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MidReal Story
The Billionaire Reborn
Scenario:Kevin Kenmore, Jr. 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. Kevin inherited immense wealth from his grandfather, shocking everyone. He was the heir to one of the only multi-quintillionaire families 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 newfound wealth to shape those around him, as he reclaims his life? With a new-found sense of responsibility, Kevin will get revenge on those who mistreated him. Will he succeed?
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Kevin Kenmore, Jr.
sarcastic, and determined. Abandoned as a child, he grew up in foster care and faced immense poverty. His exgirlfriend left him for someone richer. Despite years of judgment and belittlement from others, Kevin inherited his grandfather's vast fortune. With newfound power, he seeks revenge on those who wronged him and aims to make his late grandfather proud.
Alex
resourceful, and confident. Having worked various odd jobs to support his sick mother, Alex became a local legend in his town. His charisma helps him win over others quickly. As Kevin's chauffeur, Alex provides insight into the world beyond the luxurious bubble Kevin now inhabits.
David
deceitful, and selfcentered. Previously, David had pretended to be a supportive friend to Kevin, but he was dismissive and cruel when Kevin was struggling. Now married to Maggie, he is likely oblivious or dismissive of Maggie's past treatment of Kevin, showcasing his own selfish nature.
I was a poor orphan, and my girlfriend left me for a guy who was richer than me.
I had been used to being poor all my life, but I never expected that one day I would become one of the richest people in the world.
My grandfather, whom I had never met, left me with an inheritance of trillions of dollars.
My life changed overnight.
I went from being a poor nobody to someone who was treated with the utmost respect.
But what hurt me the most was that my girlfriend didn’t come back to me even after finding out that I was rich.
She didn’t want me back, and she even blocked me on all social media platforms.
I thought I would never be able to get over her, but as time went on, I realized that I was lucky to have found out about her true nature before it was too late.
I was grateful that I didn’t end up marrying her and living a miserable life.
I had finally found closure and moved on with my life.
I walk through the empty halls of my newly acquired mansion, my footsteps echoing against the marble floors.
Alex follows behind me, clipboard in hand, as we discuss the renovations that need to be done.
The twenty-bedroom estate is beautiful, but it needs some work.
The bones are solid, but the interior needs to be updated.
As we walk through the rooms, I can see the potential.
It’s a shame that such a beautiful place has been left unoccupied for so long.
We stop at a large window that looks out over the grounds.
The sun is setting, casting a golden glow over the property.
I can see the pool and tennis court from here, as well as the private golf course and stables.
It’s a lot to take in, but I’m excited to make this place my home.
I grew up in foster homes, always living in cramped and dirty conditions.
I never had much, and I often went without meals or basic necessities.
But now, I have everything I could ever want. I run my fingers over the cold glass of the window, taking in the view one last time before turning back to Alex.
"Have you contacted the local orphanages yet?" he asks me as we continue walking through the house.
"Not yet," I reply.
"I was thinking about converting the east wing into temporary housing for foster kids."
Alex raises an eyebrow at me.
"Are you sure that’s a good idea?" he asks skeptically.
"Why not?" he asks me with a frown on his face.
Standing in the dusty east wing, I trace my fingers along the faded wallpaper as I explain my vision to Alex.
Each bedroom could house two foster kids, I tell him, pointing to the spacious rooms with tall windows that let in plenty of natural light.
The renovation would need new furniture, fresh paint, and updated bathrooms.
But it would be worth it to give these kids a safe and comfortable place to live.
Alex looks unconvinced, so I press on.
"Think about it," I say.
"These kids are already going through so much.
They deserve a chance at a better life.
And what better way to do that than by giving them a safe and comfortable place to live?"
Alex furrows his brow, clearly still unsure.
"But what about the logistics?" he asks.
"How would we make it work?"
I shrug.
"We could hire staff to help with the day-to-day tasks," I suggest.
"And we could work with local organizations to provide support services for the kids."
Alex nods thoughtfully, seeming to consider my words.
After a moment, he speaks up again. "I understand where you’re coming from," he says.
"But are you sure this is the right decision? It’s a big responsibility."
I take a deep breath and look him in the eye.
"I know it won’t be easy," I say.
"But I believe it’s worth it. These kids deserve a chance at a better life, and I want to help give it to them."
Alex nods slowly, seeming to accept my decision.
"Okay," he says.
"If you’re sure this is what you want, then let’s make it happen."
I smile, feeling a sense of relief wash over me.
"Thank you," I say.
"I really appreciate your support."
As we continue walking through the house, I point out various features that could be improved or updated.
There are plenty of opportunities for renovation and redecoration, and I can already see the potential for this place to become something truly special. We stop in front of one of the bedrooms, and I gesture inside.
"This could be one of the rooms for the foster kids," I say.
"It’s got plenty of space for two beds and some furniture."
Alex nods thoughtfully as he looks around the room.
"It’s definitely big enough," he says.
"But what about the bathroom situation? There’s only one bathroom on this floor."
I frown as I consider this problem.
"That could be an issue," I admit.
"We'll need to ensure there's enough staff to manage everything smoothly," Alex suggests, glancing at his clipboard.
"I can allocate part of the inheritance for hiring and training," I reply, determined.
"Alright, let's draft a plan and see how we can make this work," Alex agrees, a hint of excitement in his voice.
I sit at my grandfather's mahogany desk, methodically reviewing the inheritance documents with Alex standing nearby.
My hands tremble as I flip through page after page, detailing asset after asset.
Private islands in the Caribbean, a fleet of mega yachts docked in exotic ports around the world, and sprawling estates on every continent.
The number is staggering: 250 quadrillion dollars.
My eyes widen as I read it again, just to make sure I haven't made a mistake.
Alex clears his throat, breaking the silence.
"Sir, there's one more thing," he says, pulling out a black envelope from his briefcase.
I take it from him, feeling the weight of it in my hands.
The envelope is made of a thick, luxurious paper, and it's sealed with a gold crest.
I run my finger over the crest, feeling the intricate details etched into the metal.
I open the envelope and pull out a sleek black card.
The card is made of a heavy metal, and it has a subtle sheen to it.
In the center of the card is a platinum K, surrounded by intricate patterns and designs. Alex whistles low in his throat as he sees the card.
"That's no ordinary card, sir," he says.
I turn the card over in my hand, studying it carefully.
It feels heavy and substantial, like something that holds real power.
I slide it into my wallet, feeling the weight of it against my leg.
"What does it do?" I ask, my curiosity piqued.
Alex leans in, lowering his voice. "It's a key to the most exclusive club in the world—The K Club."
I raise an eyebrow, intrigued. "And what exactly does that mean for me?"
Alex smiles knowingly. "Access to people and opportunities that can change the world, if you choose to."
I pull up the K Club's website on my grandfather's antique laptop, scanning through its member directory while Alex hovers behind my shoulder.
The site is sleek and minimalist, with a black background and silver text.
There's no clear indication of what the club does or what its members are involved in, but there's a sense of exclusivity and power emanating from the screen.
I click on the events tab and see that there's a charity gala coming up at their Manhattan headquarters.
It's an annual event where billionaire philanthropists gather to fund major initiatives around the world.
Perfect timing.
I draft an email requesting a presentation slot to pitch my foster care vision, emphasizing my grandfather's legacy and the potential impact of our combined efforts.
Alex points out key members to approach—tech moguls and real estate developers who could provide resources beyond just money.
"Do you think they'll take us seriously?" I ask, glancing at Alex.
"With your grandfather's name and that card, they'll have to," he replies confidently.
"But remember, it's not just about the money; it's about convincing them of the vision," he adds, tapping the screen.
I lean back in my grandfather's leather chair, the laptop screen glowing in front of me.
Alex stands behind me, his hand resting on the back of the chair.
The office feels different now, more purposeful than just inherited luxury.
I pull out the K Club card from my wallet and place it on the desk, its metallic surface catching the afternoon light that filters through the window.
My fingers trace the embossed 'K' as I consider the gala ahead.
The foster care project proposal is now sitting in important inboxes, waiting to change lives.
"When do you think we'll hear back?" he asks, glancing at his watch.
"Hopefully soon," I reply, closing the laptop with a decisive click.
Alex leans in slightly, his voice steady.
"And if they don't respond, what's our backup plan?"
I pause, meeting his gaze. "Then we go directly to them, make them see what we're trying to achieve."
I sit at my grandfather's mahogany desk, refreshing my email for the tenth time today.
Alex hovers behind me, his hand gripping the back of my chair.
Suddenly, a notification pops up from the K Club.
My heart races as I click to open it.
The message is brief but clear: they want me to present the foster care initiative at next month's Manhattan gala.
My fingers tremble slightly as I forward the email to our project team.
Alex squeezes my shoulder, his voice filled with excitement.
"We need to start making travel arrangements, preparing the presentation materials, and getting you proper attire."
I grab a legal pad and begin taking notes furiously.
This is our chance to make a difference.
The world is about to see what true legacy means.
I settle into the leather chair at my grandfather's desk, spreading blank papers before me.
Alex brings me a steaming cup of coffee, setting it down carefully.
Opening my laptop, I start typing potential headlines for the presentation: "From Foster Care to Foster Change" and "Breaking the Cycle."
Alex leans over my shoulder, reading the words on the screen.
"We should include some hard statistics," he suggests.
I jot down numbers from my own experience - the percentage of foster kids who end up homeless, incarcerated, or worse.
My hands clench remembering those dark times, but I force myself to keep writing.
I lean back in my grandfather's leather chair, the laptop screen glowing in front of me.
Alex hovers behind me, his hand resting on the back of the chair.
The office feels different now, more purposeful than just inherited luxury.
I pull out the K Club card from my wallet and place it on the desk, its metallic surface catching the afternoon light that filters through the window.
My fingers trace the embossed 'K' as I consider the gala ahead.
The foster care project proposal is now sitting in important inboxes, waiting to change lives.
"When do you think we'll hear back?" he asks, glancing at his watch.
"Hopefully soon," I reply, closing the laptop with a decisive click.
Alex leans in slightly, his voice steady.
"And if they don't respond, what's our backup plan?"
I pause, meeting his gaze.
"Then we go directly to them, make them see what we're trying to achieve."
I sit at my grandfather's mahogany desk, refreshing my email for the tenth time today.
Alex hovers behind me, his hand gripping the back of my chair.
Suddenly, a notification pops up from the K Club.
My heart races as I click to open it.
The message is brief but clear: they want me to present the foster care initiative at next month's Manhattan gala.
My fingers tremble slightly as I forward the email to our project team.
Alex squeezes my shoulder, his voice filled with excitement.
"We need to start making travel arrangements, preparing the presentation materials, and getting you proper attire." I grab a legal pad and begin taking notes furiously.
This is our chance to make a difference.
The world is about to see what true legacy means.
I settle into the leather chair at my grandfather's desk, spreading blank papers before me.
Alex brings me a steaming cup of coffee, setting it down carefully.
Opening my laptop, I start typing potential headlines for the presentation: "From Foster Care to Foster Change" and "Breaking the Cycle."
Alex leans over my shoulder, reading the words on the screen.
"We should include some hard statistics," he suggests.
I jot down numbers from my own experience - the percentage of foster kids who end up homeless, incarcerated, or worse.
My hands clench remembering those dark times, but I force myself to keep writing.
I lean back in my grandfather's leather chair, fingers hovering over the laptop keyboard.
The foster care statistics stare back at me from the screen - cold numbers that once defined my life.
I start typing my own story: nights spent hungry, birthdays without presents, moving between homes with just a trash bag of belongings.
Alex reads over my shoulder, suggesting which details might resonate most with wealthy donors.
When I describe the day I aged out of the system with nowhere to go, my voice catches.
Alex places a reassuring hand on my back.
"That story is powerful," he says softly, "and it's exactly what they need to hear."
I nod, taking a deep breath. "It's time they understand the reality behind the numbers."
I look up from my laptop as Alex leans against the desk, his expression thoughtful.
"We should visit St. Mary's Home," he suggests.
My stomach tightens at the mention of my old foster placement.
"Why?"
I ask cautiously.
Alex explains that seeing the current residents and conditions firsthand would add depth to our presentation.
We could interview them, share their stories alongside statistics.
I resist at first, suggesting phone calls would be enough.
But Alex insists that witnessing their struggles in person will fuel our mission even more.
After a long pause, I nod in agreement and ask him to drive me there tomorrow morning.
Alex nods, understanding the weight of this decision.
I stand in front of St. Mary's Home, my feet rooted to the cracked sidewalk.
The weathered brick entrance stares back, the peeling green door and rusty metal railings just as they were five years ago when I aged out.
Alex steps closer, noticing my rigid posture and clenched fists.
My breath comes in short bursts as memories flood back - carrying my trash bag of belongings down these very steps, having nowhere to go.
I start to turn away, but Alex gently lifts my chin, his eyes searching mine.
"We're here for them," he whispers, and I nod, stepping forward.
I step through the doorway, the musty air hitting me like a physical force.
Mrs. Peterson, the aging house mother, looks up from behind the front desk.
Her eyes widen in recognition, and she rushes forward, pulling me into a tight hug that smells of cheap detergent and butterscotch candies.
"Sweetie, it's been so long," she says, her voice thick with emotion.
Behind her, two teenage residents hover uncertainly in the hallway.
Their wary expressions mirror how I used to look - a mix of curiosity and guardedness.
Alex stays close beside me, his hand accidentally brushing against mine as we navigate the narrow entrance.
The unexpected contact makes my skin tingle, and I find myself hyperaware of his presence.
I pull back from Mrs. Peterson's hug and gesture toward the worn furniture and peeling wallpaper.
"How many kids do you have now?"
I ask, my voice catching as I notice crayon marks on the wall - just like the ones I made when I was here.
Mrs. Peterson sighs, her eyes clouding over.
"We're at maximum capacity with twelve kids, but we could use more beds. And winter coats. It's getting cold out there."
The two teenagers in the hallway inch closer, listening intently.
Alex stands quietly beside me, his presence both comforting and unnerving.
Mrs. Peterson leads us into the living room, where a few younger kids are playing with hand-me-down toys.
She explains that their washing machine broke down last month, and they've been relying on a local laundromat ever since.
The roof leaks when it rains, and they're struggling to find someone to fix it without breaking the bank.
As she talks, I notice the worn couch cushions and the faded rug that covers the creaky floorboards.
It's all so familiar, yet somehow feels different now that I'm not living here anymore.
Mrs. Peterson mentions that their food budget has been cut again, and they're having to get creative with meals.
I glance at Alex, and the determination in his eyes tells me we're going to change that.