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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
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 tumultuous childhood after losing both parents to addiction. His life took a dramatic turn when his guardians abandoned him, leaving him to fend for himself. His exgirlfriend left him for someone wealthier. Despite criticism and judgment from others, Shane's inheritance changes his fortunes and outlook.
Grandfather
He is Shane's paternal grandfather who secretly left him his entire estate upon passing. He is compassionate, perceptive, and supportive. Grandfather took Shane under his wing after losing him in a court battle against Shane’s biological parents' adoptive family. He secretly raised Shane, ensuring he had clothing and food despite facing severe hardship alone. His decision to leave Shane his vast estate transforms the young man's life forever.
Julia
She is Shane's exgirlfriend who left him for another man due to financial reasons. She is selfish, shallow, and emotionally distant. Julia initially dated Shane out of pity and because of his potential wealth. When she meets someone wealthier, she quickly betrays Shane, highlighting her priorities and demonstrating her lack of genuine affection or commitment to their relationship.
I was an orphan once.
I was sold by my parents for a hundred dollars when I was five years old.
The couple who bought me as their son were wealthy, but they had no children of their own and wanted someone to inherit their wealth.
However, they were not kind to me.
They made me do all the chores in the house and treated me poorly.
I was not allowed to sit at the table to eat with them but instead had to eat my meals on the floor.
After a year, they got tired of having me around and abandoned me at a park in the city.
I had no idea where I was or how to get back home.
A kind old man took me to his house, gave me food, and told me that he would try to find my parents.
The next day, he took me to an orphanage and left me there.
I was just six years old then, with no idea what would happen next or how my life would turn out.
Six years went by fast.
When I turned twelve, I was adopted by another family.
This time, it was a family of four: a couple and their two sons, who were both my age.
I hesitate in the doorway of the dining room, watching my new adoptive family settle into their usual seats.
The mother gestures for me to sit beside her younger son, Tommy.
The polished mahogany table stretches between us, laden with steaming dishes I've only ever seen in restaurant windows.
My hands shake as I pull out the chair, its legs scraping against the hardwood floor.
The father clears his throat, shooting me a stern look.
I notice how different their posture is - straight-backed and proper - while I hunch over my empty plate.
Tommy elbows his brother and snickers.
I take a deep breath and decide that this time, I will not be invisible.
I straighten my back and look around the table.
The crystal glasses and fine china remind me of my first adoptive family, the Hendersons.
Mrs. Anderson passes a bowl of steaming mashed potatoes, and I take it with both hands, careful not to drop it like I did that time with the Hendersons.
Tommy and his brother Jack exchange glances as I portion a small serving onto my plate.
My hands shake slightly, but I clear my throat and say clearly, "I'm Shane. Thank you for having me here."
The words come out steadier than I expect.
I stare at the gravy boat in Mrs. Anderson's outstretched hand, my throat tightening at the memory of Mr. Henderson throwing hot gravy at me when I spilled it.
I fight the urge to shrink away, to hide behind my hair.
Instead, I force myself to reach for the ceramic boat, my fingers trembling slightly.
Tommy notices and offers, "Let me pour it for you."
But I shake my head.
This is my chance to prove I can belong here.
I take the boat carefully, feeling its weight in my hands.
The rich brown liquid sloshes gently as I tilt it over my potatoes.
I pour slowly, deliberately, managing a controlled stream without a single drop spilled.
I set the boat down with careful precision, letting out a small breath of relief.
The warm smell of dinner fills my nose as I pick up my fork, my shoulders gradually relaxing.
Tommy catches my eye from across the table and gives me an encouraging nod.
Something in his genuine expression makes the knot in my stomach loosen slightly.
I take a bite of the perfectly seasoned mashed potatoes, savoring the rich gravy.
For the first time since arriving, I allow myself to look up from my plate and meet Tommy's gaze directly.
Encouraged by the warmth in his eyes, I clear my throat and say, "The mashed potatoes are really good."
Mrs. Anderson beams.
"Thank you! It's my mother's recipe. She taught me how to make them when I was just a little girl."
Jack, the older brother, asks, "Have you ever tried cooking before?"
I swallow another bite before answering, my voice growing steadier with each word.
"Yes, I helped in the kitchen at the orphanage sometimes. They taught us how to make simple meals."
Tommy leans forward, genuinely interested.
"What kind of meals?"
I shrug slightly.
"Basic stuff like mac and cheese, scrambled eggs... sometimes we even got to make cookies."
Mrs. Anderson smiles warmly.
"Maybe you can help us make some cookies tomorrow."
I nod eagerly, feeling a sense of belonging wash over me for the first time since arriving here.
I lean forward in my chair, meeting Mrs. Anderson's kind eyes.
"Yes, that sounds wonderful."
A smile tugs at the corners of her mouth, and I notice the tension in my shoulders eases just a little more.
Tommy bounces in his seat, his excitement bubbling over.
"We can make chocolate chip cookies! Or snickerdoodle! Or oatmeal raisin!"
Jack chimes in, "Can we lick the bowl afterward? Please?"
Mr. Anderson chuckles, his deep voice rumbling through the room.
"First, let's finish dinner and get our homework done. Then we can all help with the cookies."
I carefully wipe my mouth with the cloth napkin, no longer worried about using the wrong utensil.
Mrs. Anderson glances at me, her expression warm.
"Do you have a favorite cookie recipe to share with us?"
I think back to Christmas in the orphanage, where we made simple sugar cookies.
"They were easy to make," I say, my voice growing steadier with each word.
"Flour, sugar, butter, and eggs. We didn't have any special ingredients like chocolate chips or nuts."
Mrs. Anderson nods thoughtfully.
"That sounds simple enough. Do you remember the exact recipe?"
I close my eyes for a moment, trying to remember the details.
"I think it was two cups of flour, one cup of sugar, half a cup of butter, and one egg. We mixed everything together until it formed a dough."
Mrs. Anderson pulls out her recipe box from the kitchen cabinet and begins writing down the ingredients.
"Did you have any special toppings?"
I smile, remembering the colorful sprinkles we used.
"We had rainbow sprinkles. They made even the plainest cookies look special."
Tommy runs to the pantry and comes back with three different containers of sprinkles.
His mother checks the clock on the wall.
"Looks like we have just enough time to make a batch before bedtime," she says with a wink.
Tommy's eyes light up as he bounces on his toes.
"Let's do it! It'll be the best cookie night ever!"
We stand at the kitchen counter, Mrs. Anderson, Tommy, and I.
She pulls out mixing bowls and measuring cups.
Tommy dumps the flour into the bowl, creating a small white cloud that makes him sneeze.
Mrs. Anderson hands me the butter and sugar.
"Can you measure those out for us?"
I nod, my hands steadier now.
I carefully scoop out the correct amounts, leveling off each cup with a knife just like we did at the orphanage.
Tommy watches intently, his eyes wide with curiosity.
"Did you ever have a favorite cookie at the orphanage?" he asks.
I pause, a memory surfacing, and reply softly, "There was one Christmas when we added cinnamon to the sugar cookies; they tasted like magic."
I measure out the vanilla extract while Mrs. Anderson adds a pinch of cinnamon to the bowl.
The familiar spice immediately triggers memories of Christmas at the orphanage.
Tommy leans over the mixing bowl, inhaling deeply as the warm scent fills the kitchen.
Mrs. Anderson hands me the wooden spoon.
"Can you stir it all together for us?"
I work the dough, making sure the cinnamon blends evenly throughout.
The repetitive motion feels natural, like I'm standing on a stepstool in the orphanage kitchen.
I stir the cookie dough with practiced motions, watching as the butter and sugar blend smoothly together.
The mixture transforms into a uniform color, and I know it's ready.
I learned to count the stirs from Ms. Parker, the orphanage cook, who taught me that twenty-five stirs were enough to mix everything perfectly without overdoing it.
Tommy leans over the bowl, inhaling deeply.
The scent of cinnamon and vanilla fills the kitchen.
Mrs. Anderson checks the oven temperature while humming softly to herself.
After a few more stirs, the dough reaches the desired consistency.
I pause for a moment, remembering how the kids' faces lit up on baking days at the orphanage.
I roll portions of the cookie dough between my palms, making each ball exactly the same size like Ms. Parker taught me.
Tommy watches intently as I demonstrate, then tries to copy my technique.
However, his balls end up too large.
Mrs. Anderson shows him how to use a spoon to measure out consistent amounts.
I place my dough balls on the greased cookie sheet, spacing them exactly two inches apart.
I create perfect rows, just like Ms. Parker taught me.
When Tommy's uneven cookies threaten to merge while baking, I quietly rearrange them on the sheet.
Mrs. Anderson smiles gratefully at me.