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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 faced immense poverty and hardship but never gave up. His life took a drastic turn when his adoptive parents kicked him out due to financial struggles. His exgirlfriend left him for someone richer. Despite criticism and judgment, Shane inherits the wealth, vowing revenge and social climb.
Isabel
She is Shane's new neighbor and a socialite in the wealthy community. She is manipulative, cunning, and ambitious. Isabel tries to win Shane over to attend an exclusive dinner party with her. She knows about his past but uses it to her advantage, wanting to become part of his life. Her true motives remain hidden beneath the surface of charm and hospitality.
Penelope
She is Shane's exgirlfriend who left him for another man due to financial reasons. She is selfish, materialistic, and shallow. Penelope valued Shane initially for his potential but grew impatient waiting for his inheritance. When the wealth finally comes through, she has moved on to someone more prosperous. Her departure leaves Shane relieved but also resentful, as she was a significant part of his life at the time.
I was an orphan, a poor one at that.
I had been in foster care and finally got adopted when I was thirteen by a nice family.
However, my adoption didn’t last long.
When I turned eighteen and about to receive my inheritance, my adoptive parents kicked me out of their house.
They said they couldn’t afford to keep me anymore as they were struggling financially themselves.
It was quite a blow to me, but I never gave up.
Four years later, I was now twenty-two, working in a supermarket as a shelf stacker, living in a studio apartment, and still waiting for my inheritance that never seemed to come.
My life was hard, broken, and seemingly going nowhere.
But all of that was about to change in the most unexpected way.
"Shane, I’m sorry but I have to leave you. I just can’t afford to be with you anymore. You know I love you, but he has more to offer me than you ever will."
My girlfriend Penelope stood in front of me, her bags already packed as she spoke.
It wasn’t like I hadn’t seen this coming.
It had been a long time since she was still genuinely interested in me.
I knew she was just waiting for my inheritance to come through so she could become a rich man’s wife.
She stood by the door, checking her purse for the last time.
She opened it and took out her makeup bag, stuffing it into the purse.
It was a designer purse, the one I bought her last Christmas with three months of savings.
I had to save up for three months to buy that purse, and now she was taking it away from me.
The silence in the room grew thicker as she moved around the apartment, checking if there was anything she had left behind.
She opened all the drawers and shelves, checking if she had left anything there.
Her eyes landed on a framed picture of us at the beach.
She picked it up and stared at it for a while before placing it face down on the coffee table.
The afternoon sun streamed through the dirty window, illuminating the dust particles dancing in the air.
My hands clenched involuntarily as she reached for the doorknob.
As the door clicks shut behind her, I slump against the wall and slide down to the floor.
My legs give out, unable to hold my weight any longer.
The apartment feels emptier now, though her perfume still lingers in the air.
I gather the strength to walk over to the coffee table where she left the photo face-down.
Picking it up, I study our smiling faces from that day at Venice Beach.
She’s wearing her designer sunglasses, while I’m in my discount store shorts.
With deliberate movements, I tear the photo in half, then quarters, letting the pieces scatter across the floor.
Just as I was about to turn away, my phone buzzed on the table.
It was a message from an unknown number: "Shane, it's about your inheritance. Meet me at the old diner on 5th Avenue at midnight."
My heart raced as I read the words, wondering who could possibly know about my inheritance and why they wanted to meet in such secrecy.
I stare at the text message for several minutes, contemplating whether to respond.
The diner on 5th is usually empty that late, making it the perfect place for a private conversation, but also a dangerous one.
After pacing around my apartment and checking the number online multiple times to see if it was registered to anyone, I decide to go.
I change into my cleanest shirt, grab my wallet, and head out into the night.
The fluorescent lights of the diner flicker as I approach.
Peering through the window, I see only two other customers inside.
In the corner booth sits a man in an expensive suit, sipping on a cup of coffee with a leather briefcase next to him.
He checks his watch for what seems like the hundredth time.
I pause at the entrance, watching him through the smudged glass door.
My reflection stares back at me, showing a wrinkled shirt and worn jeans.
I don't exactly look like someone about to discuss an inheritance.
The bell above the door chimes as I push it open, and the man's head snaps up from his watch.
He looks directly at me, his eyes narrowing slightly as they scan my appearance.
His suit is crisp, and his gray hair is perfectly trimmed.
He looks like he just came from a business meeting, not like someone who would be hanging out in a late-night diner.
The waitress glances up from wiping down the counter and eyes me suspiciously.
My shoes squeak against the linoleum floor as I make my way over to his booth.
Standing there, I clear my throat and force myself to meet his calculating gaze.
The man's lips curl into a slight smile, and he motions for me to sit across from him.
"Thank you for coming," he says, his voice smooth and confident.
"I'm your grandfather's attorney."
I slide into the booth, my eyes fixed on the thick manila envelope he slides across the table.
It's sealed, but my name is typed neatly on the front.
The man takes a sip of his coffee, then sets it down and leans back in his seat.
"I know this is all very sudden, but I assure you, everything in that envelope is legitimate."
I stare at the envelope, my fingers trembling slightly as I reach for it.
I run my thumb over the seal, feeling the slight indentation where the paper meets the glue.
The man watches me intently, his eyes following every movement of my hand.
I break the seal and pull out a stack of papers and documents.
The first one is a letter addressed to me, detailing my grandfather's wishes for his estate.
My eyes widen as I read through it; the figures are astronomical - billions in assets, properties all over the world, shares in companies I've only ever seen in headlines. The man continues talking, explaining things about taxes and investments and lawyers' fees, but I can't focus on his words.
All I can do is stare at the numbers and try to wrap my head around what they mean.
I feel like I've stepped into a different world, one where money isn't a constant source of stress and worry.
One where I can breathe a little easier because there's always going to be enough.
The waitress comes over to take my order, but I haven't even looked at the menu yet.
"Can I get you anything?" she asks gruffly, her pen poised over her notepad.
I glance up at her briefly before returning my attention to the documents in front of me.
"Just coffee," I say absently.
She huffs and walks away, leaving me alone with my thoughts once again. As I flip through the pages, a photo falls out and lands face-down on the table.
I pick it up carefully, smoothing out the crease that formed when it hit the surface.
It's a picture of an older man with a stern expression on his face.
He's dressed impeccably in a tailored suit and tie, his gray hair slicked back from his forehead. I study his features intently - strong jawline, piercing blue eyes that seem to bore into me even through the photograph.
"That's your grandfather," the attorney says, nodding towards the photo.
"He was a complicated man, but he always had a plan for you."
I look up, my voice barely a whisper, "Why didn't he ever tell me any of this himself?"
The attorney leans forward, his eyes filled with a mix of sadness and understanding.
"Your grandfather was a private man, but he wanted to make sure you were taken care of. He left instructions for me to contact you only after he passed away."
I grip the coffee mug tightly, my gaze fixed on the photo.
The harsh lighting of the diner makes every crease in the picture stand out - the way his suit perfectly fits his broad shoulders, the slight wrinkles around his eyes that hint at years of experience and wisdom.
And those blue eyes... they're identical to mine.
The attorney pulls out another document from his briefcase and slides it across the table to me.
"This is a copy of your grandfather's will. As you can see, he has left everything to you. There are also some conditions that need to be met before you can fully inherit the estate."
I take the document and scan through it quickly.
The conditions seem straightforward enough - I need to prove my identity, sign some paperwork, and attend a meeting with the board of directors for one of my grandfather's companies.
The attorney leans back in his seat again, watching me intently as I read through the document.
When I finally look up, he nods in satisfaction.
"I know this is a lot to take in," he says gently.
"But I assure you, everything will be taken care of. Just follow the instructions outlined in the will, and you'll be fine." I nod slowly, still trying to process everything that's happening.
The waitress returns with my coffee and sets it down in front of me without a word.
I take a sip, feeling the warmth spread through my body.
As I set the mug back down on the table, I notice my hand is shaking slightly.
The attorney notices it too and smiles kindly at me.
"It's okay," he says softly.
"This is a lot to handle. But remember, your grandfather wanted this for you. He believed in you."
I nod again, taking another sip of my coffee.
As I set the mug down once more, I glance over at Penelope's photo on my phone.
She's smiling brightly at me from behind her glasses, her hair pulled back into a ponytail like she always wears it when she's working late.
I feel a surge of love and gratitude towards her - she's been there for me through all this chaos, supporting me every step of the way. The attorney clears his throat and pulls out another folder from his briefcase.
"This contains the necessary paperwork for you to sign," he explains, sliding it across the table to me.
"Once you've completed everything, just return it to me and we'll take care of the rest."
I nod, taking the folder and opening it up.
There are several forms inside, each one requiring my signature.
I scan through them quickly, making sure I understand what I'm signing.
The attorney watches me intently as I work through the documents, occasionally answering questions that come up.
Finally, after what feels like an eternity, I finish signing everything and hand the folder back to him.
He takes it and places it in his briefcase, then stands up from his seat.
"I'll be in touch soon," he says with a smile.
"Until then, take care of yourself."
I watch him walk out of the diner, feeling a mix of emotions swirling inside me.
I'm still trying to process everything that's happened - the news about my grandfather's inheritance, the conditions that need to be met before I can claim it all. The waitress comes over and refills my coffee mug without asking.
I nod my thanks to her and take another sip, letting the warmth spread through me once again.
As I set the mug back down on the table, I notice a small piece of paper stuck between two of the documents I signed earlier.
Curious, I pull it out and examine it closer.
It appears to be a business card for an attorney's office - but not just any attorney's office.
The name on the card is familiar - Weber Global Industries.
My heart skips a beat as I realize who this must belong to: my grandfather's company.
I flip over the card and notice there's a handwritten note on the back - "To Shane, please contact me if you have any questions or concerns."
It's signed by someone named Rachel Weber. I stare at the card for a long time, trying to process what this means.
Why would my grandfather's company be reaching out to me?
And who is this Rachel Weber person?
I tuck the card into my pocket and finish my coffee before leaving the diner.
As I walk back to my car, I can't shake off the feeling that something big is about to happen in my life. The fluorescent lights above my kitchen counter flicker as I spread out all the documents across its surface.
The harsh glare makes every crease and wrinkle in the pages stand out even more than they did under the soft glow of my living room lamp earlier tonight.
As I sift through the papers, my phone buzzes on the counter, and Penelope's name flashes on the screen.
"Hey, Shane," her voice is warm and familiar, "I just got your message. What's going on?"
I take a deep breath, glancing at the business card again, "Penelope, you won't believe this... my grandfather left me everything."
There's a pause on the other end of the line, and I can almost hear her mind racing.
"What do you mean everything?"
"Everything," I repeat, scanning the pages in front of me, "all his assets, properties, shares in companies... it's all mine."
"Oh my god," she breathes, "that's amazing! But what about your parents? Don't they get anything?"
I shake my head, even though she can't see me, "No, it's all mine. My grandfather left a letter explaining everything."
I hear Penelope's voice muffled as she talks to someone else in the background, probably her roommate or one of our friends.
Then she comes back on the line, "Okay, I have to go. But we'll talk more about this tomorrow at work. Congratulations!"
I nod again, even though she can't see me, "Thanks. Goodnight."
I hang up and continue going through the documents.
My eyes scan over lists of properties - private islands dotting the Pacific Ocean, mega yachts docked in exotic ports, penthouses in every major city around the world.
The figures are staggering; it makes my head spin just thinking about it all. As I flip through the pages, something slips out from between them and lands face-up on the counter.
It's a blue credit card with a platinum W emblem embossed on it.
The light from above catches the edge of the card and sends a small shimmer across its surface.
I stare at it for a long moment before picking it up with trembling fingers.
The card feels heavy in my hand; it's made of some kind of thick plastic that looks almost indestructible.
There's no name printed on it - just a series of numbers and a small magnetic strip along the bottom.
I turn it over and examine the back; there's nothing but a blank space where a signature would normally go.
I flip it back over to the front and study the numbers again.
They seem to be some kind of code or password; I have no idea what they mean. As I continue examining the card, I notice something else - a small piece of paper stuck between two of the documents.
Curious, I pull it out and unfold it carefully; there's a handwritten note scrawled across its surface.
It reads: "Use this card for anything you need. It has unlimited funds."
My heart skips a beat as I read those words over and over again.
Unlimited funds?
Is this some kind of joke?
I stare at the business card for a long time, trying to decide what to do.
The digital clock on my microwave reads 1:47 AM, but the card specifically says that Rachel Weber is "available 24/7 for urgent matters."
I pace back and forth across my cramped studio apartment, rehearsing what I want to say in my head.
Finally, I pick up my phone and punch in the numbers printed on the card.
The line rings three times before a crisp, professional voice answers.
"Weber Global Industries, Rachel Weber speaking."
I grip the phone tightly, my voice cracking as I introduce myself.
"This is Shane Weber... I just received my inheritance documents."
There's a pause on the other end of the line, then I hear papers shuffling.
"Mr. Weber, congratulations on your inheritance," she says smoothly, "I'm here to help you with anything you need."
I hold the phone with trembling fingers as Rachel explains the credit card's features.
It has unlimited funds, no spending limits, and can be used anywhere in the world.
She assures me that it's completely secure and that I won't have to worry about overspending or running out of money.
I listen intently, my mind racing with all the possibilities.
When she finishes explaining everything, I thank her and tell her that I'll let her know if I have any questions.
"Remember, Mr. Weber," she says before hanging up, "you can use this card for anything you need. Don't hesitate to reach out if you have any questions or concerns."
I set the phone down on the counter and stare at the credit card again.
I can't believe this is really happening.
I've always dreamed of having unlimited funds, but I never thought it would actually happen.
I decide to test out the card right away.
Rachel said that I should try using it to buy something online to make sure it works properly. I open up my laptop and navigate to a luxury watch website.
The cursor hovers over a $50,000 Patek Philippe before I click on it.
The page loads slowly, but finally, I see the watch's details.
It's made of solid gold and features intricate engravings along its band.
I click "add to cart" and enter the credit card number into the payment field.
As soon as I hit submit, a confirmation email pops up in my inbox.
I open it and read through the details - my order has been processed successfully and will be shipped out immediately.
I look back at the phone still lying on the counter; Rachel is still on the other end of the line.
"Did you receive a confirmation email?"
"Yes," I reply nervously, "but how long will it take to arrive?"
"It should be at your doorstep within thirty minutes," she assures me calmly.
"A private courier will deliver it directly to your location."
My heart races as I realize this isn't some kind of dream or fantasy - this is real life!
I browse through luxury real estate listings on my phone, sitting cross-legged on the floor of my studio apartment.
The contrast between the mansions on my screen and the cramped space I'm in feels surreal.
I click on a $25 million Mediterranean villa in Beverly Hills, complete with an infinity pool and ocean views.
My finger hovers over the "Schedule Viewing" button, remembering how Penelope constantly complains about our tiny living space.
The realtor answers immediately, offering to show the property within the hour.
I grab my grandfather's credit card and car keys, then glance at my reflection in the cracked bathroom mirror.
I grip the steering wheel of my beat-up Honda Civic, following the GPS directions to the Beverly Hills villa.
The car's engine rattles as I climb the winding roads, passing gated mansions and manicured hedges.
Security guards at checkpoints eye my vehicle suspiciously, but wave me through after checking my name against their lists.
The realtor, in a crisp blazer, waits at the property's golden gates, her smile faltering slightly at my car's appearance.
I park between her Mercedes and a fountain, painfully aware of my worn jeans and yesterday's shirt.
"Mr. Weber, I must admit, I wasn't expecting you to arrive in... such a vehicle," she says, attempting to maintain her professional demeanor.
I chuckle nervously, glancing back at my car. "Yeah, it's a bit of a contrast, isn't it?"
She nods, gesturing toward the villa. "Well, let's see if we can find you something that matches your new lifestyle."
I step through the massive double doors, my sneakers squeaking against the pristine marble floors that stretch endlessly ahead.
The realtor's heels click confidently as she leads me into the foyer, where a crystal chandelier larger than my entire bathroom dangles overhead.
Light fragments scatter across the white walls like stars.
She gestures dramatically at the thirty-foot ceilings while I try to hide my awe, remembering how Penelope used to complain about our apartment's water-stained ceiling.
I take a deep breath, realizing that this is my chance to finally rewrite everything.
I trail behind the realtor through another set of double doors into a living room larger than my entire apartment.
Floor-to-ceiling windows stretch across the far wall, revealing Los Angeles sprawled out like a glittering carpet below.
The realtor points out the Italian marble fireplace and custom furniture, but I'm drawn to the window.
Pressing my palm against the cool glass, I spot my rusted Honda in the circular driveway.
The realtor clears her throat, suggesting we view the "more modest" properties in her portfolio.
"Actually," I say, turning to face her with a wry smile, "I'm here to see if this world of opulence is truly where I belong, or if my heart still yearns for the simplicity of my old life."
I stand in the living room of the Mediterranean villa, its opulence enveloping me.
The realtor's eyes are fixed on me, awaiting my next move.
"So, how much does this place cost?"
I ask, my voice steady despite the turmoil inside.
She hesitates, her gaze shifting to the floor before meeting my eyes again.
"It's a bit steep, but this villa is truly a gem. It's priced at $25 million."
I nod, absorbing the figure as I turn back to the window.
Outside, the infinity pool glimmers against the backdrop of Los Angeles.
Memories of my old life flood through me—Penelope and I sharing a cramped apartment with a leaky faucet and a view of the neighbor's dumpster.
The realtor watches me closely, perhaps sensing my discomfort with this new world of wealth.
I walk to the window, feeling the weight of my grandfather's unlimited credit card in my pocket.
I step back, leaving the view behind, and say, "Let's see if I can afford to keep dreaming."
I follow the realtor through double glass doors that lead to a sprawling oceanfront terrace.
Below, waves crash against the private beach access, and the scent of saltwater mingles with the distant hum of helicopters.
She points out the Olympic-sized infinity pool with a swim-up bar, where sunbathing loungers are arranged like a symphony of white and blue.
We step back inside, passing through a professional kitchen where copper pots hang from ceiling racks and a chef's island gleams under the pendant lights.
The tour continues through an expansive basement level, where a red-velvet theater seats thirty and leads into an arcade filled with vintage pinball machines.
We pass by a climate-controlled six-car garage, its walls lined with polished sports cars, and ascend to a rooftop helipad that offers a breathtaking panorama of the city.
Finally, we enter a fully equipped dojo with mirrored walls and polished hardwood floors.
My eyes widen as I take in the array of weapons on display—swords, staffs, and nunchucks hang neatly on the walls, awaiting their masters.
I imagine myself training here, becoming stronger than the weak person Penelope left behind.
Standing in the master bedroom, I pull out the credit card from my pocket as the realtor hovers anxiously nearby.
The setting sun casts long shadows through the floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating the imported marble floors and custom mahogany furniture.
I run my hand along the dresser, remembering how Penelope mocked my plastic storage bins.
The realtor clears her throat, reminding me that other buyers are interested in this villa.
I turn to face her, my voice steady as I say, "I'll take it at full asking price."
The realtor's eyes widen in surprise, and she stammers, "Are you sure? It's a huge commitment."
I nod, feeling a strange mix of exhilaration and fear.
"Yes," I reply, my voice firm, "it's time I start living for myself."
I sit at a mahogany desk in the realtor's office, the purchase agreement spread before me.
My hand hovers over the signature line as she explains the closing process and points out where to initial each page.
The amount - twenty-five million dollars - makes my fingers tremble slightly.
I think of my cramped studio apartment where Penelope left me just days ago.
Taking a deep breath, I grip my grandfather's fountain pen and sign my name with deliberate strokes.
The realtor smiles, her voice softening as she says, "Congratulations, you're now the owner of a piece of paradise."
I lean back, exhaling slowly, and murmur, "Thank you, but I can't help wondering if paradise is what I truly need."
She tilts her head, studying me for a moment before replying, "Sometimes, it's not about the place but what you make of it."
I step through the French doors onto the expansive terrace, my footsteps echoing against the Italian travertine tiles.
The afternoon sun casts a warm glow, illuminating the curved glass railings and the outdoor kitchen with its copper fixtures.
Below, waves crash against my private beach, while seagulls circle overhead.
Moving past empty lounge chairs and an unlit fire pit, I reach the edge where the infinity pool stretches out before me, seemingly merging with the vast expanse of the Pacific.
The water's surface reflects my distorted image - still clad in the same cheap clothes from when Penelope left me.
I sit down on the edge, dipping my toes in the cool water as the ocean breeze carries the distant hum of boats and laughter from neighboring mansions.
The sun begins to set, casting a golden glow over the landscape.
I pull out my phone, my fingers hovering over the screen as I contemplate the group text I'm about to send.
Mike and Sarah from the orphanage - we spent countless nights huddled in the dark, sharing our dreams of revenge against those who hurt us.
We planned elaborate schemes, never believing they could come true.
Now, with a fortune at my fingertips, I can make those fantasies a reality.
I type the message: "Remember our talks? I can make them happen now."
The blue light illuminates my face as I add a few more details: "Unlimited credit card. My new address."
I hesitate for a moment before hitting send.
A few minutes pass, and then a response comes from Sarah - a simple thumbs up emoji.
Next, Mike sends the snake emoji we used to symbolize payback.
I walk through the empty halls of my mansion, my footsteps echoing off the thirty-foot ceilings.
The grand foyer stretches before me, adorned with crystal chandeliers and a sweeping staircase.
I approach the security panel and see that Mike and Sarah are twenty minutes away.
I head to the kitchen, opening a cabinet to pull out three wine glasses.
Then I make my way to the cellar, selecting a $5000 bottle of Château Lafite.
It's a stark contrast to the cheap beer we shared in the orphanage.
I open my laptop, navigating to the website for my new offshore accounts.
With a few clicks, I initiate three identical transfers of $10 million each.
As I arrange the glasses on the imported Italian dining table, my hands are steady for the first time today.
The doorbell rings, and I open it to find Mike and Sarah standing there, eyes wide with awe.
Mike steps inside, glancing around before saying, "This place is insane, but are you sure about this? It's a big leap from dreaming to doing."
Sarah nods in agreement, adding softly, "We can't go back once we start; are you ready for what that means?"
I pour the wine into crystal glasses, gesturing for them to take a seat in the Italian leather chairs.
Mike pulls out his phone, showing me a detailed spreadsheet - names and photos of everyone who wronged us at the orphanage.
Abusive staff members, cruel foster parents, bullies who made our lives hell.
Sarah adds Penelope's name to the list, her fingers tapping methodically on her phone screen.
I open my laptop, accessing the offshore accounts.
The transfers are complete, and I see three identical balances of $10 million.
The security system beeps, and I glance at the monitor showing my old Honda being towed away.
I close the laptop, and with a steady voice, I say, "Let's begin."
I stand behind the bar in my mansion, carefully selecting three crystal glasses from the rack.
The $5,000 bottle of Château Lafite feels heavy in my hands as I pour three perfect measures into each glass.
I remember the nights we shared cheap beer behind the orphanage, dreaming of a better life.
Now, as I place the bottle back on the counter, I see Mike slouched against the marble edge, his worn jeans and faded shirt a stark contrast to the luxury surrounding us.
Sarah perches on one of the leather barstools, her eyes darting around the room.
The setting sun streams through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting a warm glow over everything.
My phone buzzes again - another notification from the offshore account.
I distribute the glasses, my fingers tracing the delicate cut of the crystal stem.
Mike raises his glass, a smirk playing on his lips, "To new beginnings and old scores settled."
Sarah clinks her glass against ours, her voice steady but filled with an edge, "And to making sure they never see us coming."
I nod, feeling the weight of our pact settle over us like a cloak, "Here's to rewriting the past with a future they won't forget."
While Mike and Sarah explore the mansion, I notice a blinking router in the corner of my home office.
I open my laptop, and the screen lights up with the villa's network setup.
Multiple access points, enterprise-grade security, and a gigabit fiber connection - this place is a tech haven.
I run a speed test, and the results are astonishing - downloads are a hundred times faster than my old apartment's WiFi.
Perfect for our research sessions.
I create secure accounts for our revenge planning, setting up encrypted channels for communication.
Mike whistles at the technology, while Sarah starts downloading files about our first target.
Mike leans over my shoulder, eyeing the screen intently, "So, who's first on our list of payback?"
Sarah doesn't look up from her phone as she replies, "Penelope—she's the one who made sure we never got adopted."
I nod, tapping a few keys to bring up Penelope's current whereabouts, "Let's see how she's been enjoying life since then."
I sit at the mahogany desk, Mike and Sarah in leather armchairs nearby.
I open my phone's keyboard, fingers hovering over the screen as I draft a message to Penelope.
I want it casual yet intriguing, a subtle bait to reel her in.
"Hey, long time no talk. I'm in Beverly Hills now, and I'd love to catch up. Let me know if you're free this weekend."
I pause, considering.
Beverly Hills is a name that carries weight, and she'll recognize it as an exclusive address.
Sarah glances over my shoulder, "Why not add some photos of the place? The infinity pool and ocean view will definitely pique her interest."
I nod, attaching a few images of the villa's breathtaking views.
After a few more tweaks, I press send on a simple text: "Let's catch up at my new place. The view is better than our old apartment."