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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 previously impoverished orphan who turned his life around after inheriting a massive fortune from his grandfather. He is resilient, determined, and proud. Shane faced immense poverty and hardship but never gave up on his dreams. His tumultuous relationship with Sophia ends when she leaves him for someone wealthier. Despite criticism and judgment from others, Shane decides to use his inheritance to help his community, creating a foundation for underprivileged children.
Elijah
He is Shane’s best friend who helps him navigate life’s challenges. He is loyal, optimistic, and humorous. Elijah stands by Shane through thick and thin, offering emotional support without sugarcoating reality. When Shane inherits the fortune, Elijah is one of the first to congratulate him, and he assists in exploring ways to utilize the newfound wealth for their shared community benefit.
Grandfather
He is Shane's wealthy grandfather who leaves him his entire estate upon passing. He is wise, supportive, and influential. Grandfather takes Shane under his wing after rescuing him from nearstarvation as a child and educates him about finances and business. His trust in Shane ultimately changes the young man's life forever by bestowing upon him the significant inheritance that propels him out of poverty.
I was an orphan cared for by the Prestons.
My girlfriend left me for another man because I was too poor.
But my life changed forever when I found out that I had a grandfather who was one of the wealthiest men in the world.
He left behind a legacy of over a hundred billion dollars, and guess what?
I’m the one and only heir to his wealth.
The whole world was shocked when they found out that I, Shane Weber, was the grandson of the richest family in the world.
Those who looked down on me, mocked me, and even called me poor, now had to bow down to me.
I used to think that my girlfriend left me because I wasn't good enough for her.
But now, I realize that she was just too stupid and shallow for me.
She thought she could find a better man with more money, but little did she know that I would become richer than anyone she could ever imagine.
As for those who labeled me as a failure, I will make them regret their words and actions towards me.
They will kneel before me and beg for forgiveness, but it will be too late.
I sit in my cramped studio apartment, my hands trembling as I dial the lawyer's number.
The call connects, and Mr. Harrison's voice fills the line.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Weber. I hope you're doing well," he says.
"Yes, thank you," I manage to reply, my throat dry with anticipation.
"Now, let's proceed with the details of your grandfather's will. As I mentioned earlier, he left behind a vast fortune, and as his sole heir, you are entitled to it all."
I nod, even though he can't see me.
"Firstly, let's start with the liquid holdings. You have access to over five quintillion dollars in cash and stocks. You can use this money as you see fit, whether it's for investments, personal expenses, or anything else."
My grip on the phone tightens.
Five quintillion dollars is an unfathomable amount of money.
I can hardly wrap my head around it.
"Next, we have the properties," Mr. Harrison continues.
"You now own three private islands in the Caribbean, each equipped with luxurious villas and state-of-the-art amenities. You also have a fleet of mega yachts docked in Monaco, ready for your use at any time."
I swallow hard, trying to process the enormity of what I'm being told.
"And then there are the penthouses," he adds.
"You have a penthouse apartment in every major city around the world, from New York to London to Tokyo. These apartments are fully furnished and equipped with everything you need." My mind reels as I try to imagine all these properties spread across the globe.
It's surreal, like something out of a dream.
"And finally," Mr. Harrison concludes, "you have a Citibank card with an unlimited spending limit. This card is linked to your grandfather's account, and you can use it for anything you want."
I reach for the blue envelope that was delivered this morning.
It's addressed to me, but there's no indication of who sent it or why.
I open it and find a small piece of paper inside with a single sentence typed on it: "Check your Citibank account."
Curiosity getting the better of me, I pull out my laptop and log into my Citibank account.
And there it is - a balance of over three hundred googol dollars staring back at me.
I gasp in shock, my eyes wide with disbelief.
"Mr. Weber?" Mr. Harrison's voice breaks through my stunned silence.
"Yes, I'm here," I reply, still trying to comprehend the staggering number on my screen.
"There's something else you should know," Mr. Harrison says, his tone shifting to one of gravity.
"Your grandfather's will includes a condition: you must find and reconcile with your estranged father within a year, or the inheritance will be forfeited."
I sit in my newly acquired penthouse office, staring at the business card in my hand.
It reads "Detective Sarah Chen" and claims that she is the best private investigator in New York.
I've been told that if anyone can help me find my father, it's her.
My hands tremble slightly as I pick up the phone and dial the number on the card.
The call connects, and a professional-sounding woman answers immediately.
"Good morning, this is Detective Chen. How may I assist you?"
"Good morning," I reply, trying to steady my voice.
"My name is Shane Weber, and I'm in need of your services."
"Of course, Mr. Weber. What can I help you with?"
"I recently inherited a large sum of money from my grandfather," I explain, "but there's a condition: I have to find my father within a year or the inheritance will be forfeited. The problem is, I don't know anything about him except his name: Michael Weber."
"I see," Detective Chen says, her tone sympathetic.
"And how long has it been since you last saw your father?"
"I've never met him," I admit.
"He left before I was born."
"I understand. Well, Mr. Weber, I'll do my best to help you find your father. But please keep in mind that these cases can be challenging and may take time."
"Of course," I reply.
"What are your fees?"
"My fee is $10,000 per week plus expenses," she responds.
"However, if we find your father within the first week, there will be no additional charges." "That sounds reasonable," I say, trying to process the amount of money she's asking for.
"But what if you can't find him?"
"If we're unable to locate your father after a year of searching, you won't be charged any additional fees beyond the initial $10,000 per week," she assures me.
"Okay," I say finally, making a decision.
"When can we start?"
"We can begin immediately," Detective Chen replies.
"I'll send someone over to take your statement and gather any information you may have about your father."
"Thank you," I say, feeling a sense of hope that I haven't felt in a long time.
I pace the office for a few minutes after hanging up with Detective Chen, then grab my phone and dial Elijah's number.
He answers on the second ring.
"Hey, man," he says, his familiar voice grounding me in the midst of all this chaos.
"Hey," I reply, taking a deep breath.
"I need to tell you something."
"Sure, what's up?"
"I just found out that I inherited a fortune from my grandfather," I explain.
"But there's a condition: I have to find my father within a year or the inheritance will be forfeited."
"Whoa, that's crazy," Elijah says.
"What are you going to do?"
"I hired a private investigator," I tell him.
"She's supposed to come over later today to take my statement."
"That sounds like a good plan," Elijah says.
"Do you want me to come over?"
"Yeah, that would be great," I reply, feeling grateful for his support.
Twenty minutes later, Elijah and I are sitting in my new leather chairs, drinking beer from my grandfather's vintage collection.
"So, what do you think?" he asks, looking around the penthouse office.
"It's amazing," I reply, still trying to wrap my head around everything that's happened.
"And what about this detective? Do you think she can really help you find your father?"
"I hope so," I say, taking a sip of my beer.
"But it's not going to be cheap. She charges $10,000 per week plus expenses." "That is expensive," Elijah agrees.
"But if she can help you find your father and keep your inheritance, it'll be worth it."
"I guess so," I say, feeling a sense of uncertainty wash over me.
"But what if she can't find him? What if I lose everything?"
"Don't think about that right now," Elijah says, putting a hand on my shoulder.
"Just focus on finding your father and keeping your inheritance. Everything else will fall into place."
I nod, trying to feel more positive about the situation.
"You're right," I say finally.
"I just need to stay focused and trust that everything will work out."
"That's the spirit," Elijah replies, clinking his beer bottle against mine.
"To finding your father and keeping your inheritance!"
I smile, feeling a sense of hope that I haven't felt in a long time.
"To finding my father and keeping my inheritance!" he echoes back at me. Elijah picks up the business card from the table and examines it carefully.
"Detective Sarah Chen," he reads aloud.
"She sounds like a real pro."
I nod, feeling a sense of relief wash over me.
"I'm glad I hired her," I say.
"She's the best private investigator in New York. If anyone can help me find my father, it's her."
My phone buzzes on the table, pulling me out of my thoughts.
I glance down at the screen and see that it's a text message from Detective Chen.
I quickly open it and read the contents.
"Found potential address for Michael Weber in Boston," the message reads.
"Records show consistent employment at MIT for past decade. Will investigate further tomorrow."
My heart races as I read the message.
Could this be it?
Could this be the lead that finally takes me to my father?
I show the message to Elijah, who looks just as excited as I am.
"This is great news!" he exclaims.
"Do you think it could really be him?"
"It's definitely possible," I reply, trying to remain calm.
"But we can't get our hopes up yet. We need to wait for Detective Chen to confirm."
Elijah nods in agreement.
"You're right. But this is definitely a promising lead. I have a good feeling about this."
I smile, feeling a sense of hope that I haven't felt in a long time.
"Me too," I say finally.
"Let's keep our fingers crossed." Elijah and I spend the next few minutes going over some of the documents that my grandfather left behind, trying to see if we can find any other clues that might help us locate my father.
After a while, Elijah gets up to leave and I thank him again for his support.
"You're welcome," he says with a smile.
"Just remember to keep me updated on everything that happens with your father."
"I will," I reply, shaking his hand firmly.
"And don't worry. If this lead pans out, I'll be sure to let you know right away."
Elijah nods and heads out the door, leaving me alone in my office once again.
I take a deep breath and sit back down at my desk, staring at the text message from Detective Chen still open on my phone screen.
A potential address in Boston?
Employment at MIT for the past decade?
It all seems so surreal, like something out of a movie or TV show rather than real life.
The next day, my phone rings, and I see Detective Chen's number flashing on the screen.
"Mr. Weber," she says without preamble, "I have some significant news regarding your father."
"What is it?" I ask, my heart pounding in anticipation.
"We've confirmed that Michael Weber is indeed working at MIT," she reveals.
"And there's more—he's been using a different last name for years, which might be why he was so hard to track down."
"Wow, that's incredible," I say, trying to process the information.
"What's his new last name?"
"Johnson," she replies.
"But don't worry, we've verified that it's him. He's been working at MIT for over a decade."
"That's amazing," I say, feeling a mix of emotions.
"What's the next step?"
"Well, Mr. Weber," she says, "we have two options. We can either send someone to confront him directly or you can go there yourself and meet him in person."
I take a deep breath and consider my options.
"I think I want to go there myself," I say finally.
"I need to see him with my own eyes and talk to him face-to-face."
"Of course," Detective Chen says.
"I completely understand. Let me get you the details of his office location and we can arrange for you to travel to Boston as soon as possible."
I nod, even though she can't see me.
"Thank you so much for all your help, Detective Chen," I say sincerely.
"You're welcome, Mr. Weber," she replies.
"Just remember to stay calm and be prepared for anything when you meet your father."
I hang up the phone and take a deep breath, trying to process everything that just happened.
I quickly dial Elijah's number and put him on speakerphone while I pace around my penthouse bedroom, throwing clothes into a leather suitcase. "You're coming with me," I tell him before he can even say hello.
"I'm not going through this alone."
Elijah agrees without hesitation, and we book two first-class tickets to Boston for the next morning.
As I enter my new black card information into the system, my hands tremble slightly.
Detective Chen texts me my father's office location: Building 54, Room 918.
I open MIT's website on my laptop and search for Michael Johnson in the faculty directory.
A photo of a man in his mid-40s appears on the screen.
He has my nose and jawline but with wire-rimmed glasses and graying hair at his temples.
I stare at the photo for a long time before hanging up with Elijah and sitting on my bed with my laptop still open in front of me.
I pace my bedroom, trying to decide what I'll say to him when we meet.
The words keep getting tangled in my mouth, and I'm frustrated with myself.
I grab my phone and pull up the MIT faculty photo again.
I study every detail of his face.
My hands are trembling, so I set the phone down on my bed and take a deep breath.
Then, I text Elijah to come over early tomorrow before our flight.
I need his steady presence.
Walking to my closet, I open it and scan the clothes hanging inside.
I pick out my most professional outfit: a charcoal suit that my grandfather had custom-made for me in London.
As I lay it out on the bed, my phone buzzes with a text from Detective Chen.
It's the exact address of my father's office hours tomorrow afternoon.
At 6 AM, I hear the familiar knock on my penthouse door.
I'm still adjusting my tie in the mirror when I call out for Elijah to come in.
He appears in my bedroom doorway, wearing jeans and a navy sweater.
My suit suddenly feels too formal.
We both reach for my leather suitcase at the same time, our hands colliding awkwardly on the handle.
I pull back, noticing how steady his hands are compared to mine, which are trembling slightly.
"You're overthinking this," he says softly, picking up the suitcase himself.
"Let's get you to the airport before you change that suit again."
I grip my carry-on tightly as we ride the elevator down to the lobby.
My polished shoes click against the marble floor.
Elijah walks slightly ahead, pulling my wheeled suitcase and checking his phone for our Uber's arrival time.
The doorman holds the entrance open, and the crisp morning air hits my face.
A black SUV pulls up, and the driver confirms our airport destination.
While he loads our bags into the trunk, I catch a glimpse of myself in the tinted windows—my grandfather's suit fits perfectly, but my face shows the strain of anticipation.
Elijah glances at me as we settle into the backseat.
"Have you thought about what you're going to say to him?" he asks, his voice gentle but probing.
I exhale slowly, staring out the window as the city blurs by. "I just want to know why he left," I admit quietly.
While we wait at the check-in counter, I notice Elijah glancing at his phone every few minutes.
The airline attendant types at her computer, frowning slightly as she looks at our economy tickets.
Suddenly, Elijah's phone buzzes.
He shows me the screen—a notification from the airline about an unexpected upgrade to first class.
The attendant looks up, confusion etched on her face.
"Excuse me, gentlemen. It seems there's been a mistake. Two seats have opened up in first class."
She prints out our new boarding passes and hands them to us with a smile.
As we walk away from the counter, I catch Elijah smirking.
"You did this, didn't you?" "Maybe," he admits, tucking his phone away.
"I have a cousin who works for the airline. I figured it's a long flight, and you deserve to be comfortable."
I punch his arm playfully.
"You're always one step ahead," I laugh, feeling a bit of the tension ease.
Elijah shrugs, his eyes twinkling. "Just trying to make sure you don't back out."
I nod, grateful for his support. "Thanks, Elijah. I really need this."
During our first-class flight to Boston, Elijah keeps fidgeting with his phone.
He barely touches the complimentary breakfast the flight attendant offers him.
I watch him, noticing the way his brow furrows as he scrolls through messages.
"Everything okay?"
I ask, leaning closer.
He turns to face me, and for a moment, his usual confident expression falters.
"Shane, I need to tell you something," he says, his voice low and uncertain.
I wait, but he falls silent again.
Before he can continue, the flight attendant interrupts us once more, offering refills on our coffee.
As she moves away, Elijah takes a deep breath.
"Shane, I have feelings for you," he blurts out.
"I've had them for years, but I never said anything because of Sophia."
I grip the armrest tightly, my heart pounding in my chest.
Before I can respond, the pilot's voice fills the cabin.
"We'll be beginning our descent into Boston shortly. Please return your seats to their upright position and fasten your seatbelts."
Elijah quickly puts on his headphones and turns away from me.
I reach out, gently touching his arm.
"Elijah, I didn't know," I say, my voice barely above a whisper.
He looks back at me, eyes searching mine. "I didn't want to complicate things, especially now," he replies, his voice tinged with vulnerability.
The cabin feels smaller as I lean toward him, my heart racing.
Our shoulders touch while other passengers sleep or listen to music around us.
His eyes widen at my confession, and he pulls back slightly, studying my face for any sign of insincerity.
The flight attendant passes by with a drink cart, forcing us to separate.
When she leaves, Elijah's hand finds mine beneath the armrest.
His palm is sweaty, matching the nervousness I feel in my own hands.
"What about finding your father?"
he asks quietly.
I squeeze his hand, realizing that for the first time today, my anxiety about meeting my father has momentarily faded.
"I think I can handle both," I reply, my voice steady despite the turmoil inside.
Elijah nods, a small smile playing on his lips.
"Then let's face it together," he says, his grip on my hand tightening with reassurance.
The plane begins its descent into Boston, and I reluctantly release Elijah's hand as the seatbelt sign flashes on.
The cabin lights brighten, breaking the intimate moment we shared.
I turn to face him directly, my heart still racing from our shared confession.
"After we land," I say in a low voice, leaning closer so only he can hear.
"We should grab coffee before heading to MIT."
Elijah nods, his eyes meeting mine with a newfound intensity.
The flight attendant passes by once more, collecting trash and offering one last round of drinks.
As the wheels touch down, I realize that this journey is just beginning.
After leaving our bags at the hotel, Elijah leads me out into the crisp Boston air.
"We have time before you need to be at MIT," he says, glancing at his watch.
"Let's walk to the Boston Public Garden. It's beautiful in the morning."
We exit through the iron gates of the garden and walk along the winding paths.
Elijah points out the vibrant flowers and lush greenery that line the way.
The morning light casts long shadows across the ground.
We pause at the edge of a pond where swan boats bob gently in the water.
Elijah points to the ripples on the surface.
"See how the sunlight catches them? It's like diamonds scattered across the pond."
I smile, admiring the beauty of it all.
As we stand there, an elderly couple approaches us.
They hold hands and smile at each other.
"Excuse me," says the man, his voice filled with kindness.
"Would you mind taking our picture?"
Elijah nods, and I step aside as they position themselves in front of us.
As Elijah lifts his camera to take their photo, his arm brushes against mine, sending a jolt of electricity through my body. The elderly couple smiles for the photo, and Elijah takes several shots before handing them their camera.
"Thank you," says the woman, her eyes twinkling with gratitude.
"You two are lovely. Enjoy your day together."
As they walk away, Elijah turns to face me.
He steps closer, his arm wrapping around my waist as he pulls me toward him.
His touch sends shivers down my spine as we stand there for a moment, locked in each other's gaze.
The world around us fades into the background as I lose myself in his eyes.
Finally, he releases me, and we continue walking along the path.
The sun shines down on us as we stroll through the garden, taking in its beauty together.
In that moment, I realize this is where I want to be.
We pause beneath a weeping willow tree, its branches creating a curtain around us.
Elijah's fingers intertwine with mine as we stand facing each other.
The only sounds are the distant chatter of people and the rustling of leaves in the wind.
I study his features, familiar yet still captivating.
The slight crook in his nose from a childhood accident, the faint freckles across his cheeks, and the warmth in his brown eyes.
When he steps closer, I feel his breath on my face.
My free hand reaches up to touch his jaw, and he leans into my palm.
Before our lips can meet, my phone buzzes in my pocket.
Elijah pulls back slightly, a teasing smile on his lips.
"Is that your father calling to check if you're still coming?" he asks, raising an eyebrow.
I glance at the screen and shake my head, feeling a mix of relief and disappointment.
"Wrong number," I say, silencing the phone and sliding it back into my pocket.
Under the willow's curtain of leaves, I press closer to Elijah, my heart thundering in my chest.
The garden's ambient sounds fade away as our lips meet in a gentle kiss.
His hands slide up to cup my face while mine grip his jacket lapels.
The kiss deepens, expressing years of unspoken feelings between us.
A passing child's laughter breaks our bubble, and we reluctantly separate, both breathing heavily.
Elijah rests his forehead against mine, his thumb tracing my cheek.
"We should keep walking," he murmurs, his breath still warm against my skin.
I nod, holding his hand as we exit from under the willow tree.
We follow the path that winds past flower beds bursting with late summer blooms.
The gravel crunches beneath our feet while other visitors stroll by—families pushing strollers, joggers with their dogs, tourists taking photos of the scenery.
Neither of us speaks, but Elijah's thumb traces circles on my palm.
We pause at a stone bridge overlooking a small stream, and I check my watch again—two hours until my meeting at MIT.
"We could find a bench in the shade and rest for a bit," Elijah suggests, glancing at me.
I shake my head and keep walking, gently pulling him along with me.
The path leads us through a shaded area where the sunlight filters through the leaves, casting dappled patterns on the ground.
We pass by a mother pushing a stroller, an artist sitting on a bench sketching the garden, and a group of teenagers laughing and taking selfies.
Elijah matches my quick pace, but occasionally tugs gently on my hand when I start walking too fast.
My watch shows 90 minutes until the meeting at MIT.
When we reach a stone fountain in the center of the garden, I stop abruptly.
Elijah bumps into me from behind, and he steadies me with both hands on my shoulders.
"Are you sure you're ready for this?" Elijah asks softly, concern lacing his voice.
I take a deep breath, feeling the weight of his question.
"Honestly, I don't know," I admit, meeting his gaze with a mixture of fear and determination.
I grip his hand tighter as we approach the wrought-iron gates marking the garden's exit.
The bustling Boylston Street traffic grows louder with each step.
My grandfather's tailored suit feels heavier now, and I adjust my tie for the tenth time.
Elijah notices and stops me, straightening my tie himself with careful attention.
His fingers linger at my collar, and our eyes meet.
The moment steadies me.
Without speaking, we step through the gates together.
I flag down a taxi, my voice firm as I give the driver MIT's address.
I spot a small coffee shop across from MIT's campus and point it out to Elijah.
Inside, the warm aroma of coffee beans envelops us.
We find a quiet corner table away from other customers.
Elijah orders our usual drinks - an americano for him, cappuccino for me.
While we wait, he reaches across the table to stop my fingers from drumming nervously.
The barista calls our names, but Elijah insists on getting the drinks himself.
When he returns, he places my cup down and slides into the booth beside me instead of across.
His shoulder presses against mine for support.
I rest my head against his shoulder, watching the steam rise from our untouched drinks.
His arm wraps around my waist, pulling me closer to him.
The café's quiet buzz fades as I focus on his steady breathing.
When my phone screen shows thirty minutes until my father's office hours, Elijah squeezes my hand three times.
I lift my head and finally take a sip of my now lukewarm cappuccino.
The foam is bitter on my tongue.
A student nearby accidentally drops her laptop, causing a loud clatter and making me jump in my seat.
Elijah reaches out with both hands to steady the cup before I can spill it.
"You're thinking about what you'll say to him, aren't you?" Elijah asks, his voice barely above a whisper.
I nod, feeling the tension coil tighter in my chest.
"Just remember, it's not about proving yourself to him; it's about finding your own path," he reminds me gently.
I pull a napkin from the dispenser while Elijah watches silently.
My hand trembles as I write "Why did you leave?" at the top of the napkin.
The pen tears through the thin paper when I cross it out immediately.
I try again, writing "I'm your son" with more force than necessary, but it's not what I want to say either.
I crumple the napkin and reach for another one.
This time, Elijah places his hand over mine, steadying it against the table.
Together, we smooth out the fresh napkin, and I write what matters most: "I want to understand."
I stare at my father's office number on my phone screen.
Elijah slides closer to me in the café booth, his leg pressing against mine.
My thumb hovers over the keypad, but I don't press anything yet.
The sounds of the café fill the silence between us: muffled conversations, the clinking of cups, and the distant hum of the espresso machine.
After three deep breaths, I finally dial.
The phone rings once, twice, three times.
My free hand grips the napkin tightly, the words I've written a blur through my tears.
A man's voice answers on the other end - professional and measured, eerily similar to mine.
"Dr. Johnson's office," he says.
I freeze, my breath catching in my throat.
Elijah squeezes my shoulder reassuringly.
I grip the phone tighter, my thumb still hovering over the keypad.
"Hello?" the man asks again, his voice tinged with curiosity.
"Yes," I manage to say, my voice barely audible.
"Can I help you with something?"
A pause stretches between us.
My rehearsed explanation of who I am and why I'm calling dissolves in my mind, leaving me stammering for words.
"I... uh... I need to speak with Dr. Johnson about a personal matter," I finally force out.
There's a brief silence on the other end of the line before the man speaks again.
"Who's calling, please?"
I swallow hard, my mouth suddenly dry.
Elijah's hand finds mine under the table, intertwining our fingers and giving me a gentle squeeze.
The warmth of his touch is my anchor in this moment.
"I'm his son," I say, each word feeling like a betrayal and a revelation all at once.
The line goes silent for what feels like an eternity.
In the background, I hear papers shuffling and muffled voices.
Then, the secretary's voice returns, hesitant and lowered as if he's cupping the phone with his hand. "Hold for just a moment, please," he says before placing me on hold.
Classical music fills my ear - soothing strings that do nothing to calm my racing heart.
Elijah pulls his chair closer to mine so our shoulders touch.
My free hand crumples the napkin with my prepared speech into a tight ball while I wait for what feels like an eternity.
I clutch the phone tighter to the café table, my knuckles turning white.
His hand squeezes mine under the table again.
The sounds of the café fade into the background as I focus on the classical hold music still echoing in my ear.
My crumpled speech lies forgotten on the table.
The seconds tick by, each one stretching into an eternity.
Then, a click on the line, followed by a steady breathing that tells me someone has picked up.
"Hello?"
My father's voice is like a physical force against my eardrums.
It's both familiar and foreign - a blend of my own voice and a stranger's.
"I've been expecting your call," he says, his words hanging in the air like a challenge.
The classical hold music still echoes in my ear, but it's drowned out by the pounding of my heart.
I try to form words, but they get caught in my throat.
The napkin with my written questions stares back at me from the table, now nothing more than crumpled paper and ink. "Expecting?" is all I manage to say, my voice coming out hoarse and unfamiliar even to myself.
"Yes," he replies, his voice steady and calm.
"As soon as I heard about your mother's passing, I knew it was only a matter of time before you reached out."
There's a pause between us, heavy with unspoken words and unresolved questions.
I can hear his steady breathing on the other end of the line - a stark contrast to my own ragged breaths.
"I've waited too long for this," I finally say, my voice steadying as the weight of the moment settles around us.
"I think we should meet in person," I force out, my grip on the phone tightening.
There's a pause on the other end of the line, and for a moment, I wonder if he's going to refuse.
Then, his voice comes back, measured and controlled.
"Very well," he says.
"I'll see you in my office in thirty minutes."
The line goes dead before I can respond.
I hang up the phone, my hand still clutching it tightly as I slump back against Elijah.
He wraps his arm around my shoulders, pulling me closer to him.
The crumpled speech napkin lies forgotten between our cold coffee cups.
When I finally try to stand, my legs shake so badly that I have to sit back down.
Elijah orders me a glass of water and helps straighten out my grandfather's suit.
I stand up again, my legs steadier now.
Outside the café, the afternoon sun hits the brick buildings of MIT, casting long shadows across the pavement.
We cross Massachusetts Avenue, weaving through the crowds of students rushing to their next class.
I check the building directory, my eyes scanning the list of names and room numbers until I find "Dr. Michael Johnson - Room 4.215."
The elevator takes us up to the fourth floor, Elijah holding my hand until we step out into the hallway.
Research posters line the walls, and office doors stretch out in both directions.
At 4.215, I see my father's name in black letters on a brass plate.
My hand hovers over the doorknob for a moment before Elijah steps back, giving me space.
I take a deep breath and knock gently, the sound echoing down the quiet hallway.
"Come in," his voice calls from inside, steady and composed.
I push the door open to find him standing by the window, sunlight casting a halo around his silhouette.
I step inside, my voice firm as I introduce myself.
The sunlight coming through the window casts long shadows across the room's worn carpet and the bookshelves lining one wall.
He turns from the window, his wire-rimmed glasses catching the light for a moment before he faces me fully.
His features are exactly as they were in the faculty photo - the same glasses, the same brown eyes, and the same thinning hair combed to one side.
But now, I notice other similarities too - the way he stands with his weight on one leg, the same height as me, even how he adjusts his glasses when he's thinking.
The door clicks shut behind me, and when our eyes meet, his widen slightly in recognition.
I clear my throat and step forward, extending my hand.
"Dr. Johnson," I say, my voice steady despite the turmoil inside.
He takes my hand, his grip firm but not unkind.
"Please, call me Michael," he replies, a hint of something softer in his eyes.
I sit across from him in one of the two chairs facing his desk, while he rummages through the top drawer.
The afternoon sun casts long shadows across stacks of papers and worn textbooks.
He pulls out a yellowed envelope, his hands trembling slightly as he holds it.
"Your mother wrote this," he says, sliding it toward me.
The handwriting on the envelope matches the few samples I have from her - the same distinctive curve to her y's.
I reach for the letter, but hesitate, my fingers hovering over the seal.
"Why didn't you ever tell me about her?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
Michael sighs, leaning back in his chair as if the weight of the years has finally caught up with him.
"I thought it was best to protect you from the truth, but now I see that was a mistake."
I stare at the envelope, the curved y's blurring as tears well up in my eyes.
Michael watches me from behind his desk, his expression a mix of sadness and understanding.
I carefully break the seal, trying not to tear the paper.
Inside, I find several folded documents, their edges crisp as if they've never been touched.
The first page is on letterhead from my grandfather's law firm.
My heart stops when I see the word "inheritance" followed by my mother's signature at the bottom.
Michael leans forward, his wire-rimmed glasses reflecting the afternoon sunlight streaming through the window.
"I wanted to tell you sooner, but your grandfather insisted on waiting until you were ready," Michael says, his voice tinged with regret.
"Ready for what?" I ask, my eyes locked onto his, searching for answers.
"For the truth about who you are and what she left for you," he replies, his gaze unwavering.
I stare at the number on the page, my vision blurring as I process what I'm seeing.
200 quintillion dollars.
The figure stretches across multiple lines, zeros marching like an endless army.
I feel my father's hand reach across his desk to steady mine.
The papers slip from my trembling hands, scattering across his worn office carpet.
As I bend to gather them, the tailored suit my grandfather insisted I wear feels tight around my shoulders.
Michael kneels beside me, gathering the fallen documents in his hands.
"The family has been quietly accumulating wealth for centuries," he explains, his voice steady as he hands me the stack of papers.
While we're reviewing the inheritance papers, a folded document slips from between the pages.
Michael picks it up, his eyes widening behind his glasses.
He hands it to me, and I see that it's a deed to a private island called Paradise Cove in the South Pacific.
The document has detailed maps of white sand beaches, a mansion, and even a private airstrip.
My hands tremble as I examine the satellite photos, showing a pristine 300-acre tropical paradise.
"Where is this?"
I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
Michael leans forward, his eyes shining with excitement.
"Your grandfather and I developed that island decades ago," he says, his voice filled with pride.
"We kept it off public records."
"But why keep it a secret from me?" I ask, feeling a mix of confusion and betrayal.
"Your grandfather believed it was your birthright, something you should discover when you were ready to embrace your legacy," Michael explains, his tone softening.
"And now that you know, it's time for you to decide what to do with it," he adds, handing me the deed with a solemn nod.
I hold the deed in my hands, sitting in my father's MIT office, staring at the satellite photos of the island.
The pristine beaches, the lush forests, and the crystal-clear waters are breathtaking.
Michael points out the location of the mansion, nestled on a cliff overlooking the ocean.
"It's built into the cliffside," he explains.
"The private airstrip is on the other side of the island. And there are hidden coves accessible only by boat."
As I study the maps, I imagine myself living on this island, away from the world's judgment.
It's a place where I can be myself without fear of being discovered.
My grandfather's vision for me becomes clear: this island isn't just property; it's a chance to create the family home I never had.
"And it's all sustainable," Michael adds, his voice filled with pride.
"We designed it to be self-sufficient, with solar power and its own water source."
I picture children playing on those white sand beaches, their laughter carrying on the breeze.
A future generation, free to live without fear of persecution.
I stand up from my chair, the Paradise Cove documents trembling in my hands.
The afternoon sunlight streams through my father's office window, casting a warm glow over the room.
Decades of family photos line his desk, but none of them include me.
My legs feel weak as I step around his desk, closing the distance between us.
Michael rises slowly from his chair, his eyes glistening behind wire-rimmed glasses.
Without thinking, I wrap my arms around him tightly, pressing my face against his shoulder.
His familiar scent - a mix of coffee and old books - triggers something deep inside me.
Michael hugs me back, his voice barely a whisper.
"I promised your grandfather I'd keep this secret until the time was right," he confesses, his words heavy with emotion.
"And now, it's your turn to decide what kind of legacy you want to leave."
I release him from our embrace and wipe my eyes.
The Paradise Cove documents lay spread across his desk.
Michael clears his throat and gestures for me to take a seat again.
I do, my eyes fixed on the satellite photos of the island.
He begins pointing out potential building sites near the beach, discussing the possibilities for expansion and development.
As he speaks, a sense of excitement builds inside me.
"This is incredible," I say, my voice filled with wonder.
"I want to see it for myself. I want to go there."
Michael nods, his expression serious.
"I've been expecting that," he says, opening a drawer in his desk.
He pulls out a set of keys and slides them across the desk toward me.
"These are for the private jet at Logan Airport."
My hands steady as I pick up the keys, feeling their weight in my palm.
I look at Michael, determination in my eyes.
"Thank you," I say, my voice filled with gratitude. "I'll make arrangements to leave immediately."
As I stand up from the chair, I pull out my phone and dial Elijah's number.
He answers on the first ring.
"Elijah, come into the office," I instruct him, my voice firm.
"Yes, sir," he responds, his voice unwavering.
Within moments, Elijah enters the room from the hallway where he had been waiting outside.
His presence is a reminder of the life I've built here in Boston, but now it's time to start anew.
Michael provides me with details about the gate at Logan Airport where the private jet awaits.
Elijah looks between Michael and me, sensing the gravity of the moment.
"Are we going somewhere, sir?" he asks, his curiosity piqued.
I nod, handing him the keys with a determined smile. "We're going to Paradise Cove."
I stand with Elijah in my father's MIT office, the Paradise Cove documents scattered across the mahogany desk.
Michael excuses himself to take a call, leaving us alone among the papers and photographs.
Elijah leans over the desk, his shoulder pressing against mine as he examines the satellite image of the island.
I point out potential building sites on the map, but my focus shifts when his hand accidentally brushes against mine while reaching for a document.
The brief contact sends electricity through me, making my breath catch.
Our eyes meet, and time seems to pause as sunlight streams through the office windows.
I gather the documents from the desk, explaining the island's location and history to Elijah.
His eyes widen as he takes in the images of pristine beaches and the cliffside mansion.
Michael returns, handing me detailed directions to the private hangar at Logan Airport.
Standing between my father and Elijah, I feel a surge of confidence.
I pull out my phone and book us both first-class tickets to Florida, where we'll catch the private jet to the island.
Elijah leans in closer, his hand brushing mine again as he looks at the confirmation details on my phone screen.
I turn to him, my voice firm and commanding.
"Elijah, this isn't just a business trip," I say, my eyes locked onto his.
His brow furrows slightly, curiosity deepening. "What do you mean?"
I take a deep breath, feeling the weight of the moment. "We're going to build a future there—together."
I watch his face intently as he processes my words.
His eyes move from the satellite photos to my face, studying me with growing intensity.
When his fingers tighten around mine, warmth spreads through my chest.
Michael busies himself with paperwork at his desk, giving us space.
Elijah steps closer, his shoulder brushing against mine as he examines the beachfront photos again.
His smile starts small but grows more confident as he squeezes my hand three times—our new signal of support.
"Are you sure about this?" Elijah asks, his voice a mix of excitement and uncertainty.
I nod, my heart racing. "I've never been more sure of anything."
Elijah's eyes shine with determination. "Then let's make it happen."
I rush around the hotel room, tossing my clothes into my suitcase without much care for organization.
Elijah, on the other hand, stands at the foot of his bed, carefully folding each item before placing it neatly into his own bag.
When I drop my grandfather's gold cufflinks, he catches them in mid-air before they can hit the floor.
I hold my breath as he secures them in their velvet pouch and places it into his bag.
Finally, I pause my frantic packing and watch him.
Elijah methodically arranges his belongings, ensuring that every item is placed in its designated spot within the suitcase.
His focus is unwavering as he closes the bag with a soft click.
He notices me staring and walks over, pressing his forehead against mine.
"I can't wait to explore this future with you," he whispers, his breath warm against my face.
I check our room one final time, making sure everything is packed and in order.
Elijah waits by the door, his suitcase already in hand.
I tuck the Paradise Cove documents into my carry-on, my hands trembling slightly as I zip it shut.
When I reach for the handle of my suitcase, a warm hand covers mine, steadying it.
My eyes meet Elijah's, and in that moment, the magnitude of our decision hangs in the air between us.
Without a word, he leans in and presses his lips against mine in a soft, reassuring kiss.
Our moment is interrupted by the buzz of my phone signaling the arrival of our Uber.
I pull away, grab my luggage, and follow Elijah to the door.
I pull the hotel door shut behind us, double-checking the lock.
Elijah stands patiently, our bags in hand, as we wait for the elevator.
The plush carpet of the hotel hallway muffles our footsteps as we make our way toward the elevators.
When Elijah's hand brushes against mine, I interlace our fingers, feeling the warmth of his palm against mine.
The elevator arrives with a soft ding, and we step inside together.
As the doors close, Elijah pulls me closer so that our shoulders touch.
We share a silent promise as the elevator descends, ready to embrace whatever comes next.
I stand with Elijah at the hotel's front desk, checking my phone as another deposit notification appears.
The inheritance from my mother adds another two hundred Quintillion to my account.
When the concierge returns our room keys, Elijah's hand finds mine, steadying my trembling fingers.
We walk toward the revolving doors where our luggage cart waits.
The morning sunlight streams through the glass, illuminating the marble lobby filled with business travelers.
My heart races as we approach the exit, knowing our private jet to Paradise Cove awaits.
With a deep breath, I step into the sunlight, ready to begin a life beyond imagination.
I stand with Elijah in the hotel lobby's morning light, our luggage cart between us.
He reaches across and takes both my hands, his touch grounding me amidst the bustle of passing travelers.
The marble floor reflects sunlight onto his face as he steps closer, his eyes holding mine with an intensity that makes my breath catch.
His thumbs trace circles on my palms, a gesture so intimate it drowns out the lobby noise.
When he whispers about making our adventure unforgettable, his voice carries such conviction that my lingering doubts about Paradise Cove fade away.
I grip the luggage cart handle tightly, watching as Elijah signals the doorman.
The morning traffic noise filters through the revolving doors as hotel staff load our bags into the sleek black limousine.
Elijah's shoulder brushes mine when he steps closer, steadying me with his presence.
My heart races as I think about our journey ahead to Paradise Cove.
When he extends his hand to help me into the car, I hesitate briefly, overwhelmed by the changes happening.
His warm brown eyes meet mine with reassurance, and his fingers reach toward me.
I take his hand, feeling the certainty of our future in his grasp.
I slide across the leather seat of the limousine while Elijah enters from the other side.
Our shoulders touch when we settle in, and he takes my hand, his thumb tracing small circles on my palm.
Through the tinted windows, I watch as Boston's streets blur past us.
The driver confirms our destination: Logan Airport's private terminal.
My heart races when Elijah pulls out the Paradise Cove photos, spreading them across our laps.
He points to a secluded beach cove, suggesting it as our first stop.
I lean closer to examine the photo, my head almost touching his.
The image shows crystal waters curving around a stretch of white sand, sheltered by towering cliffs.
His finger traces the natural rock formation that creates a private swimming lagoon.
When he describes watching sunsets there together, his voice grows soft and intimate.
I rest my head on his shoulder, imagining us walking barefoot on that pristine sand.
As the cityscape fades behind us, I realize that this journey is more than just a destination.
In the back of the limousine, I turn the Paradise Cove photo toward Elijah, my fingers trembling slightly against the glossy paper.
The morning traffic crawls past our tinted windows as I point to the hidden lagoon he mentioned.
His warm hand covers mine on the photo, steadying my grip.
When I whisper about making it our first adventure together, his eyes lock with mine.
He pulls me closer until our foreheads touch, and I feel his gentle exhale against my cheek.
"Do you remember the promise we made last summer?" Elijah asks softly, his breath warm against my skin.
I nod, recalling the vow to seek out hidden places and make them our own.
"Then let's start with this one," he murmurs, a determined glint in his eyes.
I pull up flight options on my phone while Elijah watches over my shoulder.
His warm breath tickles my neck as I scroll through first-class tickets to Florida.
When I find two seats on the next flight out, my finger hovers over the confirmation button.
Elijah squeezes my hand three times, our signal of support.
I book the tickets decisively, then immediately arrange for the private jet to meet us there.
The driver's voice interrupts our planning, announcing we're ten minutes from Logan Airport.
I grip the door handle as our limousine pulls up to Logan Airport's private terminal.
Elijah helps me out, his hand steady against my lower back.
Inside, marble floors echo with our footsteps as we approach the first-class check-in counter.
The agent processes our tickets while I fidget with my grandfather's cufflinks.
Elijah notices and takes my hand, interlocking our fingers.
When she hands us our boarding passes, I stare at the "PARADISE COVE" destination printed in bold letters.
We follow Elijah through the terminal to a sleek café tucked between designer boutiques.
The barista greets us with practiced politeness, her eyes lingering on Elijah's tailored suit.
He orders our usual drinks - his americano and my cappuccino.
When I reach for my wallet, his hand stops mine.
"Remember, I'm treating today," he says softly.
We find a quiet corner table away from the other travelers.
As we sit, our shoulders touching, he pulls out his phone to show me more Paradise Cove photos he downloaded.
His finger traces the coastline as he explains his vision for our future home.
I lean forward in my café chair, watching as his finger traces over a sketch of a wraparound deck.
His other hand rests on my knee under the table, a comforting weight.
The airport bustle fades away as he describes the glass walls facing the ocean and a private garden courtyard.
When he mentions a master suite overlooking the lagoon, his eyes meet mine with such intensity that my breath catches.
I place my hand over his on the sketch, silently agreeing to his vision.
I spot a Sotheby's International Realty office across from the café.
I point it out to him, and he checks his watch.
"We have two hours before our flight," he says.
We gather our carry-ons and walk into the sleek office.
The receptionist greets us warmly, her eyes widening as she recognizes Elijah.
She offers us coffee and asks how she can assist us.
Elijah explains that we're looking for oceanfront property in Paradise Cove.
While we wait for an agent, he pulls up more photos on his phone, pointing out potential building sites again.
I notice his hands trembling slightly as he scrolls through the images.
A tall woman in a tailored suit approaches our seats.
She introduces herself as Claire Bennett, carrying a leather portfolio.
She leads us to a conference room with a large mahogany table.
We sit, and she spreads out aerial photos of the island.
She points out several pristine beachfront lots, but none capture our attention until she shows us a secluded five-acre plot nestled between rocky cliffs.
My hand finds Elijah's under the table as we lean forward to examine it.
The lot juts out into the ocean, forming a natural cove that would shelter our future dock.
Claire explains that the property includes a protected coral reef just offshore, perfect for snorkeling and diving.
Elijah's grip on my hand tightens at the mention of the reef.
The price tag is $50 million, but I barely register it as I picture our modern glass home perched above those turquoise waters.
Elijah leans back in his leather chair, discussing financing options with Claire.
I watch, impressed by his business mind as he asks about construction permits and environmental impact studies.
When Claire mentions a six-month building timeline, Elijah pulls out his tablet and begins typing notes.
I watch his fingers move confidently across the screen, organizing our future into neat categories.
His thoroughness makes my heart swell – this isn't just my dream anymore, but our shared vision.
Claire spreads out development zone maps, pointing out areas zoned for residential construction.
"Elijah, did you notice the small print about the historical preservation restrictions?" Claire asks, tapping a section of the map.
He pauses, looking up sharply. "What kind of restrictions are we talking about?"
Claire leans in, lowering her voice. "The cliffs are considered sacred by the local community; any construction will require their approval."
I lean forward, my elbows on the table.
Claire pulls up a contact list on her laptop and turns the screen toward us.
"These are the members of the indigenous council. They meet monthly in the community center on the island."
I check my watch; we could make next week's gathering if we leave today.
Elijah starts typing email drafts on his phone, introducing ourselves to the council members.
I squeeze his hand under the table, knowing we'll face this challenge together.