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MidReal Story
The Billionaire Reborn
Scenario:Kevin Kenmore 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 only Multi Quadrillionaire 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
He is a previously impoverished orphan who was constantly belittled and judged by those around him. He is resilient,determined,and proud. After growing up in a foster home with no family,Kevin learned to be tough and defend himself. His life took a dramatic turn when he discovered he was the heir to a multiquadrillionaire family's fortune. Kevin used his newfound wealth to not only support himself but also help others,including exgirlfriend Emily.
David
He is Kevin's former landlord who evicted him without cause. He is greedy,dishonest,and unscrupulous. When Kevin discovered his true inheritance,he sought out David to return the keys to his former home. However,David lied about the reason for eviction and kept the deposit. As part of Kevin's plan for revenge,David and his family face financial hardship due to an unpaid loan from Kevin.
Emily
She is Kevin's exgirlfriend who left him for someone wealthier. She is selfish,shallow,and materialistic. Emily initially dated Kevin for his potential financial future,but when she met someone richer,she ended the relationship without hesitation. Her treatment of Kevin was dismissive and cold. Despite her past,she unknowingly becomes part of Kevin's revenge plan when he gifts her and her new partner a threatening debt instead of the promised wealth.
I was once an orphan living in poverty.
My girlfriend left me for a guy who could provide her with luxury and comfort.
She thought I'd never amount to anything, that I'd never be able to give her the life she deserved.
But little did she know, my life was about to change forever.
I just inherited hundreds of billions of dollars.
Not only that, but I'm now the only Quadrillionaire in the world.
No one has ever had a net worth of over one quadrillion dollars except for my family.
My grandfather was one of the only multi-quadrillionaires in the world.
He had an estimated net worth of 250 Quadrillion dollars.
And guess what?
I'm his ONLY heir.
Everyone thought my grandfather was crazy for not giving any of his children or grandchildren any money.
They thought he was being stingy and mean.
But they didn't understand why he did what he did.
He wanted them to stay humble and to not get lazy.
He wanted them to still work hard and strive for greatness on their own.
I walk into the high-rise office building and my sneakers squeak on the marble floor.
The security guard looks at me suspiciously, his hand resting on his gun.
I'm wearing a pair of ratty jeans, a plain white t-shirt, and a pair of sneakers that I got from the thrift store.
I look like a homeless person compared to everyone else in this building.
"Can I help you?" the guard asks gruffly.
"I have an appointment with Mr. Blackwood," I say, showing him the appointment card that was delivered to me earlier today.
The guard looks at it and then steps aside.
"Take the elevator to the 50th floor," he says.
I nod and head towards the elevator.
I step inside and press the button for the 50th floor.
The elevator starts moving and I lean against the wall, looking around at all of the fancy buttons and lights.
The elevator stops on several floors, letting people in and out.
One woman gets in wearing a very expensive-looking suit and she gives me a dirty look before standing as far away from me as possible. The elevator finally reaches the 50th floor and I step out into a large reception area.
The sign behind the receptionist's desk reads "Blackwood & Associates" in gold letters.
The receptionist is typing away on her computer and she looks up as I approach her desk.
"Can I help you?" she asks, eyeing me suspiciously.
"I have an appointment with Mr. Blackwood," I say again, showing her my appointment card.
She nods and picks up her phone.
"Mr. Kenmore is here," she says into the phone before hanging up.
She stands up and gestures for me to follow her.
We walk down a long hallway lined with expensive-looking artwork until we reach a large mahogany door.
She knocks twice before opening it and gesturing for me to go inside. I step into the room and see five lawyers sitting around a large conference table covered in stacks of papers and files.
There are also several large stacks of cash sitting on top of the table.
One of the lawyers stands up as I enter the room and extends his hand to me.
"Mr. Kenmore, thank you for coming," he says, shaking my hand firmly.
He gestures for me to take a seat across from him at the table and I do so, looking around at all of the other lawyers who are staring at me intently.
He gestures for me to take a seat and then slides a stack of papers across the table to me.
"Please read through these and sign them," he says.
I pick up the papers and begin reading through them while the lawyers all sit back in their chairs and watch me.
They occasionally exchange glances with each other and one of them taps his pen impatiently on the table.
The stack of papers is thick and it takes me several minutes to read through everything.
There are trusts, holdings, offshore accounts, property deeds, and more.
The properties are located on three different continents and there are millions of dollars in each account.
My hand shakes slightly as I flip through the pages, my eyes widening at the astronomical figures listed on each one. The woman who sneered at me in the elevator walks by the glass wall that separates this room from the hallway outside.
She glances in and her eyes widen when she sees me sitting here with all of these lawyers.
I straighten my posture and adjust my threadbare jacket before picking up the gold fountain pen that Mr. Blackwood has offered me.
I grip the heavy gold pen, its weight unfamiliar in my calloused hand.
The lawyers all lean forward slightly, watching intently as I position the tip of the pen above the first signature line.
My name flows across the page in smooth, flowing script, each stroke of the pen transforming me from a penniless orphan into one of the wealthiest men alive.
I sign page after page, methodically working my way through the stack of papers.
With each signature, I remember every dismissive look and cruel word that has been directed at me over the years.
I remember every time I was told that I would never amount to anything, that I was destined for a life of poverty and struggle.
But now, as I sign my name on these documents, I am proving them all wrong. The woman from the elevator walks by again, her phone in her hand as she frantically types out a text message.
She glances in at us again and then quickly looks away, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment.
Mr. Blackwood collects each document as I finish signing it, checking it over carefully before placing it in a neat stack on his side of the table.
Finally, after what feels like an eternity, I sign my name on the final document and slide it across the table to Mr. Blackwood.
He takes it from me and checks it over one last time before nodding in satisfaction.
He slides a small keycard across the table to me.
"This is your access card to your grandfather's private penthouse office," he says.
I lean back in the leather chair, my mind still reeling as Mr. Blackwood reads out the final inheritance figures.
"Three hundred and fifty quadrillion dollars," he says, his voice steady and matter-of-fact.
The number seems impossible to comprehend.
I've never even heard of a number that large before.
Mr. Blackwood slides a large manila folder across the polished table towards me.
"Here is a detailed inventory of your grandfather's holdings," he explains.
I open the folder and begin flipping through the pages.
There are private islands in the Caribbean and Mediterranean, a fleet of mega yachts, penthouses in every major city around the world, and extensive liquid assets in various currencies and commodities.
My eyes widen as I scan through the pages, trying to wrap my head around the sheer scale of my inheritance.
A small black box on the table catches my eye.
I pick it up, feeling its weight in my hand.
It's made of smooth black wood, adorned with intricate gold filigree.
I lift the lid, revealing a sleek black and gold Citibank card nestled in a bed of velvet.
The card seems to gleam in the light, its platinum K glinting mockingly at my threadbare jacket.
I stare at the black card in my trembling hands while Mr. Blackwood explains the security measures and spending protocols.
The other lawyers gather their papers and file out of the conference room, leaving just me and Mr. Blackwood sitting at the table.
He pulls out a tablet and taps on the screen, opening a banking app.
He enters a password and then turns the tablet to face me.
On the screen, I see my name next to a balance that stretches across the screen with an impossible string of zeros.
$350,000,000,000,000,000
My chest tightens as I remember Emily's cruel words about my "dead-end life" and David's sneering face when he evicted me from my apartment.
Mr. Blackwood hands me the tablet and shows me how to access my new digital empire.
Still seated in the conference room, I pull out my old flip phone and place it on the table.
Mr. Blackwood excuses himself to give me a moment of privacy.
My fingers hover over the worn keypad, the numbers and symbols etched into my memory from years of use.
The phone feels light in my hand compared to the heavy black card that now rests in my pocket.
I remember how Brandon and Josh stood by me during the darkest times, sharing their food when I was hungry, offering me their couch when David evicted me, and defending me when others mocked my poverty.
I dial Brandon's number first, my heart racing as it rings.
"Hey man," he answers cheerfully.
"I think it's time we changed everything."
I walk into the small corner cafe where Brandon and I used to pool our spare change to buy coffee refills.
The cracked vinyl booth creaks as I slide in, the same familiar sound it made when Brandon and I would spend hours planning our futures over cold cups of coffee.
Through the smudged window, I watch Brandon walk down the street, his worn work uniform and heavy boots leaving muddy prints on the wet sidewalk.
He doesn't notice the sleek black car that dropped me off or my new designer clothes.
The waitress who used to chase us out for staying too long without ordering anything brings two coffees without being asked.
Brandon spots me and grins, wiping the construction dust from his hands onto his faded jeans before sliding into the booth across from me.
The vinyl squeaks beneath him as he settles in, leaving a smudge of dirt on the table.
His eyes dart to my crisp suit and perfectly polished shoes, but he doesn't comment.
"About time you paid me back for all those coffees," he jokes, reaching for his mug.
The waitress returns with a fresh pot, filling both our cups without the usual disdain.
I wrap my hands around the warm mug, remembering the countless hours Brandon and I spent here planning our escape from poverty.
"Brandon," I say, my voice steady but filled with an urgency I've never felt before.
He looks up from his coffee, curiosity flickering in his eyes.
"I've come into something big—something that could change everything for us."
I lean forward, the creaky vinyl booth groaning beneath me.
I slide a leather folder across the coffee-stained table, its sleek surface stark against the chipped formica.
Brandon's calloused hands hesitate for a moment before opening it.
His eyes widen as he scans the pages filled with detailed business proposals and financial projections.
"It's a construction company," I explain, my voice steady but filled with an unspoken urgency.
"One where you'd be an equal partner."
The waitress lingers nearby, pretending to wipe down tables while straining to hear our conversation.
I pull out my new black card, its weight heavy in my pocket.
I remember all the times Brandon covered my coffee here when I couldn't afford it, all the times he lent me his last few dollars when I needed it most.
"Let's buy this cafe," I say, sliding the card across the table to him.
Brandon's eyes lock onto mine, disbelief and excitement battling for dominance.
"You're serious?" he asks, his voice barely above a whisper, as if afraid to break the spell.
"As serious as the day you gave me your last twenty bucks," I reply, my grin matching the hope in his eyes.
I pull out my new phone, its sleek surface a stark contrast to Brandon's work-roughened hands still gripping the leather folder.
The cafe's dim lighting casts a warm glow on the screen as I type out a message.
Brandon studies the documents, his brow furrowed in concentration.
My fingers hover over the virtual keyboard as I consider how to phrase it.
Josh is probably finishing his shift at the warehouse, his muscles aching from another day of manual labor.
Just last week, he shared his last cup of ramen with me when I couldn't afford dinner.
I finally type out a message and hit send: "Meet me at Mike's Bar after your shift. Life-changing news. First round's on me."
I watch Brandon's weathered hands close the leather folder with a finality that echoes through the cafe.
His calloused fingers trace the embossed edge, as if savoring the weight of what I've offered.
The late afternoon sun streams through the grimy windows, casting a golden glow on the construction dust coating his sleeve.
He straightens his back, squares his shoulders, and meets my gaze with the same determined look he had when he helped me move my few belongings after the eviction.
"Let's do this," he says, his voice firm and unwavering.
He pulls a worn pencil from his pocket and marks the spots where he'll sign.
I nod, feeling a surge of relief and excitement.
"We'll need Josh on board too," I say, knowing his skills could be invaluable.
Brandon grins, the familiar spark of ambition lighting up his eyes.
I lean back in the booth, watching him process the reality of our new partnership.
The coffee has gone cold, forgotten in the excitement of signing papers.
Through the window, I see the sun setting behind the city buildings where I used to dream of living.
Drawing a deep breath, I pull out my tablet and open a folder filled with photos.
Brandon's eyes widen as I show him pictures of a sprawling coastal villa I've been eyeing - five bedrooms, private beach access, theater/game room, a pool, martial arts Dojo, a yacht dock, and even a helicopter pad.
"This is where we'll be living," I say, my voice filled with anticipation.
"Would you and Josh consider moving in as roommates?"
The coffee cup freezes halfway to Brandon's mouth.
I notice his calloused fingers lingering near mine on the cafe table, his work-roughened hand a stark contrast to my new designer suit.
The familiar scent of coffee and construction dust hangs between us as his gaze holds mine with an unfamiliar weight.
The waitress approaches to refill our cups, but Brandon waves her away without breaking eye contact.
His expression shifts from disbelief to something deeper as he processes the magnitude of my offers - the partnership, the mansion, the complete transformation of our lives.
"Are you serious about this?" Brandon asks, his voice a mix of skepticism and hope.
"Dead serious," I reply, leaning forward to emphasize my conviction.
"Then count us in," he says, a determined smile spreading across his face.
I stand up from the vinyl booth, my expensive suit crinkling as Brandon rises too.
Our eyes meet, and without a word, we both know that this is it - the moment we've been working toward for years, scraping coins together for coffee refills and dreaming of a better life.
Without hesitation, I step forward and wrap my arms around him in a tight embrace.
Brandon's construction dust transfers to my tailored jacket as he returns the hug firmly.
The waitress pauses mid-stride, coffee pot in hand, watching our unusual display with a mixture of curiosity and amusement.
I feel Brandon's shoulders shake slightly as he whispers "thank you" against my shoulder.
"Don't thank me yet," I murmur, pulling back to look him in the eye.
"We've got a lot of work ahead, and this is just the beginning."
Brandon nods, his determination unwavering.
I lead him through the glass door, holding it open as he follows with the leather folder clutched tightly in his hand.
The evening air is crisp, carrying the scent of possibility.
On the sidewalk, my driver James waits beside the black Rolls Royce, a stark contrast to the rusty pickup Brandon drove here.
Brandon stops short at the sight, his work boots scuffing against the concrete.
I place a hand on his shoulder and gesture toward the car.
"Let's go," I say, my voice filled with excitement.
Brandon hesitates for a moment, looking down at his dusty clothes and worn boots.
"I don't want to mess up your car," he says, uncertainty creeping into his voice.
I nudge him forward gently.
"Don't worry about that," I reassure him.
"We've got more important things to focus on."
With a deep breath, Brandon opens the car door and slides into the plush leather interior.
I follow suit, settling into the seat beside him.
As we pull away from the curb, Brandon runs his fingers over the partnership papers again, as if needing to convince himself that this is real. "Where are we headed?" he asks, glancing at me with a mix of anticipation and nerves.
"I need to meet Josh at Mike's Bar," I reply, pulling out my phone to text my best friend.
"He's going to be thrilled when he hears about this."
Brandon nods, a small smile playing on his lips.
"I can't wait to see his reaction," he says, leaning back into the seat as we make our way through the city streets.
The neon lights of Mike's Bar come into view as we round the corner.
James pulls up outside, and I step out onto the sidewalk, Brandon following closely behind.
I pause at the entrance, suddenly aware of Brandon's proximity in a way I never noticed before.
As we step through the dimly lit doorway together, his work-roughened hand accidentally brushes against mine.
The brief contact sends an electric jolt through my body, making me stumble slightly on the threshold.
Brandon steadies me with a firm grip on my shoulder, his touch lingering longer than necessary.
The familiar scent of sawdust and coffee from his clothes fills my senses.
I take a deep breath, realizing that this partnership might mean more than just business.
I guide Brandon through the dimly lit bar, the leather folder tucked securely under my arm.
The familiar smell of stale beer and cigarettes wafts through the air as we make our way toward our usual corner booth.
The regulars at the counter glance up briefly, their faces illuminated only by the soft glow of the TV screens.
Brandon's work boots scuff against the wooden floorboards, leaving a trail of construction dust in our wake.
When we reach the booth, I slide in first, my expensive suit fabric catching on the worn vinyl.
Brandon follows, sitting closer than he usually does.
Our shoulders touch, sending a shiver down my spine.
We wait for Josh to arrive, the anticipation hanging thick in the air.
I signal for the waitress to bring us a round of drinks.
"Top-shelf whiskey this time," I instruct her, replacing our usual cheap beer with something more fitting for the occasion.
I shift in the booth, feeling Brandon's warmth against my side as I pull out my phone to check the time.
Josh should be here any minute.
The expensive whiskey sits untouched between us as I consider Brandon's question.
Memories of Josh sleeping on warehouse floors and skipping meals to pay rent flash through my mind.
The leather folder with our business plans feels heavy in my hands.
I trace the embossed logo of our future company, remembering how Josh always dreamed of starting his own delivery service.
"He will," I tell Brandon, "because this is everything he's worked for."
Brandon looks at me, his eyes searching for something deeper.
"And what about you?" he asks softly, his voice barely audible over the bar's chatter.
I hesitate, feeling the weight of the moment. "I've realized that maybe it's not just about the business anymore," I admit, meeting his gaze with newfound clarity.
I watch the bar's entrance while Brandon's shoulder remains pressed against mine, our whiskey glasses collecting condensation.
The door swings open and Josh strides in, still wearing his orange warehouse vest and steel-toed boots.
His face is set with purpose as he scans the room, probably wondering why I texted him to meet here.
When he spots us, his eyebrows rise at my expensive suit and Brandon's proximity to me.
He weaves through the crowd, dodging a waitress carrying pitchers.
As Josh approaches our booth, I slide the business folder closer, my hand trembling slightly.
I slide the leather folder across the sticky bar table to Josh, my fingers lingering on its edge.
The bar's dim lighting casts shadows over the documents inside - blueprints for our construction company and photos of the beachfront mansion we plan to build.
Brandon's thigh presses against mine as he leans forward, watching Josh intently.
Josh's warehouse uniform is stained with sweat as he opens the folder, his tired eyes widening at the figures.
The expensive whiskey glasses remain untouched between us as Josh flips through each page with trembling hands.
Josh finally looks up, his voice a mix of disbelief and hope. "Is this... is this really happening?"
Brandon nods, his voice steady. "It's all real, Josh, and it's all for you."
I lean in, my voice firm but warm. "We couldn't have done it without you, and now it's time for us to build something incredible together."
I lean forward as Josh carefully closes the leather folder, his hands still shaking.
His warehouse uniform is stained with sweat, but his eyes shine with a newfound purpose.
Brandon's shoulder presses warmly against mine as Josh extends his hand across the table.
We shake firmly, the gesture carrying the weight of years of shared struggles and late-night dreams.
Josh pulls out his worn pencil from his pocket, signs the partnership documents, and pushes them back to me.
The expensive whiskey finally makes its way to our lips as we toast, three friends turned business partners.
Josh's voice is steady now, filled with determination. "I can't believe we're finally doing this."
Brandon raises his glass, a grin spreading across his face. "To new beginnings and old friends."
I clink my glass against theirs, feeling the warmth of their camaraderie. "And to the future we've always dreamed of."
I spread the architectural blueprints across the booth's table, my fingers tracing the intricate details of our five-bedroom beachfront mansion.
Brandon and Josh lean in, their eyes scanning the construction timeline, which indicates groundbreaking next Tuesday.
Brandon's expert eyes focus on the foundation specs while Josh calculates material costs on his phone.
The whiskey glasses sit empty as we review each feature - the infinity pool, helipad, and private beach access.
Brandon points out potential upgrades to the design, his passion evident in every suggestion.
I pull up photos of famous architects on my phone, Brandon and Josh leaning in closer.
The whiskey has loosened our inhibitions as Josh points excitedly at Maxwell Thompson's portfolio - the architect behind Dubai's Crystal Tower.
Brandon's construction expertise shows as he analyzes Thompson's structural choices, his shoulder still pressed warmly against mine.
I remember Thompson's $50 million fee mentioned in Forbes, a sum that seems trivial now.
Josh leans back, a thoughtful expression on his face. "Do you think we could actually get Thompson on board?"
Brandon nods confidently, his eyes gleaming with ambition. "With what we've got planned, I don't see why not."
I smile, feeling the excitement build. "Let's make the call and see if he's ready for a new challenge."
I lean against the bar counter to order another round of whiskey, hyperaware of Brandon's presence beside me.
Josh excuses himself to the restroom, leaving us alone.
As I reach for my wallet, Brandon's hand brushes against mine while grabbing the business folder.
His fingers linger on my skin, sending an electric current through my body.
The rough calluses from his construction work catch slightly on my wrist.
I freeze, my heart pounding, as Brandon's hand stays there a moment too long.
The bartender clears his throat, breaking our connection.
Brandon pulls away, but the unspoken promise lingers between us, undeniable and thrilling.
I pull up my phone's browser to check flight availability while Brandon and Josh lean in close at our bar table.
The whiskey's warmth spreads through me as I find a private jet service to Dubai.
Brandon's shoulder presses against mine while I make the arrangements, his construction dust mixing with my cologne.
When the confirmation email arrives, showing tomorrow's 9 AM departure, Josh's eyes widen at the $300,000 price tag.
I book three seats without hesitation, remembering how we once shared bus fare.
Josh returns from the restroom, catching the tail end of our conversation.
"Did I hear that right? We're flying out tomorrow morning?" he asks, a mix of excitement and disbelief in his voice.
Brandon grins, clapping Josh on the back. "Yeah, and we're going to convince Thompson that our dream is worth every penny."
I raise my glass of aged whiskey, the crystal catching the dim bar lights.
Brandon and Josh mirror my gesture, their faces glowing with newfound purpose.
The business papers and mansion blueprints spread across our table remind me of countless nights we spent here drowning our sorrows in cheap beer.
Brandon's shoulder presses warmly against mine as we clink glasses.
His calloused hand brushes mine when he sets his drink down.
Josh leans forward, his warehouse uniform still bearing today's grime, and grips his glass tightly.
"To changing everything," I declare, my voice steady despite my racing heart.
Brandon's eyes meet mine, filled with a mix of determination and gratitude.
"To building our empire together," he adds, his voice low and rough from years of shouting over construction sites.
Josh nods, his trembling fingers betraying the depth of his emotions.
"From nothing to everything," he says, his voice barely above a whisper.
We drain our glasses in unison, the whiskey burning sweet on my tongue.
I gather the scattered documents, careful not to let them slip off the table.
Brandon organizes the business folder while Josh rolls up the mansion blueprints.
The whiskey glasses leave rings on some papers, a testament to our celebration.
Brandon's hand brushes against mine again as we reach for the same document.
I pull back, feeling my chest tighten at his touch.
We sort everything into my leather briefcase, the satisfying click of it closing a promise of our new beginnings.
Josh yawns, exhaustion evident in his bloodshot eyes after another long shift at the warehouse.
Yet, a spark of determination fuels his movements.
I glance at my phone: 11:47 PM.
The private jet leaves at 8 AM.
We need to get home and pack.
I stand outside Mike's Bar with Brandon and Josh, the neon sign reflecting off the wet pavement.
James pulls up in my Rolls Royce, the engine purring smoothly.
Brandon hesitates again, glancing at his dusty clothes.
He looks at me, and I can see the unspoken question in his eyes.
"Come with me," I say, my voice firm but gentle.
"We can pick up your things on the way."
Josh nods, already walking to his truck.
"I'll meet you there with some overnight stuff," he says, his voice muffled by the sound of his engine roaring to life.
Brandon and I step into the backseat of the Rolls Royce.
The interior is dimly lit, the soft leather enveloping us in its embrace.
Despite the ample space, Brandon's shoulder presses against mine as he settles in.
The city lights blur past us outside, casting a kaleidoscope of colors across the car's interior. James navigates through the streets with practiced ease, his eyes occasionally flicking to the rearview mirror to check on us.
We ride in silence for a moment, the only sound being the hum of the engine and the occasional distant honk of a horn.
I break the silence first, my voice cutting through the stillness.
"So, where do we crash for the night?"
Brandon shifts slightly in his seat, his movement causing our shoulders to press more firmly together.
"I've got an idea," he says, his voice low and rough from years of shouting over construction sites.
"Let's crash at my place one last time before we leave for Dubai."
I nod slowly, considering his suggestion.
His small apartment is nothing like my mansion, but it holds memories for all of us.
It's a reminder of where we started before everything changed. "Sounds good to me," I say finally, my voice filled with a mix of nostalgia and anticipation for what lies ahead.
James turns down a familiar street, leading us toward Brandon's neighborhood.
The streets become narrower and less manicured as we drive further away from my mansion's grandeur.
The city lights fade into darkness here, leaving only flickering streetlights to guide us through the night.
As we pull up to Brandon's apartment building, Josh's truck is already parked outside, waiting for us.
I text him quickly to let him know our plan: meet at dawn outside my mansion for our flight to Dubai.
I unlock Brandon's apartment door, the key turning smoothly in the lock.
I've spent countless nights here when I had nowhere else to go.
The familiar musty smell greets us as we step inside.
Brandon flips on the dim overhead light, revealing the peeling wallpaper and water stains on the ceiling that we used to joke about.
He walks over to his kitchen, pulling out a piece of paper with a phone number scribbled on it.
"Let's order some pizza," he says, his voice filled with a mix of excitement and nostalgia.
He dials the number from memory, ordering our usual from the local pizza place.
I settle onto his worn couch, running my fingers over the familiar cigarette burns in the fabric.
The leather briefcase full of our new business plans sits awkwardly on his scratched coffee table.
Brandon joins me on the couch after hanging up the phone, sitting closer than necessary in the small space. The pizza delivery guy knocks on the door just as we're about to open our briefcases again.
Brandon gets up to pay for it while I take a moment to stretch my legs.
I sit with Brandon on his worn couch, the pizza box open between us on the scratched coffee table.
The familiar scent of cheap pepperoni fills the small apartment as we grab slices with greasy fingers, not caring that the oil stains our expensive suits.
Brandon points to the Dubai hotel blueprints with his pizza-free hand, suggesting design modifications for our project.
His knee touches mine as he leans forward to grab another slice.
The contrast between this final meal in his old apartment and tomorrow's luxury flight makes my chest tight.
Brandon looks at me, a hint of mischief in his eyes.
"You know," he says, wiping his hands on a napkin, "we could always keep this place as a backup plan."
I chuckle, shaking my head. "A backup plan for what? In case Dubai doesn't work out?"
He shrugs, leaning back on the couch.
The pizza box is now empty between us, the only sound the hum of his refrigerator in the kitchen.
The dim light from the kitchen casts shadows across the room as we open our briefcases and spread out the blueprints on the coffee table.
Brandon points to a detail on the blueprint, his hand brushing against mine on the paper.
Instead of moving away, his rough fingers stay there, warm and hesitant.
The construction calluses on his palm brush against my skin.
My heart pounds as he shifts closer, his thigh pressing against mine.
He turns to face me directly, his expression intense and questioning.
"Are you ready for this?" he asks, his voice steady but his eyes searching mine.
I lean back against the worn couch, my leg still pressed against his.
The pizza box is empty on the coffee table, and the blueprints are spread out in front of us.
Brandon's hand is still on top of mine over the plans, his rough fingers sending electricity through me.
The dim light from the kitchen casts shadows across his face as he studies my expression.
My heart pounds against my ribs when he shifts closer to me.
I can smell the familiar sawdust scent of his clothes.
I meet his eyes and nod, determination etched on my face.
The future is ours to build.
I shift the blueprints aside on Brandon's coffee table, making space to lay out our Dubai meeting schedule.
His hand stays on mine as we lean over the timeline, planning our presentation for Maxwell Thompson.
The pizza grease stains my expensive sleeve, but I barely notice.
Brandon's other hand traces the route from our hotel to Thompson's office, his finger lingering on each stop.
The familiar scent of his apartment - sawdust and coffee - mixes with my cologne as he moves closer to point out potential construction sites on the map.
As the clock ticks towards midnight, we seal our plans with a silent understanding, ready to face whatever comes next.
I sit frozen on Brandon's worn couch as he shifts closer, his thigh pressing firmly against mine.
The dim kitchen light casts long shadows across the scattered blueprints and empty pizza box.
My heart pounds when his rough, construction-worn hand slides over mine on the business documents.
The familiar scent of sawdust from his clothes fills my lungs as he turns to face me directly.
His intense gaze holds mine, making the cramped apartment feel even smaller.
The refrigerator's quiet hum fades away as Brandon leans in, his breath warm against my ear.
"I've been falling for you since we met at that cafe," he admits, his voice low and rough with emotion.
The couch creaks as he moves closer, setting the papers aside.
The sawdust smell of his clothes fills my lungs as he turns to face me.
His voice comes out rough with emotion.
"I know this is supposed to be a business partnership, but it means more to me than that."
His calloused hand finds mine again, this time gripping it purposefully.
The dim kitchen light casts long shadows across his face as he waits for my response.
I stare at our intertwined hands on the business papers, his calloused fingers rough against my smooth palm.
The dim kitchen light barely illuminates his anxious expression as he waits for my response.
My expensive suit feels too tight as I shift closer on his worn couch, the springs creaking beneath us.
The familiar sawdust smell from his clothes brings back memories of all our shared struggles.
My voice comes out quiet but steady as I admit I've been developing feelings for him too.
His eyes widen slightly, a mix of relief and something deeper flickering across his face.
"So, what do we do about this?" he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.
I take a deep breath, feeling the weight of our decision hanging in the air.
I pull my hands away from his grip and shift slightly on the worn couch, creating a small space between us.
The business papers scatter as I move, and I take a moment to gather them, using the action to collect my thoughts.
Looking back at Brandon, I can see the concern in his eyes.
"I've been falling for you too," I admit, my voice steady.
"But we have to focus on this Dubai meeting first."
He nods in understanding, his fingers brushing against mine as we reorganize the blueprints.
I stand up from his couch, clutching our business papers close to my chest.
The dim kitchen light catches his slightly disappointed expression as I move toward the door.
My hands shake a little while checking my watch - only six hours until our flight.
Brandon follows, the scuff of his work boots echoing across the floor.
I turn to face him, seeing the mix of hope and uncertainty in his eyes.
"After Dubai," I say firmly, "we'll figure this out properly."
He nods, understanding but clearly wanting more.
I sit at Brandon's kitchen table, the dim overhead light flickering above us.
We double-check our presentation materials for Dubai, verifying flight times, hotel confirmations, and meeting schedules.
Brandon's shoulder brushes against mine as he reaches for Thompson's portfolio, sending familiar shivers through me.
We carefully pack the blueprints into my leather briefcase, making sure nothing gets creased.
The tension from our earlier moment lingers, but we stay focused on tomorrow's meeting.
I spread our presentation materials across Brandon's scratched kitchen table, the dim overhead light flickering above us.
He brews a fresh pot of coffee, knowing we'll need it to stay alert.
We take turns practicing our pitch to Thompson, our voices growing more confident with each repetition.
Brandon's voice fills the room as he describes the construction logistics, his hand trembling slightly when he reaches for his notes.
Our shoulders touch as we lean over the blueprints, making my heart skip a beat.
When he stumbles over the budget figures, I steady his hand on the paper.
We repeat the key points until exhaustion starts to set in, knowing that tomorrow's meeting could change everything.
As the first light of dawn creeps through the window, we exchange a determined glance, ready to seize whatever awaits us in Dubai.
We sit at Brandon's kitchen table, the coffee maker gurgling in the corner as we polish our Dubai presentation.
We arrange the blueprints in a precise order, making sure they're easily accessible for our meeting with Thompson.
Brandon's hand brushes mine as he points out key structural elements, sending the familiar shivers through me that I've grown to love.
We practice our pitch one last time, Brandon's deep voice steady and sure as he explains construction timelines and budget allocations.
When we finish, Brandon stands up and extends his hand professionally.
I grasp it firmly, feeling his callouses against my palm.
We both know that this handshake seals more than just a business deal.
I spread our presentation materials across Brandon's kitchen table, methodically organizing them into my worn leather briefcase.
Brandon helps sort the blueprints, checking items off our packing list as we go.
His fingers brush against mine when we fold the large architectural drawings together, making my heart skip a beat.
The dim kitchen light casts long shadows across the stacks of contracts and cost projections.
As Brandon reaches for a document, he accidentally knocks over his cold coffee, spilling it onto the papers.
We both scramble to save our work, quickly wiping up the spill with napkins.
Once everything is dry, we carefully arrange our materials in precise order, making sure our pitch for Thompson is perfect.
"Brandon, there's something I need to tell you before we leave," I say, my voice barely above a whisper.
He pauses, looking at me with a mix of curiosity and concern.
"I've been offered a position in Dubai, and if tomorrow goes well, I might not be coming back."
Brandon's eyes widen in surprise, but he doesn't say a word.
He leans against the kitchen counter, his hands gripping the edge tightly.
I can see the exhaustion in his eyes, not just from our late-night preparations but from the weight of our uncertain future.
The coffee maker beeps in the background, signaling that our fresh pot is ready.
Brandon turns to pour us each a cup, his movements slow and deliberate.
We sit back down at the table, sipping our coffee in silence for a moment.
Finally, Brandon speaks up, his voice filled with a mix of determination and vulnerability.
"I've known about the Dubai position for a week now," he says, pulling out a folder from his work bag.
"I've been quietly making arrangements, just in case."
I watch as he opens the folder, revealing completed visa applications and housing information near Thompson's Dubai office.
His hands shake slightly as he shows me the documents, his voice filled with emotion. "I don't want to lose you," he says, his eyes locking onto mine.
"I know we haven't been together long, but I feel something real with you. I want to follow you to Dubai if that's where your career takes you."
I'm taken aback by Brandon's confession, my heart racing with excitement and uncertainty.
I look at the documents spread out before us, realizing just how much effort he's put into planning our future together.
The coffee maker hums in the background as we sit there, both of us lost in our thoughts.
Finally, Brandon breaks the silence again, his voice filled with determination.
"I've already researched apartments near Thompson's Dubai office," he says, pulling out his phone to show me photos.
"They're modern and spacious, with great views of the city."
I lean back in the chair, processing everything he's just told me.
The coffee in front of me grows cold, forgotten in the midst of our conversation.
I study Brandon's face, seeing both determination and vulnerability.
His calloused hands still grip the visa applications, his knuckles white with tension.
When I suggest focusing on Thompson's presentation first, Brandon's shoulders relax slightly.
He begins gathering the scattered papers, his arm brushing against mine as he works.
The kitchen's fluorescent light flickers overhead, casting a warm glow over the room as we organize our materials once more.
"Brandon, I had no idea you were considering this," I say, my voice filled with a mix of surprise and admiration.
He looks at me, his expression softening. "I couldn't let you make this decision alone; we're a team, remember?"
I nod, feeling a sense of relief and gratitude wash over me. "Alright, let's nail this presentation first, then we can talk about Dubai."
