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MidReal Story
The Billionaire Reborn
Scenario:Kevin Kenmore, Jr. has led a hard broken life, a poor orphan, and his girlfriend is leaving him for a richer prospect. But his fortune is about to change dramatically. Kevin inherited immense wealth from his grandfather, shocking everyone. He was the heir to one of the two only multi-Quadrillonaire families in the world. He endures constant criticism and judgment from those around him. He vowed that those who had labeled him a failure would eventually bow at his feet. Now, 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, Kevin will get revenge on those who treated him badly. Will he succeed?
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Kevin Kenmore, Jr.
He is the son of a single mother,orphaned at age six. He is resilient,determined,and proud. Kevin faced immense poverty and loneliness but never gave up. His life took a drastic turn when he inherited a vast fortune from his deceased grandfather. As the new heir to the Kenmore Quadrillionaires' wealth,he grapples with past injustices and the expectations that come with his new status. Despite challenges,he remains steadfast in his pursuit of happiness and fulfillment.
Grandfather
He is Kevin's paternal grandfather. He is wealthy,influential,and secretive. Grandfather passed away leaving behind an enormous estate for Kevin,surprising him with his generosity. His will reveals that he always considered Kevin his son despite their brief meeting once. Grandfather's death becomes a turning point for Kevin,freeing him from past hardships and bestowing upon him a chance to reshape his future.
Lana
She is one of Kevin's acquaintances from his past. She is superficial,jealous,and shallow. Lana resents Kevin's sudden wealth and attempts to align herself with it to regain her status. Her behavior highlights the superficial relationships and ambitions that surround Kevin. Lana's actions demonstrate how others seek to associate themselves with power and privilege.
I was born into a poor family.
My mom was single and didn’t have much money, but she tried her best to take care of me.
I didn’t know my dad, and I didn’t know if I had any other family.
When I was six, my mom died.
I was left all alone with no one to take care of me.
I had to live in an orphanage.
It wasn’t the worst orphanage, but it was still hard.
I had to share a bed with other kids and fight for food.
Sometimes we didn’t have enough food, and I went to bed hungry.
I had to wear hand-me-down clothes that were often too small or too big.
I wanted a family of my own that would love me and take care of me.
I dreamed of having a big, happy family with parents and siblings who would love me and make me feel special.
But that was just a dream, and I knew it would never come true.
When I turned eighteen, I left the orphanage and went out on my own.
I didn’t have much money, and I had to work multiple jobs just to survive.
I took on odd jobs here and there, and I also worked as a part-time cashier in a supermarket.
I sit at our usual diner booth, picking at my cold fries as Maggie stirs her untouched coffee.
She won't meet my eyes, staring instead at her perfectly manicured nails.
The ones I know she got from her new "friend" Stuart.
The vinyl seat squeaks as she shifts uncomfortably.
Finally, she speaks, her voice flat.
"Kevin, this isn't working."
I already know what's coming.
She tells me about Stuart's family money, his beach house, the lifestyle he can provide.
My throat tightens as I remember the overtime shifts I worked to buy her that birthday necklace.
She slides out of the booth, leaving her coffee and our three years behind.
"Maggie, was it ever about love for you?"
She pauses, her hand on the door, and for a moment, I think she might turn back.
"Kevin, love doesn't pay the bills."
I stare at her empty seat across the booth, her coffee growing cold.
The receipt from our last shared meal crumples in my trembling fist.
I'd scraped together tips for weeks to afford this place.
Around us, other diners continue their meals, oblivious to my humiliation.
The waitress approaches with a sympathetic look.
"Sir, do you want a refill?"
Her pity stings worse than Maggie's words about Stuart's new car and vacation homes.
I leave exact change on the table, including the tip I can barely afford.
The diner's neon sign casts a red glow through the drizzle as I push through the glass door.
My work uniform sticks to my skin, still damp from my earlier shift.
Cold drops hit my face, mixing with the hot anger burning behind my eyes.
I pause under the awning, watching cars splash through puddles on their way to warmer, drier places.
My bus pass expired yesterday, and the three-mile walk home stretches ahead like a punishment.
A Mercedes - Stuart's model - cruises past, its headlights momentarily blinding me.
I step into the downpour, my shoulders squared.
"Kevin, wait up," a voice calls from behind, barely audible over the rain.
I turn to see Jake, my old friend from the orphanage, jogging towards me with an umbrella.
"Why didn't you tell me things were this rough? You know I've got your back."
Jake and I huddle under his black umbrella, our shoulders bumping as we walk through puddles on the cracked sidewalk.
The neon signs from the diner fade behind us while Jake tells me about his new job at a law firm's mailroom.
I barely listen, nodding mechanically as rain drums against the fabric above us.
When we reach the bus stop, Jake pulls out his wallet and hands me his spare bus pass.
"I can't take this," I say, but he forces it into my shirt pocket.
"Just take it, man."
"You've helped me enough times; let me do this for you."
I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat as gratitude and shame mix within me.
"Thanks, Jake. I owe you one."
I slump into a cracked vinyl seat near the back of the nearly empty bus.
Jake's silhouette fades in the rain-streaked window as we pull away from the curb.
The fluorescent lights overhead flicker, casting harsh shadows on the grimy floor where my dripping shoes leave puddles.
A woman in hospital scrubs dozes two rows ahead while an elderly man reads his newspaper up front.
I pull out my phone, noticing three missed calls from an unknown number.
The screen's cracked corner catches the light as I debate whether to check the voicemail.
The last time an unknown caller reached me, it was to tell me about a death.
With a deep breath, I press play and hold the phone to my ear.
"Kevin, it's Maggie," her voice crackles through the speaker, unexpected and tense.
"I need to talk to you about something important—it's about Stuart."
I stare at my phone, thumb hovering over the delete button.
The bus rumbles on, and I delete the voicemail without responding.
The rain-soaked streets blur outside as I lean my head against the cool glass.
The bus ride ends too soon, and I step off into the rain again.
My studio apartment is a cramped space above a Chinese restaurant in a rough part of town.
The smell of grease and spices seeps through the walls, mingling with the musty scent of old carpet.
I unlock the door and step inside, flicking on the light switch to reveal a single mattress on the floor, a small table with two chairs, and a hot plate in the corner.
The mail is stacked on the table, and I sort through it while sitting on the edge of my mattress.
Bills and junk mail fill most of the stack, but one envelope catches my eye—a thick cream envelope with gold embossing that reads "Morton & Associates, Attorneys at Law."
My hands shake as I open it, remembering the last official letter I received was about Mom's death.
The letterhead inside is formal, with a gold crest embossed at the top.
I read it twice before its meaning sinks in. "Dear Mr. Kenmore," it begins.
"We regret to inform you that your grandfather, Arthur Kenmore, has passed away. As his sole living heir, we request your presence at the reading of his will tomorrow morning at 9:00 AM."
I met my grandfather only once when I was a child.
He came to visit Mom in the hospital after she had been diagnosed with cancer.
He was an old man then, with silver hair and piercing blue eyes that seemed to see right through me.
He spoke little during his visit, but his presence was imposing.
After he left, Mom told me that he was a wealthy man who had built his fortune from scratch.
She said he was proud but also cold and distant.
I check my work schedule, knowing I'll need to request time off for the will reading next week.
I'm scheduled to work tomorrow morning, so I'll have to ask Dave for a day off.
I find a time-off request form in the back of my employee handbook and fill it out, then head to Dave's office.
He scowls when he sees me standing in his doorway, probably remembering the shift I missed last month when I had food poisoning.
"Can I help you?" he asks gruffly.
"I need to request a day off," I reply, holding out the form.
He takes it from me and reviews it quickly before looking up at me with a frown.
"This is short notice," he says.
"Can't you find someone to cover your shift?"
"I'll try," I say, "but I don't think anyone will be available on such short notice."
He sighs and rubs his temples.
"Fine," he says finally.
"But this better be important. You know how much we need all hands on deck right now."
"It is important," I assure him.
He nods and signs the form, then hands it back to me.
"Make sure you find someone to cover your shift," he says as I turn to leave.
I nod and tuck the approved request into my wallet beside the law firm's letter.
I approach Mark at his register during our evening shift.
He's between customers, and the store is quiet.
He's counting his drawer while humming along to the muzak that plays over the speakers.
The fluorescent lights overhead cast harsh shadows under his eyes.
"Hey, man," I say as I approach him.
He looks up at me and nods in greeting.
"What's up?" he asks.
"I need a favor," I reply.
"I've got a family thing that I need to take care of tomorrow morning, and I won't be able to make it to my shift."
Mark raises an eyebrow at me skeptically.
"You're not flaking on us again, are you?" he asks.
"No, I promise," I say quickly.
"I just really need to be there for this. Can you cover for me?"
Mark sighs and rubs his temples.
"I don't know, man," he says.
"I've got a lot going on tomorrow too."
I know that Mark has covered for me before when I was sick, though I still owe him for that favor.
I'm not sure if he'll be willing to do it again so soon. "Please," I say.
"I'll owe you one. You can have my Saturday evening shift next week."
Mark hesitates for a moment before nodding his head.
"Alright, fine," he says.
"But you owe me big time for this. And don't think about flaking on me next Saturday."
I nod my head gratefully.
"Thank you," I say.
"I really appreciate it."
Mark nods and goes back to counting his drawer while I head back to my own register to finish out my shift.
I clock out after my shift and head to the employee exit, avoiding Dave's disapproving stare as I leave.
The fluorescent lights of the supermarket fade behind me as I walk through the parking lot, my work shoes scuffing against the asphalt.
My bus pass is still good for one more ride, a gift from Jake when he landed his first job at a tech firm.
I stop at the bus stop on the corner and wait for the late bus to take me home.
While I wait, I pull out the law firm's letter again and double-check the address and time for tomorrow's meeting.
The paper feels heavy in my hands, its formal letterhead a stark contrast to my grocery store nametag.
I fold the letter carefully and slip it back into my pocket, knowing tomorrow will change everything.
I grip the handrail and swipe Jake's bus pass, nodding to the driver who barely looks up from his controls.
The late-night bus is half-empty, smelling of wet clothes and exhaust fumes.
Moving past a teenager with headphones and an elderly woman clutching grocery bags, I settle into a window seat near the middle.
The leather is cracked, and someone has carved initials into the plastic divider.
As we pull away from the curb, I press my forehead against the cool glass, watching neon signs and streetlights streak past in the rain.
Each storefront reminds me of times I window-shopped with Maggie, dreaming of things I couldn't afford.
Tomorrow, I won't just be dreaming.
I reach for my wallet to return Jake's pass to my pocket when the driver's voice crackles over the intercom.
"Attention, passengers," he says.
"Tonight's rides are free due to the transit authority's customer appreciation week."
A few passengers perk up at this news, including the elderly woman who smiles in relief.
I pause with the pass halfway out of my wallet, remembering how Jake insisted I take it despite my protests.
After a moment's hesitation, I carefully tuck it back into my shirt pocket.
I can save it for another day when I'll need it more.
I lean back against the worn fabric of the bus seat, my muscles finally unwinding after the long day.
The steady vibration of the engine travels through the metal frame, creating a soothing drone that makes my eyelids heavy.
Through the rain-streaked window, streetlights blur into golden streaks.
The letter from Morton & Associates crinkles in my pocket as I shift position.
A few seats ahead, the elderly woman nods off, her chin dropping to her chest.
The teenager's music faintly leaks through his headphones.
I unlock the door to my studio apartment, the familiar smell of Chinese food wafting up from the restaurant below.
The flickering hallway light casts long shadows across the floor, illuminating the few pieces of furniture I own.
A worn mattress lies on the floor, covered in a patchwork of thrift store blankets.
A hot plate balances precariously on top of stacked milk crates, serving as a makeshift kitchen counter.
In the corner, a cardboard box functions as my dresser.
I place the letter on my only real piece of furniture: a wobbly folding table that doubles as a desk and dining table.
The rain patters against the window, casting a rhythmic melody through the room.
My wet work uniform clings uncomfortably to my skin, and I peel it off before hanging it over the shower rod in the tiny bathroom.
As I step back into the main room, my phone buzzes with a message from Maggie.
"Did you open it yet?" her text reads, almost vibrating with anticipation.
I hesitate, then type back, "Not yet, but I'm about to. You think it's good news?"
Maggie responds immediately, "I have a good feeling about this!"
I sit down at my folding table, the single light bulb overhead casting a dim glow.
The hum of the Chinese restaurant's kitchen fans vibrates through the floorboards.
My hands tremble slightly as I break the seal on the thick envelope.
The paper inside is crisp and heavy, embossed with Morton & Associates' letterhead.
I unfold it carefully, smoothing out the creases.
The formal language dances across the page in elegant script.
"Dear Mr. Kenmore," it begins, "We are writing to inform you that you are the sole heir to the Kenmore fortune. As per your grandfather's will, all assets, properties, and business holdings are to be transferred into your name immediately."
I blink, my eyes focusing on the number at the bottom of the page.
It's so large that the zeros blur together before my eyes: $300,000,000,000,000,000.
Three hundred quadrillion dollars.
My legs give out and I collapse into my wobbly chair.
A second page details the specifics of the transfer: bank accounts, real estate holdings, and business interests.
I spread the documents across my folding table, each page revealing another staggering asset.
A private island in the Maldives.
Three mega yachts docked in Monaco.
Penthouses in New York, London, and Dubai.
The list goes on and on, my hands barely able to hold the papers.
Between the pages, something solid catches my eye - a sleek black credit card with gold trim.
I lift it carefully, studying the platinum K embossed in the center.
The Citibank logo gleams under the flickering light of my apartment.
I sit on my mattress, the inheritance papers scattered around me.
The name "Jake" stares back at me from my phone screen, the call button taunting me with its simplicity.
My thumb hovers over it, hesitating for a moment before I take a deep breath and press down.
The steam from the Chinese restaurant seeps through my floorboards, mingling with the tension in the air.
I owe it to Jake to be the first to know.
He's done so much for me - buying that bus pass tonight, and countless other favors over the years.
My hands shake so badly that I almost drop the phone.
The ring echoes three times before Jake's familiar voice answers, "Hey man, you get home okay?"
I grip the phone tightly, my voice barely above a whisper.
"Yeah, I'm here. There's something you need to know."
The steam from the restaurant below fogs my window, casting a misty veil over the city outside.
I take a deep breath and begin to explain, "I got this letter... about an inheritance."
Jake's voice is calm, "An inheritance? From who?"
I glance down at the papers spread across my mattress, the numbers blurring together before my eyes.
"From my grandfather. I never knew him, but apparently he was rich."
"How rich?"
Jake asks, his curiosity piqued.
I swallow hard, my voice shaking as I read the number aloud, "Three hundred quadrillion dollars."
There's a pause on the other end of the line, Jake's breathing heavy in the silence.
"Did you say quadrillion?"
His voice is different now, hesitant and cautious.
"Yes," I respond, my own voice barely above a whisper.
"I'm looking at the papers right now. It says three hundred quadrillion dollars."
I hear Jake sit down, the sound of his chair scraping against the floor echoing through the phone.
"Okay," he says slowly, "what does that mean exactly?"
I take a deep breath and try to explain it in simpler terms.
"It means I have access to more money than I could ever spend in a lifetime. And not just money - islands, yachts, penthouses... all of it is mine now." The silence on the other end of the line stretches out for what feels like an eternity.
Finally, Jake speaks up again, his voice filled with disbelief.
"Are you sure this isn't some kind of prank?"
I glance down at the papers spread across my mattress, each one bearing the official seal of Morton & Associates.
"No," I respond firmly, "this is real. I have all the documents right here."
Jake takes a deep breath and exhales slowly.
"Okay," he says finally, "what does this mean for you?"
I hesitate for a moment before answering.
"It means everything," I say quietly.
"I can finally live the life I've always wanted."
Jake's voice is filled with excitement as he responds, "That's amazing news! You deserve this more than anyone I know."
I smile to myself as I listen to his words.
It feels good to have someone believe in me like that.
I pack the papers back into my backpack, double-checking the address of the law firm on my cracked phone screen.
The morning sun barely filters through the grimy window of my studio, casting a dim glow over the room.
I pull on my cleanest shirt - a wrinkled button-down from the thrift store - and grab my backpack before heading out the door.
As I walk to the bus stop, I notice Stuart's Mercedes parked outside the coffee shop across the street.
My hand instinctively tightens around the strap of my backpack, which contains documents worth quadrillions.
The approaching bus wheezes to a stop in front of me, and I climb aboard using Jake's pass one last time.
I sink into the cracked vinyl seat, my backpack heavy with inheritance papers in my lap.
Outside, morning traffic crawls past discount stores and pawn shops I used to browse.
A businessman in an expensive suit stands near the front, checking his Rolex - the kind of watch I'll soon be able to buy thousands of.
My reflection stares back at me from the grimy window - a tired-eyed young man in a thrift store shirt.
Two teenage girls whisper and point at my worn shoes, but I just grip my backpack tighter, knowing its contents will change everything.
I step off the bus onto polished marble steps leading to Morton & Associates' glass tower.
My scuffed shoes squeak against the pristine floor as I push through revolving doors into a lobby filled with mahogany and brass.
The security guard eyes my worn backpack suspiciously, making me grip it tighter.
At the reception desk, a woman in pearls raises her eyebrows when I state my name, then quickly masks her surprise.
She directs me to the 47th floor, where my grandfather's lawyers wait.
Inside the elevator, my reflection stares back from mirrored walls - a poor orphan about to become a quadrillionaire.
I follow the lawyer down a hallway lined with oil paintings and mahogany doors.
My backpack feels heavier with each step.
The conference room's glass walls reveal a panoramic city view, making me conscious of my thrift store clothes.
Inside, leather chairs surround a massive table where other lawyers shuffle papers and whisper.
The stern lawyer gestures for me to sit at the head of the table.
His expression doesn't change as I pull out the crumpled inheritance letter.
A woman in a navy suit slides a thick folder toward me, her manicured finger pointing to where I need to sign.
I grip the heavy fountain pen provided by the lawyer, its weight unfamiliar in my calloused hand from years of cashier work.
The leather chair creaks as I lean forward to study the signature line on the final page.
Around the table, the lawyers watch intently, their expensive suits and perfect postures a stark contrast to my thrift store clothes.
My hand trembles slightly as I press the pen to paper.
The ink flows smoothly as I sign "Kevin Kenmore Jr." - the same signature I've used on countless minimum wage paychecks.
The woman in the navy suit clears her throat, her voice smooth and professional.
"Mr. Kenmore, there's one more thing you should know before we proceed."
I look up, meeting her gaze, as she continues, "Your grandfather left a clause that requires you to spend a year working at Kenmore Industries before accessing the full inheritance."
I lean forward in the leather chair, my worn backpack at my feet a stark contrast to the polished conference room.
The lawyer in navy pulls out another document, her manicured fingers smoothing the page.
She explains that I'll be taking on the position of Junior Executive at Kenmore Industries' headquarters.
My eyes widen as she tells me I'll start Monday morning in my grandfather's old office on the top floor, overseeing global operations.
I mention my job at the supermarket, but she waves it off with a dismissive gesture.
"The company car will pick you up at 7 AM sharp," she says, handing me a folder containing my new business cards and building access badge.
I grip the folder tightly, already feeling the weight of running a quadrillion-dollar empire.
I return to my apartment above the Chinese restaurant, still processing the work requirement.
I clear the folding table of empty pizza boxes and organize the thick folder of documents.
Just as I'm about to call my best friend to share the news, my phone rings - an unlisted number.
A gravelly voice on the other end identifies himself as James Chen, my grandfather's former attorney.
He explains that he recently discovered crucial information about the inheritance terms.
Apparently, there's an old codicil that makes the one-year work requirement void if the heir demonstrates financial hardship.
My current living conditions and work history qualify me.
Chen offers to file the paperwork immediately.
I pace my cramped studio apartment, the sound of Chen's voice still echoing in my mind.
The inheritance papers scatter across my folding table, and I check my phone for the time - 11:47 PM.
Through my window, I watch as the last customers leave the Chinese restaurant below.
The neon sign flickers off, casting the street in darkness.
I weigh Chen's offer in my mind.
The codicil could free me from a year of corporate work, but something feels off.
I text back to confirm our meeting at Riverside Coffee at 9 AM.
Before sleeping on my thin mattress, I take out my cracked phone and carefully photograph every inheritance document, including the newly signed papers from Morton & Associates.
The next morning, I arrive at Riverside Coffee, scanning the room for James Chen.
He spots me first and waves me over, his expression unreadable.
"Kevin," he says, leaning in, "there's something you need to know about your grandfather's intentions."
I lean forward in my chair, the morning crowd's chatter fading to background noise.
Chen pulls out a stack of documents from his worn leather briefcase and begins to speak in hushed tones.
"Your grandfather had a secret agreement with the Marquesa family," he says, his fingers tapping nervously on a sealed envelope.
"They wanted to merge their fortunes through marriage."
I frown, confused.
"Why wasn't this mentioned at the will reading?"
Chen glances around the coffee shop before sliding the envelope across the table.
I stare at it, my hands trembling as I reach for it.
The café's morning bustle fades away, leaving only the sound of Chen's voice and the rustling of papers.
The envelope is made of heavy cream-colored paper, sealed with an unfamiliar wax crest.
Chen leans forward, his voice barely above a whisper.
"DNA tests were conducted. Birth records were altered. Your mother's name was changed to protect the Marquesa family's reputation."
My throat tightens as he mentions my mother's name alongside the Marquesa family.
I break the seal, and old newspaper clippings fall out onto the table.
One shows my mother standing next to Antonio Marquesa at a charity gala months before I was born.
I look up at Chen, my mind racing with questions, as he quietly says, "You are the missing heir."
I retreat to my car in the café parking lot, needing privacy to process Chen's bombshell.
My hands shake as I pull out my phone and dial Jake's number.
After three rings, his familiar "Hey man" helps steady my racing thoughts.
I tell him everything - the work requirement, Chen's suspicious meeting, and the shocking possibility that Antonio Marquesa might be my father.
Jake listens quietly until I finish, then asks pointed questions about Chen's credibility and the authenticity of the documents.
His practical perspective helps me realize I need to verify these claims before acting.
When a black sedan pulls up beside my car, I glance through the café window and see Chen watching me.
I grip my steering wheel tighter, my knuckles turning white.
A man in a dark suit steps out of the sedan and walks towards me.
Through my side mirror, I watch him approach with a sleek leather briefcase in his hand.
His polished shoes click against the pavement as he moves.
Jake falls silent on the phone, waiting for me to explain what's happening.
I describe the scene to him as the man taps on my window.
I hesitate, then lower the glass slightly.
He shows me a Marquesa Corp ID badge and motions for me to open the door fully.
With trembling fingers, I comply.
The man hands me the briefcase and explains that it contains documents for a trust fund Antonio Marquesa set up twenty-five years ago.
I place the briefcase on my passenger seat while he turns to leave.
Jake remains silent on the phone, sensing the gravity of the situation.
The gold latches click open, revealing stacks of yellowed papers and a worn manila envelope.
My hands tremble as I lift out a birth certificate - not the one from the orphanage, but an original showing Antonio Marquesa listed as father.
Beneath it lies a handwritten letter from my mother to Antonio, dated just before her death.
A series of canceled checks made out to her follows, with notes about medical expenses and living arrangements.
Old photographs spill out, showing my mother's pregnant belly at what appears to be a Marquesa estate.
And then, recent surveillance photos of me, taken without my knowledge.
I feel a chill run down my spine as I whisper into the phone, "Jake, they've been watching me."
Jake's voice is urgent, "You need to get out of there now. This isn't just about inheritance; it's about control."
I nod, even though he can't see me, and reply, "But where do I go when they already know everything?"