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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, discovering he is the heir to a multibillion dollar fortune. He is resilient, sarcastic, and determined. Shane struggled with poverty and the cruel judgments of those around him, including his toxic girlfriend, Samantha. After inheriting the wealth from his wealthy grandfather, he faces new opportunities and challenges. Despite criticism and attempts to undermine his status, Shane remains steadfast in reclaiming his birthright and proving his worth.
Grandfather
He is Shane's paternal grandfather who passed away leaving him a vast inheritance. He is compassionate, perceptive, and supportive. Grandfather secretly raised Shane after losing his wife in a car accident. He kept Shane's inheritance secret until he could ensure it was fully secured. Grandfather's ultimate gesture of love and trust involves leaving Shane his entire estate, which shocks those around him but fills Shane with a sense of belonging and purpose.
Helen
She is Nate’s fiancée who treats Shane with disdain due to his past. She is judgmental, superficial, and dismissive. Initially cold towards Shane when they meet at a club, her demeanor stems from preconceived notions about him being poor and unworthy. However, her dismissive attitude toward Shane reveals her shallow character as she prioritizes social status over genuine relationships.
I was an orphan, a poor one even.
My life had been hard, until I found out my grandfather was one of the richest men in the world.
He left his entire multi-billion dollar estate to me.
I was not even a real foster kid, just a poor boy whose parents died.
My foster mother only took me in for the monthly check the state gave her for taking care of me.
I had no love, no family, and no friends.
Until I met Samantha, or should I say, until she met me?
Samantha was beautiful beyond words, with long blonde hair, gorgeous blue eyes, and a body most women would kill for.
She dated me for almost two years, but I soon found out she wasn’t dating me for myself.
She was waiting for my grandfather to die so I could inherit his money.
She left me for someone who had more money than her current boyfriend.
She thought she had hit the jackpot, but little did she know, he was broke and deeply in debt.
After Samantha left me, I didn’t even have enough money to pay my rent.
I was evicted from my apartment and had to move back into the foster system.
I stand in my cramped room, methodically folding my clothes into my old duffel bag.
The mattress creaks as I sit on its edge, the springs worn and weary.
I pull out the crumpled letter from my pocket, the one that has changed everything.
My foster mother, Mrs. Thompson, hovers in the doorway, her eyes calculating.
She tries to make small talk, fishing for details about my inheritance, but I ignore her.
After zipping up my bag, I grab the old watch from my nightstand - the only thing I have left of my father.
Walking down the narrow hallway, past the peeling wallpaper and water stains, I pause at the front door.
Mrs. Thompson’s shrill voice cuts through the air, demanding answers.
I pause at the bottom of the crumbling concrete steps, the worn duffel bag in one hand and my father’s watch clutched in the other.
The afternoon sun beats down on the overgrown lawn where I used to mow for pocket change.
A sleek black car pulls up, its engine purring smoothly.
The lawyer sent it for me.
The driver steps out, opens the rear door, and waits silently.
"Are you ready to leave this place behind?" the driver asks, his voice calm and reassuring.
I hesitate, glancing back at the house, then nod.
"Good," he says, "because your grandfather left a message for you—he said the real treasure isn't just the money."
The leather seat cradles me as I sink into its depths, my worn duffel bag looking out of place against the pristine interior.
The driver closes the door, and through the tinted windows, I watch Mrs. Thompson’s figure grow smaller, her arms still waving frantically.
As the car glides away, I catch a glimpse of the dilapidated house in the rearview mirror.
The driver’s voice cuts through my thoughts.
"This was your grandfather’s car. He always preferred the backseat so he could work or read during the ride."
I glance around, noticing the polished wood trim and the soft hum of the engine.
The driver continues, "I remember driving him to business meetings. He would always sit here, going over papers or making calls. He was a man who never stopped working."
I nod silently, taking in his words.
He says, "Your grandfather was a good man. He would be happy to see you finally coming home." I look out the window as we drive through the city streets, passing by towering skyscrapers and bustling sidewalks.
The sounds of car horns and chatter fill the air, a stark contrast to the silence of my former life.
After a while, I notice an envelope in the seat pocket.
It’s addressed to me, my name written in familiar handwriting.
My hands tremble slightly as I reach for it.
I pause when the driver speaks again.
"We’re heading to your family’s estate first. It’s been kept in pristine condition all these years. Your grandfather wanted it to remain untouched until you were ready to return."
I turn the envelope over in my hands, feeling the weight of its contents.
"Do you know what’s inside?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
The driver glances at me in the rearview mirror and replies, "Only that it contains your grandfather’s final instructions, something he wanted you to discover on your own."
The car glides to a stop in a secluded spot overlooking the city.
The driver turns around and reaches into his jacket pocket.
He hands me a thick cream envelope, my name written in elegant script on the front.
I break the seal, and my hands shake slightly as I pull out several pages of handwritten text.
The words fill both sides, written in my grandfather’s familiar script.
"Your father would be proud," it reads.
I lean back against the leather seat and begin to read.
The words spill onto the pages, filled with wisdom and guidance.
He speaks of perseverance and integrity, of using wealth wisely and never forgetting one’s roots.
He tells me how he watched me grow up from afar, waiting for the right moment to bring me back into the family fold.
The last page holds a warning: "There will be those who try to use you for your wealth. Always remember that true strength lies not in money, but in character."
I fold the letter carefully, tuck it back into the envelope, and look out at the horizon, ready to face whatever comes next.
I study the driver’s face in the rearview mirror, trying to place her.
There’s something familiar about her features—the way her dark hair frames her face, the curve of her smile.
She glances up and catches my gaze, her eyes crinkling at the corners.
"Everything okay back there?" she asks, her voice warm and friendly.
I nod, still trying to figure out why she looks so familiar.
As we weave through traffic, I continue to steal glances at her reflection.
And then it hits me—the memory of a girl with similar features, sharing her lunch with me in a foster home when I had nothing.
The realization hits me like a tidal wave—this is Sarah Chen, the girl who became my friend all those years ago.
My chest tightens as memories flood back: us hiding in the attic reading comics, her defending me from bullies, and the day she was adopted and left without a goodbye.
I look at her again, taking in the changes time has brought—her once shy demeanor replaced by confidence, her features polished by life’s experiences.
But those kind eyes remain unchanged. Before I can say anything, she turns onto a private road lined with towering trees and ornate street lamps.
The road winds its way up a hill until we reach massive iron gates adorned with intricate designs.
As the gates swing open, I finally find my voice.
"Sarah, is it really you?" I ask, my voice a mix of disbelief and hope.
She smiles softly, meeting my gaze in the mirror. "It's been a long time, hasn't it?"
The car pulls up to the circular driveway, and my breath catches in my throat.
Before me stands a sprawling mansion, its limestone facade glowing golden in the late afternoon sun.
Manicured gardens stretch out on either side, with a marble fountain at the center of the driveway.
My grandfather must have walked past this very fountain countless times.
I grip my duffel bag tighter, my legs feeling heavy as I reach for the door handle.
But before I can open it, Sarah is already there, her movements fluid and practiced from years of opening doors for others.
She extends her hand to help me out, just as she used to when we climbed down from the rickety bunk beds in our foster home.
The gravel crunches under my worn sneakers as I stand, my father’s watch weighing heavy in my pocket.
"Why didn't you ever reach out?" I ask, my voice tinged with a mix of hurt and curiosity.
Sarah looks down for a moment, then meets my eyes with a steady gaze. "I tried, but your grandfather thought it was best to keep our worlds separate until now."
I swallow hard, the weight of her words settling in. "So he knew about us all along?"
She nods, her expression a mix of sadness and understanding.
"I’m glad you’re here now," she says, her voice filled with sincerity.
I follow her up the steps, my sneakers squeaking against the polished marble.
She opens the heavy oak doors, revealing a grand foyer that dwarfs the living room of my old foster home.
The crystal chandelier above casts rainbow spots across the white walls, and I can’t help but feel a mix of awe and trepidation.
Sarah gestures to the ornate furniture and explains that this is where my grandfather would receive guests and hold gatherings.
But my attention is drawn to something else—a massive oil painting hanging above the fireplace.
It depicts my grandfather in his prime, standing proudly in this very room, his eyes filled with a sense of purpose.
Below the painting sits a leather armchair, its cushions worn from years of use. Sarah notices my fascination with the chair and smiles softly.
"That was your grandfather’s favorite spot," she says, her voice filled with warmth.
"He would spend hours reading there, watching the sunset through those tall windows."
I walk over to the chair, running my fingers over its weathered surface.
As I sink into its cushions, I can feel the imprint of his presence, as if he had just gotten up and left.
The chair is still warm from the sunlight streaming through the windows, and for a moment, I imagine him sitting there, watching me as I enter this new chapter of my life. Sarah hands me another envelope, this one marked "First Night Home."
I break the seal and find a letter inside, written in my grandfather’s familiar script.
"Welcome to your new home," it reads.
"I hope you find comfort and peace within these walls. Remember that family is not just about blood ties; it’s about those who care for you deeply."
I fold the letter carefully and look around once more at the unfamiliar surroundings.
"Do you think you can find that here?" Sarah asks, her voice gentle but probing.
I take a deep breath, my eyes meeting hers with a newfound determination. "I think I have to try."
She nods, her expression softening. "And I'll be here to help you every step of the way."
Sarah and I sit in the library on the west side of the mansion.
The room is filled with floor-to-ceiling windows that let in the setting sun, bathing the space in an amber glow.
Dust motes dance between the towering bookshelves, their intricate carvings reflecting the fading light.
She points to a weathered leather window seat, tucked away in a corner with a clear view of the city below.
"That was your grandfather's favorite spot to read," she says softly.
"He would sit there for hours, watching the sunset."
I walk over to the seat and run my fingers along its worn surface.
It’s easy to imagine my grandfather sitting here, surrounded by books and the vast expanse of the city he loved.
As I gaze out the window, I feel a sense of awe wash over me at the sheer scale of this place.
"It’s hard to believe this is all mine now," I say, turning to Sarah with a mix of wonder and trepidation. She smiles kindly, her eyes filled with understanding.
"It’s a lot to take in," she says gently.
"But remember, this is your home now. You have every right to be here."
I nod, taking a deep breath as I try to absorb her words.
But despite her reassurances, I can’t shake off the feeling of being an outsider in this grand mansion.
Just then, Sarah moves closer, her voice dropping to a whisper.
"There’s something I want to show you," she says mysteriously.
She gestures for me to follow her, leading me back to the window seat where my grandfather used to read.
She presses down on one end of the cushion, and a small compartment opens up, revealing a leather-bound book inside.
"This was your grandfather’s personal journal," she explains softly.
"He kept it hidden away here for safekeeping."
I reach down and pick up the journal, feeling its worn cover against my fingertips. As I open it, I notice that some pages are filled with handwritten notes while others are blank except for small sketches in the margins.
I trace my finger over one of those sketches—a simple drawing of a tree with roots stretching deep into the earth.
Sarah leans in closer, peering over my shoulder at the journal in my hands.
"That was his favorite tree," she says quietly.
"He used to tell me stories about how it symbolized strength and resilience."
I close the journal, feeling the weight of its secrets and stories, and realize that this mansion holds more than just memories—it holds the key to understanding my place in this world.
Sarah leads me to my grandfather’s study, a room filled with towering bookshelves and a massive wooden desk.
The scent of old leather and parchment fills the air, and I can almost hear the whispers of the past in this space.
She opens the door, revealing a man in his late sixties with a kind face and spectacles perched on the end of his nose.
He introduces himself as Mr. Harrison, the family attorney, and gestures for me to take a seat in one of the leather chairs opposite him.
As I sink into its cushions, he begins to speak in a voice that is both soothing and authoritative.
"Welcome," he says, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiles.
"I trust you had a comfortable journey here?"
I nod, feeling a sense of gratitude wash over me at his warm demeanor.
He clears his throat and continues, "I am here to guide you through the process of settling your grandfather’s estate. It is my duty to ensure that everything is transferred smoothly to your name."
He pulls out a stack of documents from his briefcase and slides them across the desk towards me.
"These are the inheritance papers," he explains patiently.
"Please take your time to read through them carefully. If you have any questions or concerns, do not hesitate to ask." I take the papers in my trembling hands, scanning each page with wide eyes.
The figures listed are beyond anything I could have ever imagined: 400 googol dollars spread across various accounts, private islands scattered across different oceans, a fleet of mega yachts docked in exotic ports, and properties all over the world.
My heart races as I read through it all, struggling to comprehend the magnitude of what has been left for me.
Mr. Harrison watches me intently, waiting for my reaction.
After what feels like an eternity, I finally look up at him with tears brimming in my eyes.
"This is...it’s too much," I stammer, my voice barely above a whisper.
He nods sympathetically, his expression filled with understanding.
"I know it can be overwhelming," he says gently.
"But remember, this is your birthright. Your grandfather wanted you to have it all."
He pauses for a moment before continuing, "Now, there is one more thing I need to give you."
He pulls out a sleek blue card from his pocket and slides it across the desk towards me.
"This card grants you access to everything, but it also comes with a choice."
I hold the card between my fingers, studying its metallic sheen as Mr. Harrison explains its capabilities.
It can unlock every door in the mansion, access every account, and grant me entry to all of my grandfather’s properties around the world.
The card feels impossibly light for something that holds so much power, as if it were made of air.
Just as I’m about to ask more questions, Sarah steps forward with a small device in her hand.
"This is a biometric scanner," she explains softly.
"It will link the card to your unique fingerprint, making it impossible for anyone else to use."
Mr. Harrison takes the scanner from her and guides my thumb onto its surface.
I feel a slight pressure as it reads my print, and then a beep echoes through the room.
A green light flashes on the device, signaling that the card has been successfully activated.
"Now, this card holds all of your grandfather’s fortune," Mr. Harrison says gravely.
"But it also holds a responsibility," he continues, his eyes meeting mine with a serious gaze.
"What kind of responsibility?" I ask, my voice steady despite the whirlwind of emotions inside me.
Sarah steps closer, her expression earnest. "To use it wisely and to honor his legacy."
In the study, I wait until Sarah and Mr. Harrison step out to make urgent calls.
As soon as the door closes behind them, I pull out my phone and access the banking interface they showed me.
My fingers hover over the transfer menu, my heart pounding in my chest.
I remember my grandfather’s words about character and how money can’t buy it.
But then I think about the poverty, the humiliation, and the struggle of living on the streets.
I think about the nights spent under the bridge, shivering with hunger and cold.
With a steady hand, I enter the routing number for a Cayman Islands account I researched earlier.
I’m going to start by moving fifty billion there.
The confirmation screen glows accusingly in front of me, but I press my thumb against the card’s sensor anyway.
The transaction completes, and I know there's no turning back now.
