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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 seven. He is resilient,misunderstood,and determined. Kevin faced a harsh childhood with no parents,living with a wealthy uncle who treated him poorly. His life changed when he inherited the Kenmore fortune from his grandfather. Despite being labeled a failure by those around him,Kevin aimed to prove them wrong. He created the Kenmore Foundation to help orphaned children,fulfilling his promise to change their lives.
Alex
She is a recently divorced single mother working at The Daily Post newspaper in Marbleton. She is resourceful,witty,and independent. Alex takes care of her young son alone after her husband left her. She stumbles upon a story involving the Kenmore family but unknowingly encounters her past lover Kevin,now a powerful multibillionaire. Her unexpected encounter with him reignites old emotions and introduces new possibilities.
Ethan
He is Kevin's best friend and confidant since childhood. He is loyal,straightforward,and supportive. Ethan stood by Kevin despite his family's affluent background and social status. He remained a constant in Kevin’s life throughout his struggles and successes. Ethan helped Kevin navigate the changes brought by the inherited wealth and was an essential ally in shaping the Kenmore Foundation.
My girlfriend of five years just left me for a richer guy.
I was okay with that.
I even smiled and wished them well.
But I wasn't okay when I found out she was pregnant with my child.
That changed everything.
I became angry.
Not with her, but with myself.
I realized I had been living in the past for too long.
My life wasn't turning out the way I had envisioned it would when I was younger.
I was an orphan, and I didn't know my father.
My mother died when I was seven years old.
After that, I had no one.
Well, technically I had an uncle, but he didn't want anything to do with me.
I sit at my cramped kitchen table, staring at the stack of unpaid bills.
The pregnancy test results Mackenzie texted me glow on my phone screen.
I take out a notepad and start listing every odd job I can do, every skill I have.
Construction work, computer repair, even those programming courses I took at community college.
My hands shake as I calculate how much I could make.
The local library has a free computer lab.
I could go there and search for something better.
I check my wallet - just enough bus fare to get there.
Standing up, I grab my jacket and the notepad.
"Hey, you heading out?" my neighbor, Sam, calls from his open door as I step into the hallway.
"Yeah, gotta figure out how to support a kid now," I reply, trying to keep my voice steady.
Sam raises an eyebrow, leaning against his doorframe. "You know, my cousin's hiring at his tech startup; they're looking for someone who can handle a bit of everything."
I pull out my worn notebook while Sam scribbles down his cousin's details on a sticky note.
My hands shake slightly as I copy the phone number and email address.
This could be my chance.
"The library closes in two hours," I say, glancing at my watch.
"Enough time to update my resume and draft a cover letter."
Sam nods.
"My cousin, Mike, likes initiative. If you apply tonight, it'll look good."
At the bus stop, I check my phone's remaining battery - enough to make the call tonight if I'm lucky.
The notification light blinks - another message from Mackenzie.
I climb onto the crowded city bus, clutching my backpack and the crumpled paper with Mike's contact info.
The bus lurches forward as I scan for an empty seat, finally spotting one near the back.
A pothole sends me stumbling down the aisle, earning irritated glances from other passengers.
I grip the metal pole to steady myself, my palm sweaty against the cold surface.
The forty-minute ride to the library stretches ahead, each stop bringing me closer to a potential lifeline.
Through the grimy window, I watch familiar buildings pass by, mentally rehearsing what skills I can add to my outdated resume.
I find an empty table near the back of the library's computer lab, away from the handful of other patrons.
The ancient fluorescent lights flicker overhead, casting a dim glow.
I pull my secondhand laptop from my backpack, the worn power cord dangling.
My hands still shake slightly as I plug it in and boot up the system, watching the loading screen crawl.
The file I need is buried in a folder labeled "Old Job Stuff," dated three years ago when I last searched for work.
I open it, scanning the outdated experience and skills - delivery driver, retail clerk, freelance computer repair.
It all seems so far from what I need now.
I highlight entire sections to delete, determined to remake myself for this tech startup position.
With a deep breath, I press "Save," knowing this is the first step toward a future I can build.
I double-check my resume one final time, scanning for typos while the library's ancient computer whirs loudly.
Opening Gmail, I craft a brief but professional message to Mike, highlighting my technical skills and determination.
My cursor hovers over the attachment icon as I second-guess my qualifications.
A librarian announces closing time in fifteen minutes.
With my heart racing, I attach the PDF and proofread my email three times.
The "Send" button seems to mock me.
Another patron bumps my chair, rushing to finish their work.
Taking a deep breath, I click "Send" and watch the progress bar crawl across the screen.
I lean back in my chair, exhaling slowly.
"Do you think he'll even open it tonight?" I ask, trying to mask the anxiety in my voice.
Sam glances up from his phone, offering a reassuring smile. "Mike's always checking his email; if he sees potential, you'll hear back soon."
I carefully wrap my laptop's frayed power cord around the worn device, tucking it into my backpack alongside Mike's contact information.
The library's fluorescent lights dim, signaling the fifteen-minute closing warning.
Other patrons shuffle around me, gathering their belongings and heading toward the exit.
I double-check my phone - still enough battery to last the bus ride home.
Standing up from the hard plastic chair, I push it under the desk and straighten the workspace, remembering the librarian's constant reminders about tidiness.
At the front desk, I nod goodbye to the elderly librarian who's watched me use these computers for years.
"Goodnight," she says, her voice a familiar comfort.
I step out into the evening chill, pulling my jacket tighter as I walk to the bus stop.
The streetlights flicker on, casting long shadows.
I pull out my phone to check the time, and the screen lights up with a new email notification from Mike.
My hands tremble as I open it, nearly dropping the phone.
The message is brief but clear - he wants to interview me tomorrow at 9 AM at their downtown office.
I quickly check my wallet, counting the remaining bus fare.
Two dollars and thirty-five cents - just enough for one more round trip.
A woman waiting nearby gives me an odd look as I let out a relieved laugh.
"What's so funny?" she asks, raising an eyebrow.
"I just got an interview for a job I really need," I reply, unable to hide my excitement.
"Well, congratulations," she says with a smile, "but you might want to save that laugh for after you get the job."
I grip the metal handrail as I climb onto the crowded evening bus, scanning for an empty seat.
My mind starts listing common interview questions, and I mentally prepare answers about my technical skills and work history.
Finding a spot near the middle, I pull out my worn notebook and pen, jotting down practice answers.
The bus lurches forward, causing my pen to scratch across the page.
A businessman in an expensive suit glances at my scribbled notes with obvious disdain.
I ignore him and continue preparing, pausing only to check the time on my cracked phone screen.
I lean back against the grimy bus window, clutching my notebook tightly.
The engine rumbles beneath me as streetlights flash by, casting intermittent shadows across my scribbled pages.
I flip through each section one last time - technical skills, work history, sample projects - mentally rehearsing my responses.
The suit-wearing businessman has moved seats, leaving me alone with my thoughts.
I close the notebook carefully, trying not to bend its already damaged cover.
Taking a slow, deliberate breath, I picture myself walking confidently into Mike's office tomorrow, answering his questions with clarity and purpose.
The bus lurches violently, throwing me forward.
My notebook slips from my lap, hitting the dirty floor with a thud.
I grab the seat ahead, my knuckles white against the worn fabric.
Other passengers shout and stumble as the driver slams the brakes.
Through the windshield, I see a delivery truck cutting across our lane, its taillights blurring as it speeds away.
The bus screeches to a halt, sending my notebook sliding further down the aisle.
I watch in horror as the businessman steps on it, his polished shoes smudging my interview notes.
Finally, the bus comes to a stop.
I crawl between legs and bags to gather my crumpled papers.
Outside, the driver's angry horn blares repeatedly.
"Hey, watch it!" I shout, snatching the notebook from under his foot.
He looks down at me, a smirk playing on his lips. "You should really keep a better grip on your future."
I find an empty seat near the back of the bus and pull out my pen, squinting at the smeared ink on the crumpled pages.
Under the dim overhead light, I carefully rewrite each interview point, pressing harder this time to make the words clear and permanent.
The bus lurches around corners, making my handwriting wobble, but I steady my arm against the window.
A teenage girl watches me write, probably wondering why I'm so focused on this beaten-up notebook.
I ignore her and continue transcribing my technical skills, work history, and prepared responses until every smudged word is restored.
I unlock my apartment door, the familiar musty smell greeting me.
The hallway light flickers, casting shadows on the walls.
I set my backpack on the kitchen counter and pull out the crumpled interview notes, smoothing them against the scratched laminate surface.
I gather my only dress shirt and slacks from the closet, checking for stains or tears.
The shirt needs ironing, so I dig out the old iron from under the sink and set up my wooden cutting board as a makeshift ironing board.
While pressing the wrinkled fabric, I rehearse my tech experience out loud, my voice echoing in the empty apartment.
I pause mid-sentence when a knock comes at the door.
The iron hovers over my shirt sleeve as I wait, thinking it's just a neighbor.
The knock comes again, this time more insistent.
Through the thin walls, I hear shuffling feet in the hallway.
Setting down the iron, I move cautiously toward the door and check my phone - it's 10:47 PM. No one visits at this hour, especially not in this neighborhood.
I approach the door and peer through the peephole.
A man in an expensive suit stands there, holding a leather briefcase.
He's flanked by two others in dark clothing, their faces obscured by shadows.
My heart pounds as I recognize the Kenmore family crest on the briefcase.
I grip the doorknob tightly, keeping the chain lock fastened as I crack open the door.
The suited man steps forward into the dim hallway light, his polished shoes gleaming.
Behind him, the two others remain motionless in the shadows.
"Mr. Kenmore," he says, his voice crisp and formal, "I represent your grandfather's estate."
My throat tightens at the mention of the grandfather I never knew.
The man reaches into his briefcase, pulling out a thick manila envelope.
"Your presence is required tomorrow morning at 8 AM for the reading of his will."
"I didn't even know he was still alive," I reply, my voice barely above a whisper.
The man nods, his expression unreadable. "There's much you don't know, Mr. Kenmore, but all will be revealed in due time."
"But why now?" I ask, glancing at the envelope with suspicion.
"I'm afraid that's not for me to say," he replies, handing me the heavy envelope.
I hold it in my trembling hands as the three men wait silently in the hallway.
The lawyer reaches into his suit pocket and pulls out a business card, handing it to me.
The embossed Kenmore family crest glimmers in the faint light.
The address listed is in the financial district, a part of town I've never ventured into.
I trace my finger over the crest, having only seen it in old newspaper clippings and documentaries about my family's empire.
"I'll be there," I say, my voice still barely audible.
The men nod in unison and turn to leave, their footsteps echoing down the corridor.
I close the door and slide the deadbolt into place, leaning against the worn wood.
The envelope feels like it weighs a thousand pounds in my hands.
I pull out my phone to check the time and see Mike's interview invitation still glowing on the screen.
I dial Mike's number, needing to hear a familiar voice.
"Hey, it's late," Mike answers, a hint of concern in his tone.
"Yeah, I know," I reply, my voice shaky. "But something big just happened—turns out my grandfather's estate wants me at the will reading tomorrow."
There's a pause, and I clutch my phone tighter, the static crackling in my ear.
"You should come with me," I say, the words spilling out before I can stop them.
"Mike, you're the only family I've got. I don't know what to expect."
The line goes silent for a moment, and I wonder if I've overstepped.
But then Mike speaks, his voice filled with a kindness I haven't experienced in years.
"Of course, man. I'll be there."
I hear him shuffling papers in the background, probably rearranging his morning schedule.
"Text me the address," he says.
"I'll pick you up at 7:30 AM."
"Thanks, Mike," I manage to say, my voice cracking.
We hang up, and I slowly move across my cramped apartment, pacing between the ironing board and the kitchen counter where the manila envelope sits unopened.
The family crest stares back at me, making my stomach churn.
I pick up my phone again and dial another number.
A few rings later, a woman's voice answers on the other end.
"Yes?"
I recognize her from the business card - it's the lawyer's secretary.
"Hi, this is Ethan Kenmore. Can you tell me who's going to be at this will reading tomorrow?" The line goes silent again, and I can almost hear her shuffling through papers on her desk.
I pace around my living room, feeling like the walls are closing in on me.
"Mr. Kenmore," she says finally, "the details of the will reading are confidential. But rest assured that all necessary parties will be present."
I run a hand through my hair, feeling more anxious by the minute.
"Can you at least tell me how long it's going to take?"
There's another pause before she responds.
"It should be about an hour. You'll need to arrive by 7:45 AM sharp."
I nod even though she can't see me.
"Okay, thanks."
We hang up, and I slowly reach for the manila envelope again.