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MidReal Story
The Billionaire Reborn
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,labeled as a failure by those around him. He is resilient,determined,and proud. After being kicked out of college and living a poor,makeshift life,Shane discovers he inherited his grandfather's vast wealth,becoming the richest man in the world. Overcoming past struggles,he vows to reclaim his life,seeking revenge on those who mistreated him while thriving in his new role as a powerful philanthropist.
Alex
He is Shane's former college roommate and friend. He is ambitious,envious,and straightforward. Alex struggles with his own insecurities as he watches Shane's life transform from poverty to unimaginable wealth. He tries to maintain a friendship with Shane despite their differing paths,seeking guidance on how Alex could emulate Shane's success without sacrificing his integrity.
Grandfather
He was a wealthy entrepreneur who raised Shane in foster care after losing his family in a fire. He is supportive,patient,and wise. Through letters and sparse personal contact,the grandfather instilled in Shane values of resilience and selfreliance. His untimely death leaves Shane unexpectedly inheriting his vast fortune,which becomes the catalyst for Shane's personal redemption and global influence.
I was an orphan and was raised in foster care.
My girlfriend left me for a richer guy.
I was poor and had no money even to buy clothes for myself.
I was kicked out of college because I couldn't afford to pay my tuition fees.
I had no choice but to live in a shabby room and work in a supermarket as a packer to earn a living.
Sometimes, I didn't have enough money for food, so I had to go hungry or reduce my spending on other necessities.
That was my life until I turned 25.
But one day, all of this changed.
I became the richest man in the world overnight.
Everything happened so fast that it took me a while to get used to it.
I had been living in poverty all my life until I received news that my grandfather, whom I had never seen or heard of, had passed away.
He was the only multi-googolaire in the world.
No one knew about him and how he made all his money.
He was a mystery and many people talked about him.
Some said he was an alien and made all his money from outer space.
Others said he made his money by smuggling drugs.
But the truth was far from all these stories.
He was a very smart man.
He was a genius and had a very good heart.
He made all his money from stocks and investments.
He was also a very good programmer and made millions by creating apps and games.
But he was also very generous and helped many people.
He donated millions to charity and helped many people in need.
He also helped many students to get scholarships to study abroad.
That's how I knew him.
I was one of the students he helped.
I got a full scholarship to study abroad thanks to him.
And that's how I became the richest man in the world overnight.
I sit at the mahogany desk in the lawyer's office, hands trembling as I scan the documents before me.
The numbers blur on the page, but I know them by heart now - 300 googol dollars, give or take a few billion.
It's not just the money, though that's enough to make anyone's head spin.
It's the assets, too - private islands scattered across every ocean, mega yachts docked in exclusive harbors, penthouses in every major city on earth. Page after page of property deeds, stock certificates, and bank statements.
My throat tightens as I reach the final page.
There, clipped to the corner, is a sleek blue Citibank card.
The platinum W catches the fluorescent light overhead, almost mocking my threadbare jacket and worn shoes.
I glance up at the lawyer sitting across from me, his expression impassive behind wire-rimmed glasses.
He clears his throat, sliding a pen toward me across the polished wood surface of his desk.
"Sign here," he says, his voice firm but polite.
"Why me?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
The lawyer adjusts his glasses, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his lips.
"He believed in second chances, and you were his favorite story."
I sit in the leather chair, the soft cushions sinking beneath me.
It's too comfortable, too luxurious.
I shift uncomfortably, my eyes fixed on the stack of papers in front of me.
Mr. Harrison, the lawyer, clears his throat and begins to explain each document in detail.
I listen intently, my hands growing sweaty as I flip through the pages.
The words blur together - offshore accounts, property deeds, stocks and bonds.
My head spins as I try to comprehend it all.
The pen feels heavy in my hand as I lift it to sign the first document.
The tip glides smoothly across the paper, leaving behind a trail of black ink.
With each signature, memories flood my mind - sleeping in my car on cold winter nights, eating expired food from the supermarket dumpster, Liz's cruel words echoing in my mind: "You're worthless. You'll never amount to anything."
But with each stroke of the pen, those memories fade away, replaced by a sense of determination and purpose.
Mr. Harrison points to the final line requiring my signature.
"Do you understand what this means?" he asks, his voice steady but with an undercurrent of urgency.
I nod slowly, my voice catching in my throat. "It means I have a chance to change everything."
"Exactly," Mr. Harrison replies, leaning back with a satisfied nod.
The leather chair creaks as I lean forward to sign the last page, my hand steadier now after dozens of signatures.
Mr. Harrison slides another tissue-thin sheet in front of me, pointing to the marked line.
"This transfers the final portion of the estate - a private island in the Pacific."
I glance up, meeting his eyes for a brief moment before returning my focus to the document.
My pen hovers above the paper, hesitating for a fraction of a second.
In the margin, a handwritten note catches my eye: "For Shane - make it count."
The familiar scrawl sends a shiver down my spine - it's the same handwriting from the scholarship letter years ago.
I press the pen down, watching as the ink flows into my name.
I watch Mr. Harrison's assistant enter the room, carrying a stack of folders in her arms.
Her heels click against the marble floor as she approaches Mr. Harrison's desk.
She's young, maybe my age, with dark hair pulled back neatly into a bun.
When she hands the folders to Mr. Harrison, her eyes meet mine and her smile stays fixed a moment too long.
I shift uncomfortably in my chair, unused to such attention.
Just yesterday I was invisible, a supermarket worker no one looked twice at.
Now this woman's gaze follows me as she arranges papers on the desk, her movements deliberate and measured.
"Is there something else I should know?" I ask, trying to ignore the heat rising in my cheeks.
She pauses, her eyes flicking to Mr. Harrison before returning to me. "Just that you're not alone in this, Shane," she says softly, her voice carrying a weight of sincerity.
I lean back in the leather chair, watching Mr. Harrison meticulously review my signature on each page.
The weight of the moment settles heavy in the air as he slides the stack into a manila folder marked "Weber Estate."
His assistant brings over a sleek black briefcase, clicking it open to reveal its contents.
A black credit card lies atop a neat pile of documents, next to three sets of keys and a smartphone.
Mr. Harrison's voice cuts through the silence as he explains each item: "The credit card has no limit. The keys are for your grandfather's Manhattan penthouse, London townhouse, and primary vehicle. The phone contains all necessary contacts."
I blink, trying to process the enormity of it all.
"Why now?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
Mr. Harrison exchanges a glance with his assistant before replying, "Your grandfather believed in second chances, Shane."
I grip the leather briefcase handle, its smooth surface foreign against my calloused supermarket-worker hands.
Mr. Harrison's assistant hands me a thick manual, her fingers brushing against mine briefly.
The cover reads "Security Protocols and Property Management" in gold lettering.
She explains that it contains everything I need to know about the properties, from security codes to staff management.
I nod, taking the manual from her.
As she steps back, I notice the stack of folders on the desk.
"Those are for you too," Mr. Harrison says, following my gaze.
"They contain information on the various businesses and investments your grandfather owned."
I swallow hard, feeling a knot form in my stomach.
This is all so overwhelming.
The assistant notices my unease and offers a reassuring smile.
"Don't worry, Mr. Weber. We're here to help you every step of the way."
I take a deep breath and open the manual, scanning its contents.
The first few pages outline security protocols for each property - alarm codes, safe rooms, panic buttons.
It's all so elaborate and foreign to me. As I flip through the pages, I come across a section labeled "Household Staff."
My eyes widen as I scan the list of names and positions - butlers, maids, personal chefs.
It's hard to believe these people now work for me.
The thought sends a shiver down my spine.
I've never been in charge of anything before, let alone an entire staff of employees.
I feel a surge of responsibility wash over me as I realize that their livelihoods depend on my decisions.
The weight of that realization settles heavy in my chest as I close the manual and set it on the desk. The assistant notices my unease and places a reassuring hand on my shoulder.
"It's a lot to take in," she says softly.
"But you'll get used to it soon enough."
I nod, trying to muster up some confidence.
I can do this, I tell myself.
But as I glance at the stack of folders containing information on businesses and investments, doubt creeps into my mind once again.
How am I supposed to manage all this?
What if I make mistakes?
Mr. Harrison clears his throat, breaking the silence that has fallen over the room.
"I think that's all for now," he says, rising from his chair.
"Your grandfather's private jet is waiting for you at the airport. You'll be flying out tonight."
My heart skips a beat at his words.
Private jet?
Flying out tonight?
"Where am I going?" I ask, my voice tinged with disbelief.
Mr. Harrison's assistant steps forward, her eyes meeting mine with a steady gaze. "To the island, Shane," she replies. "It's time you see what your grandfather left for you."
I gather my belongings from Mr. Harrison's desk, carefully placing the inheritance documents into the new leather briefcase.
The weight of the unlimited credit card in my pocket feels foreign against my leg.
As I stand, my phone buzzes with a message from Jake and Lance: "What's up dude? Where you been?"
I type out a quick response: "Need to talk. Big news."
But before I can elaborate further, Mr. Harrison's assistant opens the office door, gesturing towards a sleek black Mercedes waiting outside.
Through its tinted windows, I spot a uniformed chauffeur standing at attention.
I pause at the office entrance as Mr. Harrison pulls a cream-colored envelope from his suit jacket.
"Your grandfather wanted you to have this when the transfer was complete," he explains, extending the letter towards me.
I take it, feeling the expensive paper between my fingers.
My name is written in my grandfather's elegant script across the front.
Standing there, I trace the familiar handwriting with my finger.
It's been years since I've seen it, but it still evokes memories of the scholarship letter that changed everything for me.
The chauffeur holds open the car door as I slide into the backseat.
He closes it behind me and returns to his position at the wheel.
The car glides smoothly away from the curb, weaving through city traffic.
I stare down at the envelope, my hands trembling slightly as I carefully open it.
In the back of the Mercedes, I pull out my new smartphone.
The sleek surface still feels foreign against my calloused hands.
The city lights blur past the tinted windows as I scroll through my old messages with Jake and Lance.
Their last text from two days ago reads: "Can you cover our pizza order tonight? We're short."
Back then, I was counting quarters to cover my own bus fare.
I type out a message, delete it, then try again: "Got some news. Want to take a road trip? I'm thinking Vegas, Miami, wherever. I'll handle everything."
My thumb hovers over the send button.
I remember all those nights they stood by me when I had nothing.
I lean back against the leather seat, watching the message status change to "delivered" on the screen.
The familiar route to my run-down apartment looks different from the confines of a luxury car.
The chauffeur, Thomas, his eyes fixed on the road ahead, navigates through the evening traffic with ease.
I imagine Jake and Lance's reactions as they read my message.
Their lives are about to change in ways they can't even imagine yet.
The phone buzzes almost immediately.
Jake's reply pops up first: "NO WAY BRO! 🤯👊"
Followed closely by Lance's: "Is this for real??? 🤔"
I type back, my thumbs moving faster with each response: "Private jets, five-star hotels. The works."
I direct Thomas to turn onto Maple Street, where Jake and Lance share a rundown apartment above the laundromat.
Through the tinted windows, I spot their beaten-up Honda still parked crooked by the curb.
Thomas pulls up smoothly beside it, and the Mercedes looks completely out of place among the graffiti-covered walls and overflowing dumpsters.
I text them again: "Outside."
Five minutes pass, and there's no response.
I step out of the car, adjusting the new watch on my wrist.
The door to their apartment swings open, and Jake and Lance burst out, disbelief and excitement etched across their faces.
They approach the Mercedes cautiously, exchanging confused glances.
Jake reaches out to touch the glossy black paint, while Lance circles around to admire the chrome wheels.
I open the rear door, revealing the cream leather interior and built-in champagne cooler.
Thomas stands professionally beside the car, his crisp uniform a stark contrast to their worn jeans and faded t-shirts.
Jake slides in first, running his hands over the leather seats as if they're made of gold.
Lance hesitates at the door, his eyes darting between me and the car.
"Dude, is this some kind of prank?"
I pull out my new unlimited credit card from my wallet and hand it to him.
His eyes widen at the sight of the black metal surface and the name embossed on it: "Weber."
Lance's gaze shifts back to me, then he climbs into the car, followed by Jake's excited whispers about "private jets" and "five-star hotels."
I slide in beside them, closing the door behind me.
Thomas waits for my signal before he starts driving again.
Inside the car, Jake can't stop touching everything: the wooden trim on the dashboard, the crystal glasses in the built-in bar, and even the climate controls that adjust with a mere whisper of his voice.
Lance sits quietly, his eyes fixed on my face, searching for any sign that this is all some elaborate joke.
I lean back against the supple leather, watching them explore the luxury that's now at their fingertips.
Jake's fingers brush against something cold in the mini-fridge.
He pulls out a bottle of champagne and holds it up to the dim light.
The label reads "Dom Pérignon 2015."
Jake's eyes widen in disbelief.
"Is this real?"
I nod, remembering how we shared a six-pack of cheap beer in their cramped kitchen just last week.
Thomas glances at me in the rearview mirror, waiting for my instructions.
"Take us to the airport, Thomas," I say, meeting Lance's questioning gaze.
Lance leans forward, his voice barely above a whisper, "Are we really doing this?"
Jake pops the champagne with a grin, "Hell yeah, we're doing this!"
I lean back in the plush leather seat, watching Jake pour champagne into crystal flutes while Lance fidgets with his frayed shirt sleeve.
The bubbles catch the passing streetlights as Jake distributes the glasses, his hands trembling slightly with excitement.
Thomas navigates smoothly through the evening traffic, the partition between us providing a sense of privacy and isolation.
Jake rambles on about Vegas shows and penthouse suites while Lance remains quiet, studying my face for any sign of deception.
When Jake hands me my glass, the weight of it feels foreign in my hand, a stark contrast to the plastic cups we usually drink from.
I raise my glass, the Dom Pérignon glinting in the dim light of the car.
Jake eagerly clinks his glass against mine, spilling a few drops onto his worn jeans.
Lance holds his glass but doesn't drink, his eyes fixed on me as if waiting for some hidden punchline.
The champagne tastes different than I imagined—sharp and expensive on my tongue.
I take a long sip, letting the bubbles burn my throat as Jake continues to talk about his plans for the weekend.
Through the tinted windows, I see the city pass by in a blur: neon signs, crowded streets, and people rushing to their destinations.
We drive by the supermarket where I worked just last week, its fluorescent lights glaring against the darkening sky.
I pull out my new phone, the screen lighting up with a soft glow.
I open the luxury hotel app that came pre-installed, Jake leaning over my shoulder to see.
The Bellagio's Presidential Suite catches my eye, the price tag making me pause for a moment.
Jake's eyes widen as he reads the description: private butler service, personal chef, and a private pool overlooking the strip.
I remember how we shared a cramped motel room on our last road trip, the bed creaking under our combined weight.
I tap the "Book Now" button, and a confirmation screen pops up.
Lance leans forward, his eyes wide as he reads the price: $50,000 per night.
Jake squeals in excitement, "Holy shit! We're going to live like kings!"
I smile at their reactions, then continue booking our accommodations.
Three connecting suites with private balconies and a view of the strip.
Lance leans back into his seat, his eyes fixed on me as if trying to read my thoughts.
Jake continues to ramble on about the private butler service and how he's going to order room service every hour. I scroll through the app, searching for our flight details.
A private jet is waiting for us at the airport, ready to depart whenever we arrive.
I tap on the reservation screen, confirming our departure for tomorrow morning.
Thomas catches my eye in the rearview mirror, his expression unreadable.
Lance finally breaks his silence, his voice steady but filled with curiosity, "So, how exactly did you pull this off?"
Jake pauses mid-sentence, turning to me with a look of anticipation, "Yeah, man, you've got to spill the beans."
I take a deep breath, meeting their expectant gazes, "Let's just say I made a deal that changed everything."
I grip the champagne glass tighter, my knuckles turning white as I force a smile.
The interior of the Mercedes suddenly feels smaller, the air thickening with anticipation.
Jake's eyes sparkle with excitement, "Dude, what kind of deal? Did you win the lottery or something?"
Lance leans forward, his eyes narrowing into slits, "Come on, man. We're your best friends. You can tell us."
I take another sip of champagne, the bubbles burning my throat as I search for the right words.
The weight of my secret presses down on me, threatening to spill out at any moment.
I glance out the window, watching as the city lights blur together in a colorful haze.
Thomas expertly navigates through traffic, his focus solely on the road ahead.
I clear my throat, forcing the words out in a rush, "It's about my father's fortune. He left me everything."
Jake's glass freezes midway to his mouth, his eyes wide with disbelief.
Lance's gaze darkens, suspicion etched into every line of his face. I continue quickly, trying to fill the awkward silence, "He was a wealthy man. I didn't know it until recently. He left me everything in his will."
Jake's face lights up with excitement, "Dude! That's amazing! Congratulations!"
Lance remains silent, his eyes fixed on me as he processes this new information.
I can see the gears turning in his head as he tries to piece together the truth.
The tension in the car grows thicker than ever before, suffocating us all with its weight.
Thomas pulls up to a red light, and for a moment we are trapped in this confined space together.
The silence stretches out like an elastic band ready to snap at any moment.
Finally, Jake breaks the silence, his voice filled with genuine happiness, "Man, this is amazing! We're going to live it up in Vegas!"
Lance nods slowly, his eyes never leaving mine as he raises his glass in a silent toast.
In the back of the Mercedes, I lean forward, my eyes fixed on Lance's reflection in the rearview mirror.
He holds his champagne glass but hasn't taken a sip.
His gaze darts between the new watch on my wrist and the credit card in my hand.
The privacy partition hums as Thomas raises it higher, blocking out the front seat from our view.
Jake continues to ramble on about our plans for Vegas, his words spilling out in a rapid-fire sequence.
I catch Lance staring at me, his eyes narrowing into slits as he tries to read my expression.
When he realizes I'm watching him, he meets my gaze head-on, his jaw tightening slightly.
I notice his fingers drumming against the crystal glass, a nervous habit he's had since college whenever he's trying to keep a secret.
Lance finally speaks, his voice low and measured, "So, what's the catch? There's always a catch."
Jake looks between us, confused, "Catch? What do you mean, Lance?"
Lance leans back, his eyes never leaving mine, "You don't just inherit a fortune without strings attached."
I lean forward, meeting his gaze directly, "There are no strings. My father left everything to me. The properties, the businesses, the accounts."
The champagne sloshes in my glass as I gesture.
Jake nods enthusiastically, but Lance's eyes remain skeptical.
He takes a sip of champagne, his voice steady, "You said you never knew your father. That he was a deadbeat who abandoned you."
I swallow hard, my stomach twisting into knots.
"I did. But...he found me before he died. Left me everything."
Lance's eyes narrow further, his gaze piercing.
He sets his glass down untouched on the console between us.
Thomas catches my eye in the rearview mirror for a moment before focusing back on the road.
The lie feels heavy on my tongue, like a weight pressing down on me.
I reach into my briefcase with trembling hands, pulling out the cream-colored envelope.
The wax seal stares up at me, taunting me.
Lance's eyes follow my movements, his gaze burning into me.
I break the seal, the sound echoing through the car.
Jake finally notices something is wrong and stops his excited chatter about Vegas.
The car falls silent except for the soft hum of the engine.
I unfold the letter, recognizing my grandfather's elegant script on the thick paper.
Before I can read it, I have to confess one more thing.
"I lied. My father didn't leave me this inheritance. It was my grandfather."
I pause, taking a deep breath before continuing, "He's been watching over me my whole life. He left everything to me in his will."
Lance leans forward, his eyes fixed intently on me as I begin reading the letter aloud.
I hesitate as he reaches out to take the letter from me, his fingers hovering just above the expensive cream paper.
The car's interior light catches the fragments of the wax seal scattered on my lap.
Jake stops mid-sip of his champagne, watching us both.
My grip tightens on the edge of the letter, remembering Mr. Harrison's words about keeping these documents secure.
Lance's jaw clenches as I pull back slightly.
"If you're telling the truth now, what's the problem?" he challenges.
The Mercedes hits a bump, making the champagne slosh in our glasses.
My heart pounds in my chest as I weigh my grandfather's private words against Lance's demanding stare.