'll do everything in my power to ensure justice is served."
He pauses for a moment before continuing.
"As the new owner of this building, you have the right to press charges against Mrs. Peterson."
I consider his words carefully before responding.
"Yes," I say finally, my voice firm and resolute.
"I want to press charges."
"I'll press charges and make sure she faces the consequences."
Detective Morris slides the final affidavit across the desk, the sound of hammering echoing in the background.
I grip my Mont Blanc pen tightly, feeling its weight and balance in my hand.
It's a far cry from the cheap ballpoint pens I used to steal from Mrs. Peterson's desk all those years ago.
The statement is detailed, outlining Mrs. Peterson's systematic theft of funds meant for children's winter clothes, food, and basic necessities.
Helen stands beside me, her hands clasped together as she watches me read each page carefully.
My jaw tightens as I scan the itemized list of stolen funds - $50,000 taken from vulnerable children who had already lost so much.
Helen breaks the silence, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Do you think she'll ever admit to what she did?"
Detective Morris shakes his head, his expression somber.
"People like her rarely do, but the evidence speaks for itself."
I grip the pen tighter, feeling its weight in my hand.
The detective points to each marked line, indicating where I need to sign.
Helen's hand rests on my shoulder, offering a silent gesture of support.
The construction noise fades into the background, becoming a distant static as I focus on the task at hand.
I read through the statement one last time, methodically signing each page with a flourish.
Detective Morris collects the papers, carefully placing them in his briefcase.
With a decisive click of the latch, he stands to leave.
The weight of justice feels tangible as I watch him walk away, knowing the past will no longer haunt this place.
I stand from the desk, my legs stiff from hours of paperwork.
The construction noise has died down, leaving an unsettling quiet in the old office.
"We should check on the children," I say, turning to Helen.
Her eyes widen slightly, a mix of concern and determination flashing across her face.
She nods, retrieving her notepad and pen from the desk.
"I'll document any immediate needs," she says, her voice steady.
Together, we walk down the dusty hallway, the silence punctuated only by the sound of our footsteps.
The common room is just ahead, its door slightly ajar.
As we approach, muffled sobs echo through the air, sending a shiver down my spine.
I pause for a moment, memories flooding back - countless nights spent crying myself to sleep in that very room.
Helen glances at me, her expression softening with understanding.
I straighten my tie and push open the door.
Inside, a small group of children huddle together, their eyes red and puffy.
Helen kneels down to their level, her voice gentle. "Hey there, we're here to help."
One of the older boys looks up, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. "Is it true? Is Mrs. Peterson gone for good?"
I nod, trying to offer a reassuring smile. "Yes, she won't be coming back."
The boy's shoulders relax slightly, a glimmer of relief in his eyes. "Good," he whispers, "she always made us feel like we were nothing."
I sit down on a worn mattress in the corner, watching a small child clutch his threadbare blanket tightly.
The sight is all too familiar - the thin sheets, the cold seeping through, the gnawing hunger that never seemed to subside.
Helen stands and walks over to a nearby closet, retrieving fresh bedding.
She approaches the small child, her voice soft.
"Let's get you into something warmer."
I watch as she gently pries the old blanket from his grasp, replacing it with a fresh one.
The child's eyes widen as Helen tucks him in, a small smile playing on his lips.
I stand and walk over to Helen, placing a hand on her shoulder.
"Let me," I say, my voice low.
She looks up at me, her eyes filled with understanding.
I take the blankets from her hand and kneel down beside the child. My hands shake slightly as I smooth out the fresh sheet.
The child watches me intently, his eyes filled with a mix of curiosity and desperation.
He's searching for any sign of kindness in this new face, any indication that things might finally change for the better.
As I pull the blanket over his tiny shoulders, the construction noise outside seems to fade away.
Helen leans in closer, her voice barely a whisper. "Do you think they'll ever feel safe here again?"
I glance at the children, then back at her, determination in my voice. "We have to make sure they do, Helen. It's up to us now."
The small child tugs on my sleeve, his voice timid but hopeful. "Will you stay with us?"
I sit on the edge of the thin mattress next to Tommy, an eight-year-old with eyes that hold a haunting familiarity.
The construction noise has stopped for the day, leaving only the sound of children shuffling in their beds and the occasional whimper that breaks through the night air.
Helen brings over two cups of steaming hot chocolate, her movements practiced and gentle from years of caring for lost souls.
She hands one to me, her eyes filled with a mix of sadness and resilience.
"Thank you," I say, my voice barely above a whisper.
She nods, her gaze lingering on the children before she leaves us alone once more.
Tommy's small fingers wrap around the warm mug, his eyes wide with curiosity as he watches me take a sip.
The rich aroma fills the room, a comforting contrast to the cold and darkness that has surrounded us for so long.
I set my mug down and turn to Tommy, my voice softening.
"You know, I used to sleep in this very room."
His eyes widen further, filled with disbelief.
"You did?"
I nod, taking another sip of the hot chocolate.
"Yes, many nights. It was a different time then. The walls were a different color, but the mattresses were just as thin."
Tommy looks down at his own mattress, then back at me. "Did you have nightmares too?"
His voice is barely audible, but it cuts deep into my heart.
I pause for a moment, collecting my thoughts before I speak again.
"Yes," I admit softly.
"But they weren't just nightmares. They were reminders of what we had endured."
Tommy's grip on his mug tightens slightly, his eyes filled with a mix of fear and longing.
"Do they ever go away?"
I hesitate for a moment, unsure of how to answer him truthfully without breaking his fragile hope.
But then I remember something - a small token I've carried with me since leaving this place behind.
I reach into my pocket and pull out my phone, its screen glowing softly in the dim light of the room.
"Tommy," I say gently, "do you want to see where I live now?"
His eyes widen with curiosity as I unlock my phone and scroll through some photos I had taken recently. The first image shows a beautiful house with lush greenery surrounding it - my new home that represents everything I've worked so hard to achieve.
His eyes light up, and he nods eagerly.
I open my phone's photo album, scrolling through images of the mansion's sprawling gardens.
The first picture shows a fountain, its water glistening in the sunlight.
Tommy leans closer, his small fingers tracing across the screen as if he could touch the water itself.
"Wow," he breathes.
I swipe to the next picture, showing rows of vibrant rose bushes lining a winding path.
Tommy's eyes widen further, and he looks up at me with a mixture of wonder and longing.
"It's beautiful," he whispers.
I nod, a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth.
"Yes, it is. And one day, maybe you'll see it for yourself."
His eyes sparkle with hope, and I can't help but feel a pang of nostalgia.
At his age, I had dreams too - dreams that seemed impossible to reach.
But here I am, sitting in this room that once held so much pain and now holds a glimmer of hope. I swipe to the next picture, showing the grand entrance of my mansion.
Tommy's eyes grow even wider as he takes in the sight of marble floors and crystal chandeliers.
"Is this where you live?"
His voice trembles slightly, filled with a mix of awe and disbelief.
I nod again, my heart swelling with pride and gratitude for everything I've achieved.
"Yes, Tommy. This is where I call home now."
He looks up at me then, his eyes searching mine for any sign of truth or reassurance.
"Can I come visit?"
His voice cracks slightly as he speaks those words, filled with a desperation that echoes my own childhood dreams.
I hesitate for a moment, unsure of how to respond without breaking his heart or making promises I can't keep.
But then Helen enters the room with fresh towels in her arms, pausing to watch our interaction with curiosity in her eyes.
She sets the towels down on a nearby chair and walks over to us, her presence both comforting and intimidating at the same time. "What's going on here?"
She asks softly, her gaze shifting between Tommy and me as if she senses something significant unfolding between us.
"Tommy wants to visit someday," I say, meeting her eyes with a silent promise.
She nods, her expression unreadable.
"I see," she says, her voice filled with a mix of understanding and caution.
I lean back against the cold wall, still holding my phone with the mansion photos displayed on the screen.
Tommy's eyes never leave the images, his small fingers tracing over the glass as if he could touch the beauty for himself.
The construction noise has died down for the night, leaving only the sound of distant sirens and the occasional creak of the old building.
Helen steps forward to collect the empty hot chocolate mugs, her movements gentle but efficient.
As she walks away, I make my decision.
"Tommy," I say softly, pulling out my personal business card from my pocket and pressing it into his small hand.
"We'll make it happen, I promise."
I watch as his face transforms, his eyes widening in surprise.
His small fingers carefully trace the embossed letters of my name and address, the metallic finish catching the dim overhead light and making the card shimmer.
He turns it over, studying every detail before looking back at me with a mixture of awe and disbelief.
Without a word, he carefully tucks the card into his shirt pocket, patting it gently as if to ensure it's safe.
Helen moves closer, adjusting Tommy's collar with a motherly touch while giving me a questioning look.
The sound of the construction crew's footsteps echoes down the hall as they leave for the day, their distant voices mingling with the hum of machinery.
Tommy keeps touching his pocket, as if afraid the card might disappear.
I smile at him, feeling the weight of a promise that I intend to keep.