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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 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
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
She is the daughter of one of Shane's foster families. She is resentful,entitled,and dismissive. Isabella harbors animosity towards Shane due to her father’s mistreatment and the perceived benefits of knowing who he truly is. Her attitude reflects the negativity Shane faced from those around him before his inheritance. However,her father’s regretful words hint at underlying complexities and potential for personal growth.
My girlfriend left me a few days ago.
She said I was too poor and couldn't give her a good life, so she went to find a richer guy.
I'm not sad.
I've been living in poverty for twenty-two years, and I've gotten used to being discarded.
I was an orphan, and the only family I had were my foster parents and their children.
But they were not my real family, and they treated me badly.
They made me work for them like a servant, and they called me a failure.
They said I would never amount to anything in life.
They were wrong.
So very wrong.
Because now I have inherited a multi-quintillion-dollar fortune from my grandfather, who is the only multi-googolaire in the world.
No one knows this except me and my lawyers.
And I'm not telling anyone until I'm done with all the legal proceedings and formalities.
It's been two weeks since I received the news, and I'm still in shock.
I keep pinching myself to see if I am dreaming.
But it's not a dream.
It's reality, and it's too good to be true.
My life is about to change in ways I never thought possible.
I sit in my cramped studio apartment, staring at the business card in my hand.
The expensive cardstock feels foreign between my calloused fingers.
I've been staring at it for the past five minutes, trying to work up the courage to call the number on it.
Finally, I take a deep breath and dial.
It takes me three tries to get it right; my hands are shaking so badly.
The phone rings once, twice, before a crisp voice answers.
"Mr. Thompson speaking."
"Hi," I say, my voice sounding small and uncertain.
"Who is this?"
"It's me," I say, feeling like an idiot.
"Me who?"
I clear my throat.
"My name is…"
I pause, realizing I don't know what to say.
Do I introduce myself as the multi-billionaire heir?
Or do I just give him my name?
"Mr. Thompson," I say finally, "this is the person you called last week."
There's a pause on the other end of the line, and then he says, "Oh yes. Of course. How are you doing today?"
"I'm fine," I say, even though I'm not.
My heart is racing and my palms are sweating.
This is all so surreal.
"I'm glad to hear that," he says smoothly.
"I wanted to call and let you know that we've finished going over the paperwork for your inheritance. We just need you to sign a few more documents and then we can move forward with transferring the funds into your account." "Okay," I say, trying to sound calm.
"When do you need me to come in?"
"How about tomorrow afternoon?"
"That works for me," I say, even though it doesn't really matter when I go in.
I don't have anywhere else to be or anyone else to see.
"Great," he says.
"I'll send a car for you at 2 pm."
"A car?" "Yes," he says patiently.
"We'll need to take you to a secure location to sign the documents. And then we'll set up an account for you at a bank of your choice."
"Oh," I say, feeling stupid again.
"Okay."
"And then we can discuss setting up offshore accounts and trust funds for you," he continues.
"There are many options available to you, and we can go over them all in more detail tomorrow."
"Okay," I say again, feeling overwhelmed by everything he's saying.
"Great," he says.
"I'll see you tomorrow then."
"Okay."
"Goodbye."
I hang up the phone and stare at it for a moment, trying to process everything that just happened.
And then I look around my apartment, at the worn duffel bag in the corner and the crumpled photo on the table.
Everything I own could fit in that bag.
I stand up and walk over to the bag, picking it up and setting it on my bed.
I start methodically packing my few possessions into it: three shirts, two pairs of jeans, a handful of underwear and socks, my phone charger, and my wallet.
As I'm folding my last shirt, I notice the photo of me and Julia at the pier.
It was taken two months ago, before we started dating.
We had gone to the beach with some friends, and we had both been laughing as we stood there posing for the picture.
I remember feeling so happy that day, like anything was possible.
Now I just feel stupid.
I rip the photo in half and throw it in the trash.
As I zip up my bag, I take one last look around my apartment.
The walls are cracked and water-stained, and there's a smell of mildew that never seems to go away.
But it's been home for the past two years, and now it feels empty and hollow. My phone buzzes with an incoming text from Helen.
"Hey," she says.
"Are you okay?"
"Yeah," I say.
"Just getting ready for tomorrow."
"Are you excited?"
"A little nervous," I admit.
"This is all so new for me."
"I know," she says sympathetically.
"But you'll be fine. You're going to do great things with this money. And don't forget to enjoy yourself along the way."
"I will," I say, even though I'm not sure if that's true yet.
"Thanks for being such a good friend."
"No problem," she says.
"Always," Helen replies.
"Just remember, you deserve every bit of this."
I hesitate, then ask, "Do you think Julia will come back if she finds out?"
I pace around my cramped apartment, phone in hand, debating whether to call Jim and Marcus.
These guys stuck with me through the worst of times, sharing cheap beers and covering my rent when I was broke.
They deserve to know about this windfall.
My thumb hovers over Jim's number first.
The call connects, and I hear his gruff "Yeah?" through the speaker.
"Hey, man," I say, stumbling over my words.
"I got some crazy news."
"What is it?"
Jim asks, sounding skeptical.
"I just found out I inherited a bunch of money," I say, my voice cracking.
There's a long pause on the other end of the line, and then Jim lets out a low whistle.
"Holy shit, man. How much are we talking?"
"A lot," I say vaguely.
"Like, a lot a lot."
"Damn," Jim says.
"That's amazing. You're going to be set for life."
"Yeah," I say, still trying to wrap my head around it all.
"I'm still in shock."
"Well, you deserve it," Jim says sincerely.
"You've been through so much crap. This is like the universe finally giving you a break."
"Thanks, man," I say, feeling a lump form in my throat.
"I'm going to call Marcus next and let him know."
"Good luck with that," Jim says with a chuckle.
"You know how he is about answering his phone."
I laugh and hang up with Jim before dialing Marcus's number.
Marcus picks up on the third ring, sounding groggy.
"Yeah, who's this?" he mumbles.
"It's me, man," I say quickly. "I've got some insane news."
"What's up?" Marcus asks, suddenly more alert.
"I just inherited a fortune," I blurt out, still not quite believing it myself.
"No way," Marcus replies, disbelief clear in his voice. "You're serious?"
"Dead serious," I confirm. "It's life-changing, dude."
"Wow," Marcus breathes out, stunned. "What are you going to do with all that money?"
After hanging up with Marcus, I pull out my laptop and start researching properties in Bali.
The prices that once seemed astronomical now feel trivial.
I click through listings of infinity pools and ocean views, imagining myself there instead of this cramped apartment.
A notification pops up - Julia posting another photo with her new boyfriend at some fancy restaurant.
I close social media and focus on a stunning five-bedroom villa in Uluwatu.
The realtor's website has a "Contact Now" button.
My cursor hovers over it as I consider making my first major purchase.
My phone buzzes - it's Helen sending a thumbs up emoji about my travel plans.
I pull up my phone and create a group chat with Jim and Marcus.
My fingers hover over the keys for a moment before I finally type out the message: "Want to check out some villas in Bali with me next week? All expenses covered."
The message sits there for what feels like an eternity, and then Jim responds with a string of excited emojis.
Marcus calls immediately, his voice cracking as he asks if I'm serious.
I forward them both the villa listing - the one with the cliff-edge infinity pool and private beach access.
While they're processing the details, I open my laptop and book three first-class tickets to Bali.
I close the laptop, feeling the weight of my old life lift as I step into the unknown.
I methodically sort through my meager possessions, deciding what deserves space in my new life.
The worn leather duffel bag from the thrift store sits open on my bed as I fold my best shirt - the one without holes - and place it inside.
My hands linger on the small box of photos beneath my bed, mostly snapshots from better days with Jim and Marcus.
I add these to the bag, along with my laptop and the business card from Mr. Thompson.
The rest - old bills, rejected job applications, and Julia's forgotten sweater - I dump into a garbage bag.
I stand at my apartment door, taking one last look around the dingy space that witnessed my struggles.
The duffel bag feels light despite containing my entire life.
My phone buzzes - the driver is waiting downstairs.
In the elevator, I pull out the blue and gold Citibank card, running my thumb over the platinum W.
The doorman, who usually ignores me, suddenly straightens up as a sleek black Mercedes idles by the curb.
The uniformed driver steps out, takes my bag, and opens the door.
I slide into the leather backseat, watching my old building shrink away through the tinted windows.
I pull out my phone, typing and deleting a few messages before finally sending a simple "Confirmed" to Mr. Thompson.
The Mercedes glides smoothly through morning traffic, and I sink into the leather seat, which feels foreign against my worn jeans.
The city outside transforms - my rundown neighborhood gives way to the gleaming skyscrapers of the financial district.
As we pass Julia's favorite coffee shop, I see her in line through the window, oblivious to my presence in the tinted car.
Instinctively, I sink lower in my seat.
"We're five minutes early," the driver's voice comes through the intercom.
The Mercedes pulls into an underground parking garage, and the driver turns to me.
"Shall I take you up, sir?"
I hesitate, then ask him to wait.
Sitting in the quiet car, I pull out my grandfather's business card again.
It's worn from years in his wallet, the edges frayed and the embossed letters faded.
I run my thumb over them, feeling the slight indentation of each letter.
The leather seat creaks as I shift, taking slow breaths to steady myself.
I pull out my phone and open the notes app, scrolling through the questions I typed last night about trust funds and offshore accounts.
A man in a suit walks past the car, glancing at his Rolex.
I watch him go, wondering if he works in this building.
"Do you think it's really going to be different this time?" I murmur, more to myself than anyone else.
The driver, catching my eye in the rearview mirror, replies, "If Mr. Thompson is involved, it's bound to be."
I nod slowly, feeling the weight of his words settle in the pit of my stomach.
I hesitate at the polished elevator doors, my reflection distorted in the chrome surface.
The security guard eyes me warily, taking in my worn jeans and the duffel bag slung over my shoulder.
But when I show him Mr. Thompson's card, his expression changes instantly.
He straightens up and swipes his keycard, opening the doors for me with a nod.
"Executive floor," he says curtly.
"Forty floors up."
Inside the elevator, I notice that my hands are trembling again.
The mirrored walls seem to multiply my nervous movements as I shift from one foot to the other.
The elevator moves smoothly upwards, a soft ding marking each passing level.
The numbers tick by - twenty-five, thirty, thirty-five.
Forty floors up, and then my new life will begin.
The polished marble floor reflects my worn sneakers as I walk down the silent hallway.
Framed stock certificates and oil paintings of stern-faced men line the walls, their eyes seeming to follow me as I pass.
At the end of the hall, a secretary sits behind a massive mahogany desk, typing on her computer.
She looks up as I approach, her gaze flickering over my thrift store clothes with barely concealed judgment.
She rises from her chair, smoothing down her crisp blazer.
"Can I help you?" she asks, her voice polite but cool.
I hold out the business card again, my fingers feeling clammy against the embossed letters.
She takes it from me and examines it for a moment before picking up the phone on her desk.
"Yes, Mr. Thompson?"
Her voice is low and smooth, a practiced cadence that betrays none of her earlier skepticism.
"He's here," she says quietly, glancing at me as she listens to Mr. Thompson's response.
"Of course."
As she hangs up the phone, I notice a Forbes magazine lying on her desk.
The cover features a photo of my grandfather, his eyes looking directly at me as if he can see into my very soul.
The headline reads "The Richest Man in America: A Profile of Julian St. Clair."
I swallow hard, my throat feeling dry and tight. The secretary gestures to the heavy wooden doors behind her desk, their intricate carvings glinting in the soft light of the hallway.
"Mr. Thompson will see you now," she says, her voice taking on a forced politeness.
I nod silently, tucking the business card back into my pocket as I make my way towards the doors.
As I pass by the secretary's desk again, I catch sight of my own reflection in the window behind her chair.
I pause for a moment, then push open the doors to face whatever awaits me inside.
I pause just inside the doorway, taking in the massive office that stretches out before me.
The floor-to-ceiling windows offer a breathtaking view of the city below, the sunlight glinting off the towering skyscrapers.
Mr. Thompson rises from behind his desk, a tall figure in a tailored suit with silver hair and piercing blue eyes.
He regards me for a moment, then gestures towards the leather chair in front of his desk.
"Please, have a seat," he says, his voice low and commanding.
As I lower myself into the chair, I notice the stack of documents on his desk, their edges neatly aligned.
On top of the stack is a photo of my grandfather and me, taken at a park I barely remember visiting.
I feel a pang of recognition as I gaze at the younger version of myself, my eyes wide and innocent in the sunlight.
Mr. Thompson extends his hand across the desk, his eyes studying my face intently.
"Welcome, Shane," he says, his voice firm but gentle.
I take his hand hesitantly, feeling the weight of his gaze upon me.
"I'm glad you came," he says, his voice taking on a note of sincerity.
He releases my hand and reaches into the drawer of his desk, pulling out a sealed envelope.
"This is for you," he explains, his voice low and measured.
"It's a letter your grandfather wrote before he passed away. He wanted you to have it."
I take the envelope from him, feeling the weight of the paper in my hands.
It's expensive stationery, with a gold monogram embossed on the corner.
My fingers tremble slightly as I break the wax seal, sliding my finger under the flap to release the contents.
Inside, I find several pages of handwritten text, the ink slightly faded with age.
Mr. Thompson rises from his chair again, his movements fluid and deliberate.
"If you'll excuse me," he says quietly, "I'll give you some time to read it."
As he walks towards the door, his footsteps echo softly on the polished floor.
I watch him go, then turn my attention back to the letter in my hands.
The script is familiar, the loops and lines unmistakably my grandfather's.
"Do you know what it says?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
Mr. Thompson pauses at the door, glancing back with a solemn expression. "Only that it's meant to change everything for you."
I unfold the thick cream-colored pages, my fingers trembling slightly as I hold them in place.
The script is elegant and precise, the ink bleeding ever so slightly into the textured paper.
My dearest grandson Shane,
I write these words to you today with a mix of sadness and hope.
As you read this letter, know that I have passed on to the great beyond, but my legacy lives on through you.
I am not sure how much your mother has told you about me or our family history, but I want you to know the truth.
I grew up with nothing, just like you.
My parents were poor and worked hard every day to make ends meet.
I had to drop out of school at a young age to help support my family.
But even though things were tough, I always had big dreams.
I knew that there was more to life than living in poverty, so I worked hard and never gave up on my goals. At first, it wasn't easy.
There were times when I had to live on the streets and go hungry for days at a time.
But I refused to let that break me.
Instead, I used those experiences to fuel my determination to succeed.
I started out by working odd jobs here and there, anything that would put food on the table and keep a roof over my head.
But soon, I realized that I wanted more than just enough to survive.
I wanted to thrive.
So I started saving up every penny I could, determined to invest it in something that would make me rich.
It took years of hard work and sacrifice, but eventually, I found my big break.
I invested in a small tech company that ended up becoming one of the biggest players in the industry.
Overnight, I went from being a struggling young man living on the streets to a wealthy businessman with more money than I knew what to do with. But even though I had achieved my dream of becoming rich, I knew that there was still more work to be done.
I wanted to use my wealth and influence to help others achieve their own goals and dreams.
So I started investing in other businesses and projects, always looking for ways to make a positive impact on the world around me.
And that's where you come in, Shane.
As my only grandson, you are the heir to my fortune and legacy.
I know that you have big dreams of your own, and I want you to know that I believe in you too.
I sit back in the leather chair, clutching the letter tightly in my hands as tears blur my vision.
The words on the page are like a reflection of my own life, a mirror image of the struggles and hardships that I have faced.
I can feel the weight of his words settling deep within me, a sense of connection and understanding that transcends time and space.
I pull out my phone and type his name into the search bar, scrolling through the results with a mixture of curiosity and trepidation.
The first few articles are about his business ventures and philanthropic efforts, highlighting his success as a tech mogul and his commitment to giving back to the community.
But as I scroll further down the list, I come across a series of articles that catch my eye.
They are all about his initiatives to help homeless people, providing them with food, shelter, and job training.
There are stories about how he used his wealth to build homeless shelters and provide support services for those in need.
And there are even articles about how he started a scholarship program for underprivileged kids, giving them the opportunity to go to college and pursue their dreams. As I read through these articles, I am struck by the realization that my grandfather's legacy is not just about making money or accumulating wealth.
It is about using his resources to make a positive impact on the world around him.
It is about helping others achieve their goals and dreams, just as he did for himself.
I stand up from the chair and walk over to the window, gazing out at the city below.
The sun is setting over the towering skyscrapers, casting a golden glow over the concrete jungle.
As I look out at the bustling streets, I can see people rushing to and fro, each one with their own story and struggles.
And I know that my grandfather's legacy is not just about him or me or our family.
It is about all of those people out there, each one deserving of a chance to succeed and thrive. As I stand there lost in thought, I notice something peculiar.
My reflection in the window overlaps with a photo of my grandfather sitting on Mr. Thompson's desk.
It's as if we are looking at each other through time and space, connected by our shared experiences and values.
I turn back to Mr. Thompson, who stands quietly by the door, watching me with a knowing look.
"Did he ever talk to you about his plans for the future?" I ask, my voice steadying with newfound resolve.
Mr. Thompson nods slowly, a faint smile playing on his lips. "He always said you'd be the one to carry them forward."
I sit back down at Mr. Thompson's desk and pull out his phone from the drawer.
I scroll through the contacts, searching for the names of my closest friends.
I know that if I am going to fulfill my grandfather's mission, I will need their help.
Jim's name is first on the list, and I press the call button before placing the phone to my ear.
It rings several times before he picks up.
"Hey, what's up?" he asks, his voice cheerful and upbeat.
"I need your help with something," I explain, my voice steady and determined.
"What do you need?"
Jim asks, his tone turning serious.
"I want to help others," I say simply, "just like my grandfather did."
There is a pause on the other end of the line before Jim speaks again.
"That's a great idea," he says, his voice filled with enthusiasm.
"How can I help?"
"Well, for starters," I reply, "I was thinking about organizing some charity events. Maybe we could do a fundraiser or something like that."
"That sounds awesome," Jim exclaims, "I'm totally down to help. Let me know what you need me to do."
I hang up the phone and quickly dial another number.
The twins, Landon and Lance, answer on the second ring.
"What's up guys?" they ask in unison, their voices blending together in a familiar harmony. "Not much," I reply casually, "just wanted to touch base with you guys."
"Cool," they respond in unison again.
"So what's going on?"
I take a deep breath before launching into an explanation of my grandfather's mission and how I want to carry it forward by helping others.
As I speak, I can hear their voices growing quieter on the other end of the line.
They are no longer joking around or teasing each other like they normally do when we talk.
Instead, they seem more serious and focused than usual.
"That sounds amazing," Landon says when I finish speaking.
"We'd love to help you out in any way that we can."
"Yeah, definitely," Lance agrees enthusiastically.
"Just let us know what you need us to do."
I thank them both and hang up the phone again before dialing Marcus' number.
He answers after just one ring.
"Hey Shane," he says quietly, his voice low and measured as always. "What's going on?"
"Hey, what's up?"
Marcus asks, his voice friendly and familiar.
"I need your help with something," I explain, leaning back in Mr. Thompson's leather chair as I hold the phone to my ear.
"Sure, what do you need?"
Marcus asks, his tone turning serious.
"I want to organize a charity event," I say, "and I was hoping you could help me plan it."
"Of course," Marcus replies without hesitation.
"I've worked on event planning before, so I'd be happy to help you out."
I take a deep breath and begin explaining my vision for the event.
"I want it to be a black-tie fundraiser," I say, "with a live band and a silent auction. And I want it to be held at the Grand Plaza Hotel."
The Grand Plaza Hotel is one of the most luxurious hotels in the city, known for its opulent decor and high-end amenities.
It's also where Julia's family used to hold their annual business dinners every year.
They would always invite all of their important clients and colleagues, but they never invited me.
I remember feeling hurt and left out when Julia would tell me about those dinners.
She would describe the fancy food and drinks, the expensive suits and gowns, and the high-stakes business deals that were made over cocktails and canapés. But now, I want to turn the tables.
I want to host my own event at the Grand Plaza Hotel, one that will show everyone how successful and powerful I have become.
And I want Julia to be there to see it all.
"So what kind of charity are you planning to support?"
Marcus asks, interrupting my thoughts.
"I'm not sure yet," I admit.
"I was thinking maybe something related to education or poverty relief."
"That sounds great," Marcus says encouragingly.
"There are so many good causes out there that could use our support."
I nod in agreement, even though he can't see me over the phone.
"Yeah, definitely," I say.
"So what do you think about my idea for the event?"
"It sounds amazing," Marcus replies without hesitation.
"I'm sure it will be a huge success. Just let me know what you need me to do to help."
I smile as I hang up the phone with Marcus.
I feel like everything is falling into place now that I have my friends on board with my plan. The next step is to start making arrangements for the event itself.
I pace around my new penthouse living room while Jim, Marcus, and Helen settle into the Italian leather couches.
The city sparkles through the floor-to-ceiling windows behind them, a breathtaking view that never gets old.
I lay out stacks of documents on the glass coffee table in front of them - charity proposals, event plans, investment strategies.
Marcus picks up the Grand Plaza Hotel contract and begins flipping through it while Jim studies the budget breakdown for the fundraiser.
Helen looks around the room curiously, taking in the modern decor and expensive artwork on the walls.
Her eyes land on a framed photo of my grandfather sitting on the desk in the corner.
"Who's that?"
She asks, pointing to the picture.
"That's my grandfather," I reply, walking over to join her by the desk.
"He was a very successful businessman."
Helen picks up the photo and examines it more closely.
"He looks like a kind man," she says after a moment.
"He was," I agree, feeling a pang of sadness at his loss.
"He left me everything when he passed away."
Helen sets the photo back down on the desk and looks at me with curiosity in her eyes.
"What happened to him?"
I hesitate for a moment before answering.
"I'm not really sure," I admit finally.
"All I know is that he died suddenly, leaving me his entire fortune." Helen nods sympathetically, but I can tell she wants to know more.
"Did he leave you any instructions or guidance?"
She asks after a moment.
I pull out my grandfather's letter from my pocket and hand it to her.
"Read this," I say quietly.
Helen takes the letter from me and begins reading it silently while Jim and Marcus continue studying the documents on the coffee table.
As she reads, I watch her face carefully for any sign of reaction or emotion.
When she finishes reading, she looks up at me with tears in her eyes.
"This is amazing," she says softly, handing the letter back to me.
"Your grandfather was an incredible man."
I nod in agreement, feeling a sense of pride and gratitude towards him.
"Yes, he was," I say simply.
"And now I want to carry on his legacy by helping others."
Helen smiles at me warmly, her eyes shining with admiration and respect.
"I think that's wonderful," she says sincerely.
"I'm happy to help you in any way that I can."
"Thank you, Helen," I say, feeling a surge of determination.
Jim looks up from the budget breakdown and grins.
"So, when do we start making this dream a reality?"
I sit down at my new mahogany desk and pull out a piece of paper.
"Let's start by making a list of potential guest names," I say, picking up a pen.
Helen nods and leans forward in her chair.
"We should invite some of the local business leaders," she suggests.
"Maybe some politicians too."
I nod in agreement and begin writing down names on the paper.
"And we should also invite some philanthropists," I add, pulling out my grandfather's old contact list from my desk drawer.
Helen looks at me curiously as I flip through the pages.
"Who are those people?"
"They're some of the wealthiest and most influential individuals in the city," I explain, "and they have a history of supporting good causes."
As I scan the list, one name catches my eye - Julia's family.
They own several properties downtown that could benefit from our mission.
I hesitate for a moment before writing down their names.
Helen notices my hesitation and raises an eyebrow.
"Is everything okay?"
I nod quickly, not wanting to reveal my true intentions.
"Yes, everything is fine."
She looks at me skeptically but doesn't press the issue further.
"Okay, let's get started then."
I move over to my laptop and open up the custom invitation template that Marcus designed for me.
I stare at the spreadsheet of names, my cursor hovering over the empty cell where Julia's family name belongs.
Images flash through my mind - their dismissive looks at family events, Julia's father calling me a "temporary distraction" for his daughter.
With deliberate keystrokes, I type "Mr. and Mrs. Richardson" into the VIP section.
Helen glances over, recognizing the names.
She starts to speak, but I continue typing their business address and contact details.
The invitation will show them exactly who I've become.
I review the guest list one final time in my office.
Helen sits at the desk beside me, typing up a list of RSVPs as they come in.
The screen shows that the Richardsons' invitations have been "delivered," but I can't resist the urge to click on their name and check if they've opened it yet.
Instead, I open up the event planning checklist that Marcus sent over.
The Grand Plaza's marble ballroom and champagne tower arrangements blur together in my mind as I picture Julia's parents reading the invitation.
Their shocked expressions will mirror the contempt they showed when they kicked me out of their house last Christmas.
Helen interrupts my thoughts, announcing that the first confirmations are starting to come in.
A knock at my office door pulls me out of my thoughts.
"Come in," I call out, expecting Helen to enter with the latest RSVPs.
Instead, Landon and Lance burst through the door, their identical grins lighting up the room.
Helen looks up from her laptop, startled by their sudden arrival.
The twins make themselves at home, taking seats in the leather chairs across from my desk.
Their expensive suits and perfectly styled hair are a stark contrast to their playful demeanor.
Landon pulls out his phone and starts scrolling through his contact list, while Lance grabs the guest list from my desk to review.
"Okay, let's see who we can add to this list," Lance says, scanning the names.
"We should invite some of our business associates," Landon suggests, already dialing a number on his phone.
"And maybe some celebrities too," Lance adds, jotting down a few names on the list.
The twins start finishing each other's sentences as they work together seamlessly, suggesting additions and improvements to the event plan.
Landon suddenly pauses, looking up with a mischievous glint in his eye.
"Hey, what about Julia?" he asks, feigning innocence.
Helen shoots me a quick glance, sensing the tension in the room.
I lean back in my leather chair, staring at Julia's contact information on my screen.
Helen watches silently as I click to add Julia's name and personal email to the guest list.
My finger hovers over the keyboard before typing a personalized note: "Your presence would mean a lot."
The words feel both sincere and calculated.
I remember Julia's last words about my lack of ambition, and satisfaction courses through me as I click send.
The confirmation email appears instantly - the invitation to the most exclusive event of the year, delivered directly to her inbox.
I close my laptop, knowing that the next move is hers.
I sit at my desk, absently tapping my pen on the glass top.
Landon and Lance are engrossed in a heated discussion about event logistics, debating the finer points of seating arrangements.
Their animated chatter suddenly ceases when Helen mentions Julia's invitation.
The twins exchange that familiar look - the one they've shared since childhood when they're plotting something.
It's a look that never bodes well for those on the receiving end of their schemes.
Lance speaks up first, his tone casual yet calculated.
"Why don't we put Julia at the table near the stage? It'll be a great spot to see everything."
Landon nods in agreement, a smirk playing on his lips.
"And her new boyfriend should sit at the far end of the room, away from her."
Their banter continues, each suggesting more and more ridiculous placements for Julia's date.
I grip my pen tighter, watching them strategize with an intensity I remember from our school days.
Their voices take on a sharp edge as they debate, their competitive nature evident in every word. Finally, Lance pulls out his phone and starts typing furiously.
"I'm texting Julia directly," he says, not looking up from his screen.
"I'm sure she'll love where we've seated her date."
I lean back in my leather chair, watching the twins argue over the seating chart spread across my desk.
Lance wants Julia and her date separated by three tables, while Landon insists on placing them at opposite ends of the ballroom.
Helen watches from the corner, raising an eyebrow at their increasingly elaborate schemes.
When Lance suggests putting Julia's boyfriend near the kitchen doors, I finally wave my hand in approval.
The twins high-five each other and start rearranging name cards with military precision.
