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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.
Grandfather
He is Shane’s wealthy grandfather who left him his entire estate. He is wise,protective,and supportive. Grandfather secretly raised Shane in his youth,teaching him important life skills without being discovered by Shane’s adoptive parents. Grandfather’s will leaves Shane with a vast inheritance,giving him the means to overcome the obstacles he faced and achieve his goals.
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 only for his potential wealth,discarding him as soon as she found someone richer. Her relationship with Shane was marked by her constant criticism and belittling of his past struggles. She represents the societal pressures and expectations that Shane fought against.
I was an orphan, a poor one to be exact.
I didn’t know my parents, but I was told they died in a car accident.
I had no relatives, or so I thought.
But that wasn’t the worst of it.
I had to live in foster care, with different families who took me in for the sake of the government’s money.
I had been moved from family to family, until I was seventeen, and then I was kicked out of the last family because they said I was too old to be living with them.
They were right, but not because I was too old to be supported by them.
It was because they were selfish and wanted all the government’s money for themselves.
I had nowhere to go, so I ended up on the streets, sleeping in abandoned buildings or under trees until I got a job at a local restaurant as a dishwasher.
It wasn’t easy living on my own at such a young age, but I had gotten used to it, even though it broke my heart to think about how I would never have a normal life with a family that loved me.
I also had a girlfriend named Penelope who worked as a waitress at the same restaurant where I worked.
We met one year ago, and we instantly fell in love with each other.
I wipe down the kitchen counter after my shift, then throw the dirty rag in the bucket of soapy water and walk towards the employee lockers.
As I reach for my coat, I notice Penelope standing next to the lockers.
She’s still wearing her uniform, which means she hasn’t changed yet, and she’s also not wearing her jacket, which means she has no plans to leave anytime soon.
She’s just standing there, staring at the floor with her hands folded together in front of her.
She’s wearing that expensive perfume she recently bought herself, or so she claimed.
She told me it was a gift from a friend, but I had my doubts.
I didn’t know much about Penelope’s friends because I never met them, and she never talked about them much.
"Hey, what are you still doing here?"
I ask her as I walk up to her.
She looks up at me, startled by my sudden appearance.
"Oh, hi," she says nervously, clutching her purse in front of her like it’s some kind of shield.
"I was just waiting for you."
"Waiting for me?"
I repeat, confused by her answer.
"Yes," she says hesitantly.
"There’s something I need to tell you."
"What is it?"
I ask curiously as I lean against the lockers next to her. She takes a deep breath before speaking again.
"Remember that customer who always sits at my table during his lunch breaks?"
"Which one?" "Richard," she replies.
"The one who owns that big company downtown."
"Oh yeah," I say as I remember him now.
"He comes here often."
"Yeah," she says with a sigh.
"Well, he asked me out on a date a few weeks ago."
"A date?"
I repeat in shock as my heart starts pounding loudly inside my chest.
"Yeah," she says softly as she looks down at the floor again.
"And you went out with him?"
I ask angrily as I clench my fists tightly by my sides.
"Yeah," she replies again with a sigh.
"And we’ve been seeing each other ever since."
"Seeing each other?"
I repeat once more as anger fills me inside.
"Yes," she says again as she looks up at me with tears in her eyes.
"He’s really nice and caring. He makes me happy."
"But what about me?"
"I’m sorry," she says as she turns around and walks away from me, leaving me standing there with my mouth hanging open.
I slump against the lockers and slide down to the floor, my hands shaking as I try to process what just happened.
The fluorescent lights in the kitchen flicker above my head while dirty dishes pile up in the sink.
Mark, the night shift dishwasher, walks into the kitchen and sees me standing there.
He’s a middle-aged man with graying hair and permanent dish soap stains on his uniform.
"Rough day?" he asks as he pulls out two paper cups from the break room cabinet.
I nod silently, still trying to process what just happened.
Mark pours us both a cup of coffee from the ancient machine that sits on the counter.
The liquid is black and bitter, but I accept it gratefully anyway.
"Yeah, you could say that," I mutter, taking a sip and wincing at the taste.
Mark leans against the counter, studying me with a knowing look.
"You know, sometimes losing something makes room for something better," he says quietly, his eyes reflecting a wisdom earned through years of hard living.
After my shift ends, I trudge to my small rented room above the convenience store.
It’s a dingy place with a creaky bed and a shared bathroom down the hall.
I toss my greasy uniform in the corner and kick off my shoes.
As I walk towards the bed, I notice a piece of paper slipped under my door.
It’s a late notice from the landlord, reminding me that I’m behind on rent again.
I collapse onto the bed, feeling defeated.
Just as I’m about to drift off to sleep, there’s a knock at the door.
I groan and get up to answer it, expecting it to be the landlord again.
But it’s not him.
It’s a courier holding an envelope with my name on it.
"Sign here, please," he says as he hands me a clipboard.
I sign for the package and take it from him.
The envelope feels heavy and expensive, like nothing I’ve ever gotten before.
I close the door and examine it closer.
It’s addressed to me, but there’s no return address.
The only clue is a law firm’s logo embossed on the envelope: "WEBER & ASSOCIATES, ATTORNEYS AT LAW."
My hands shake as I open the envelope and pull out the letter inside. It’s formal letterhead with a bunch of legal jargon that makes my head spin.
But one sentence catches my eye: "We regret to inform you that your grandfather has passed away."
My grandfather?
I never knew I had one.
The letter goes on to explain that he left behind an estate and that I’m required to attend the reading of his will.
There’s a phone number listed at the bottom of the page with instructions to call and arrange a meeting with one of the lawyers.
I stare at the letter for a few minutes, trying to process what I just read.
A grandfather?
An estate?
What does any of this mean?
Without thinking, I grab my phone and dial the number listed on the letter.
A voice answers on the third ring, "Weber & Associates, how may I assist you?"
"Uh, hi," I stammer, still trying to wrap my head around everything. "I received a letter about my grandfather's estate... I didn't even know I had a grandfather."
The voice on the other end pauses for a moment before responding, "Yes, Mr. Weber, we understand this might come as a surprise. Your grandfather was quite private, but he left specific instructions for you in his will."
I sit on my bed, staring at the letter until there’s another knock on the door.
I get up to answer it, but this time I check the peephole first.
It’s Mark, the night shift dishwasher from the restaurant.
He looks like he just got out of bed himself, his hair disheveled and his eyes bleary.
"Hey, you okay?" he asks as I open the door.
"Yeah, I just got some weird news," I reply, still trying to process everything.
Mark nods sympathetically.
"I saw you reading that letter earlier. Figured something was up."
I invite him in and show him the letter.
He reads it over carefully before handing it back to me.
"Well, this is certainly a surprise," he says with a chuckle.
"I never knew you had a grandfather either."
"Neither did I," I reply, feeling a mix of emotions inside.
"So what are you going to do?"
Mark asks as he sits down on the edge of my bed.
"I guess I have to call that law firm and arrange a meeting," I say with a sigh.
"You want me to come with you?" he offers.
"No, it’s okay," I reply quickly.
"I can handle it myself."
But Mark insists.
"Listen, kid. You’re going to need someone there for support. And besides, I switched shifts with one of the other guys so I can drive you there myself." I’m touched by his offer and accept gratefully.
Mark leaves to get ready while I try to gather my thoughts together.
A few minutes later, he knocks on my door again, this time dressed in a suit and tie.
He looks like a completely different person from the man who works in the kitchen every night.
"Ready to go?" he asks as he holds out his car keys for me to see.
I nod and follow him downstairs to his old Corolla parked in the lot behind the convenience store.
The car is beat up and faded blue paint peels off the hood in places, but it runs like a charm according to Mark.
As we drive through morning traffic towards downtown, Mark tells me about his own experience with inheritance when his aunt passed away and left him her small house on the outskirts of town. "It changed my life," he says wistfully as we stop at a red light.
"I was able to quit my job at the factory and start working at the restaurant instead."
"Do you think this could change your life too?" Mark asks, glancing over at me with a hopeful smile.
"I honestly don't know," I admit, staring out the window as the city blurs by.
"Well, whatever happens, just remember you're not alone in this," he reassures me, patting my shoulder gently.
We pull up in front of a tall glass skyscraper with a fancy sign out front reading "WEber & ASSOCIATES, ATTORNEYS AT LAW."
Mark parks the car and we both walk inside, our shoes making scuff marks on the polished marble floor.
The waiting room is modern and sterile, with leather chairs that look too expensive for someone like me to be sitting in.
A secretary behind the reception desk greets us with a polite smile.
"Mr. Weber?" she asks as she looks at me expectantly.
I nod, fidgeting nervously with the sleeve of my worn jacket.
The secretary glances at Mark beside me, her eyes widening slightly when she notices how disheveled I look compared to him in his suit and tie.
"This way, please," she says as she gestures for me to follow her down a long hallway lined with framed photos of serious-looking lawyers posing in front of bookshelves or golf courses.
Their smiles are all confident and smug, making me even more aware of my own uncertainty as I trail behind her towards a heavy wooden door marked "SENIOR PARTNER."
Mark gives me an encouraging nod before taking a seat in the waiting room, pulling out a magazine from the stack on the coffee table to pass the time.
I wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans and rap my knuckles against the heavy oak door.
A firm "Come in" echoes from inside.
The senior partner's office is massive, with floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the city skyline below.
Behind an imposing mahogany desk sits a middle-aged man with silver hair slicked back and a tailored suit that probably cost more than I make in a year.
He studies me with piercing blue eyes as I step forward hesitantly, my worn sneakers sinking into the plush carpeting beneath my feet.
Two leather chairs face his desk, but he doesn't invite me to sit yet.
Instead, he gestures for me to close the door behind myself, the sound of the latch clicking shut making me feel even more trapped and out of place.
I stand there awkwardly by the door, my voice cracking slightly as I manage to get out a greeting.
"I'm Shane Weber. I received a letter about my grandfather's estate."
The senior partner's expression shifts from dismissive curiosity to startled recognition.
He studies my face intently, as if searching for some hidden clue that will confirm my identity.
Then, without saying a word, he pulls out a thick manila folder from the drawer of his desk and begins spreading papers across the surface.
I step forward to get a closer look, my heart pounding faster as I realize what he's showing me - old pictures of my grandfather at various ages, ranging from childhood to middle age.
I stare at the photographs in stunned silence, my eyes tracing the familiar contours of his face that are mirrored in my own features.
The resemblance grows stronger with each passing year until it's almost uncanny. Finally, the senior partner gestures for me to take a seat in one of the leather chairs facing his desk.
"Please," he says with a nod, his voice low and gravelly from years of smoking cigars.
"There's much to discuss regarding your inheritance."
I sink into the chair, still staring at the photographs scattered across his desk.
"Why didn't I know about him sooner?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
The senior partner leans back in his chair, steepling his fingers thoughtfully.
"Your grandfather had his reasons for keeping his distance, but he made sure you'd be taken care of when the time was right."
He reaches into the drawer of his desk again, this time pulling out a thick manila envelope that looks like it hasn't been opened in years.
His movements are deliberate and measured as he slides the envelope across the surface of his desk towards me.
"He left you everything," he explains, his voice tinged with a mixture of awe and reverence.
"Over three hundred googol dollars, to be exact. But there are conditions."
I stare at the envelope in my lap, my mind struggling to comprehend the enormity of what he's telling me.
"Three hundred googol?" I repeat, my voice sounding hollow even to my own ears.
"That's... that's more than anyone could ever spend in a lifetime."
The senior partner nods gravely, his eyes never leaving mine.
"Your grandfather knew that money can be a blessing or a curse, depending on how it's used. He wanted to make sure you'd be prepared for the responsibility that comes with such wealth." I grip the armrests of my chair tightly, trying to steady myself against the whirlwind of emotions swirling inside me.
"So what are these conditions?" I ask finally, my voice barely above a whisper.
The senior partner leans forward again, his eyes boring into mine with an intensity that makes me feel like I'm being weighed and measured all over again.
"There are three tests," he explains, his voice steady and unwavering.
"The first one requires you to maintain your current job and lifestyle for the next three months. You'll be monitored secretly to ensure you're meeting the terms of this condition."
He pauses for a moment, studying my reaction before continuing.
"The second test involves charitable work. You'll be required to donate a portion of your inheritance to various causes around the world, using your own judgment and discretion when deciding which organizations deserve support."
My mind reels as I process what he's telling me.
"And the third test?"
I ask finally, my voice coming out in a hoarse croak. The senior partner smiles grimly, as if he knows exactly what's going through my mind right now.
"The final test is perhaps the most challenging of all," he says slowly, savoring each word like a judge pronouncing sentence on a condemned man.
"You'll be required to undergo intensive business training, learning everything there is to know about managing wealth and making smart investments. At the end of this period, you'll be given control over your inheritance - but only if you've proven yourself worthy."
I swallow hard, trying to process the magnitude of what he's saying.
"And if I fail any of these tests?" I ask, my voice trembling slightly.
The senior partner's eyes narrow, his expression turning solemn.
"Then the entire fortune will be donated to charity, as per your grandfather's wishes."
After leaving the law office, I sit with Mark in a nearby coffee shop, staring at the business school brochures the senior partner gave me.
The glossy pages show students in pressed suits striding across manicured campuses, worlds away from my grease-stained apron and dish soap-roughened hands.
Mark points out that the application deadline for Harvard Business School is next week.
My hands shake slightly as I pull out my phone to schedule the GMAT exam, knowing I'll have to study during breaks between dishwashing shifts.
I spread the brochures across the coffee shop table, my hands still smelling of dish soap from my morning shift.
Mark points out application deadlines while I mark them with a yellow highlighter, creating a timeline on a napkin.
The Harvard deadline looms closest - only seven days away.
When the waitress delivers our coffee refills, she gives me the same dismissive look I've gotten used to, not knowing I could buy this entire block.
I keep highlighting dates, adding GMAT prep sessions between my dishwashing shifts and calculating how many hours of sleep I can sacrifice.
Mark leans back in his chair, watching me with a mix of concern and amusement.
"You know, Shane, this is the kind of thing people dream about," he says, stirring his coffee absentmindedly.
I glance up from my makeshift timeline, meeting his gaze. "Yeah, but those dreams don't usually come with a three-month probation period," I reply with a wry smile.
After another late dishwashing shift, I sit on my bed staring at the GMAT prep book, my eyes too tired to focus on the practice questions.
The senior partner's business card sits on my nightstand, its embossed letters catching the dim light from my lamp.
I pick up my phone three times before finally dialing his number, expecting voicemail at this hour.
To my surprise, he answers immediately.
His voice sounds less intimidating than in the office as he listens to my concerns about juggling work and study.
"You'll find that the most valuable lessons often come from the struggle itself," he says, his tone encouraging.
"But remember, Shane, you're not alone in this; your grandfather believed in you, and so do I."
I take a deep breath, feeling a renewed sense of determination.
I set my phone alarm for 4 AM and place it on the other side of the room, next to my GMAT prep book.
When it blares the next morning, my muscles ache from last night's dish pit work as I force myself off the creaky mattress.
The convenience store's neon sign casts a red glow through my window, illuminating the cluttered room.
I shuffle to the kitchenette, filling a chipped mug with water to brew instant coffee.
Sitting at my wobbly desk, I open the practice book to probability questions, my pencil scratching against scrap paper as I work through each problem.
I sit hunched over my desk, squinting at the GMAT practice book under the dim desk lamp.
The numbers blur together on the page, my back aching from hours of dishwashing and my eyes heavy with fatigue.
I check my phone - 5:47 AM.
Just as I'm about to give up, orange rays of sunlight start filtering through my grimy window.
The light catches the senior partner's business card propped against my mug, reminding me of my grandfather's unwavering faith in me.
The phone buzzes with a message from Mark, breaking my concentration.
"Hey, Shane, you up for a quick call? Got something important to discuss," it reads.
I hesitate for a moment before typing back, "Sure, give me a minute," wondering what could be so urgent at this hour.
I press my phone against my ear, the sound of my own breathing loud in the silence of my room.
The desk lamp casts a warm glow on the scattered GMAT books and notes, while the city outside slowly comes to life.
Mark's voice comes through shakily, "Hey, Shane, hope I'm not waking you up or anything. I just needed to talk to you about something."
I lean back in my creaky desk chair, rubbing the fatigue from my eyes.
"No worries, Mark, what's up?"
There's a pause on the other end of the line before he continues, his voice filled with a mix of concern and urgency.
"I overheard something last night at the restaurant that I think you should know about."
My grip on the phone tightens instinctively as I wait for him to continue.
"It was during my smoke break," Mark explains, "and Penelope and Richard were talking in the back alley. They didn't notice me there."
I frown, trying to piece together what this could mean.
"What were they talking about?"
Mark takes a deep breath before answering.
"They were talking about you."
My stomach tightens at his words.
"What about me?"
"They were wondering why you've been going to that law firm so often," Mark explains, his voice filled with worry.
"They thought maybe you were getting some inheritance or something." My heart races as I process this information.
How did Penelope and Richard find out about my visits to the law firm?
And why would they think it was about an inheritance?
"They were speculating about it," Mark continues, his voice filled with concern.
"Penelope seemed really interested in the idea that you might be getting money. She even asked other staff members if they knew anything about your schedule changes or why you've started dressing differently for work."
I grip my phone harder, feeling a mix of anger and betrayal.
Penelope has always been nosy, but this crosses a line.
"Did they say anything else?" I ask, my voice tight with tension.
"Not really," Mark replies hesitantly.
"But Penelope did mention that she's been noticing changes in your behavior lately. She said you seem more focused and determined than usual."
I sigh heavily, realizing that I need to be more careful about who knows what's going on in my life.
"Thanks for telling me this, Mark," I say finally, my voice filled with gratitude.
I spot Penelope in the restaurant's back alley during her smoke break, her designer purse from Richard hanging off her arm.
Walking up to her, I notice she's wearing the same perfume she used to wear when we dated.
She startles when I appear, dropping her cigarette.
I tell her directly that I know she's been asking questions about my life and watching my movements.
She tries to laugh it off, claiming she's just concerned, but I cut her off.
Her face hardens as I warn her to stop prying into my business.
I spot Richard's sleek BMW in the restaurant parking lot during my break.
Looking through the window, I see him sitting at his usual corner booth, sipping espresso while typing away on his laptop.
My work shoes squeak against the polished floor as I make my way over.
He looks up, his designer glasses reflecting the overhead lights, and gives me a once-over before dismissing me with a wave of his hand.
Before he can return to his screen, I plant both hands firmly on his table and lean in close.
"Richard, we need to talk," I say, my voice low but firm.
He raises an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed.
"What could possibly be so urgent that you'd interrupt my morning routine?"
I lean in closer, my dishwashing-stained apron brushing against the polished wood of his table.
He tries to shift his laptop away, but I press my palm flat against its surface.
"Why is Penelope tracking my movements?" I ask, keeping my voice steady despite the morning customers glancing our way.
Richard adjusts his designer glasses, a smirk forming on his face.
"She mentioned your mysterious lawyer visits," he says, stirring his espresso with calculated slowness.
"We're simply curious about your... sudden change in circumstances."
His condescending tone makes my jaw clench.
I lean over his table, my voice low but sharp enough to make the nearest diners glance our way.
"Stay out of my business," I say, maintaining eye contact.
My dishwashing-calloused hands press against the polished wood.
His smirk falters slightly.
He sets down his espresso cup with a slight clatter, the designer watch on his wrist catching the morning light.
The restaurant's breakfast crowd creates a steady background murmur as I deliver my warning.
Richard's face hardens, and he starts to respond, but I cut him off by deliberately knocking his laptop closed.
"Your games won't work on me, Richard," I say, my voice unwavering.
He leans back in his chair, crossing his arms with a dismissive chuckle.
"Then perhaps you should consider why we're so interested," he replies, his eyes narrowing with a hint of challenge.
I straighten my back and push away from his table, my dishwashing apron still damp against my chest.
The breakfast crowd's chatter fills the tense silence between us.
Without looking back, I move between the crowded tables, ignoring his attempt to have the last word.
The manager shoots me a concerned look as I pass the host stand, but I keep walking.
My footsteps echo against the tile floor as I head toward the kitchen, each step measured and deliberate.
I grip the kitchen door handle, my knuckles whitening as I watch Richard through the small round window.
He opens his laptop again, his face set in a determined expression.
The orders for breakfast dishes pile up behind me, but I remain still, my gaze fixed on him.
The other kitchen staff shuffle around me, their movements awkward and tense.
The door swings open as a server pushes through with plates, forcing me to step aside.
Mark glances at me from the dish pit, a look of concern on his face.
Taking a deep breath, I release the handle and turn away from the door.
I turn away from the kitchen door and head to the dish pit, my hands shaking slightly as I reach for the growing pile of dirty plates.
The clatter of ceramic and silverware drowns out my racing thoughts about Richard.
Steam rises from the industrial dishwasher as I methodically load racks, letting the repetitive motion calm me.
Mark works silently beside me, giving me space to process.
When the breakfast cook shouts for clean skillets, I concentrate on scrubbing them spotless, channeling my frustration into making each dish shine.
