Share
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?
Create my version of this story
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 distant. Grandfather knew of Shane’s difficult childhood and adopted him as his own when he was young. Although he died without direct contact with Shane,his will reveals his deep trust and financial support for Shane’s future,serving as a guiding force in Shane's life transformation.
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 desire for luxury,ultimately leading to their breakup and failure of their future plans.
"Are you guys serious?"
I asked in disbelief.
They couldn’t be, because there was no way my fortune had just changed from being poor to having an account balance of over three hundred googol dollars.
But they were looking at me, not speaking a word to confirm if I was dreaming or not.
It wasn’t possible for a poor guy like me to become rich overnight.
I mean, I was an orphan and had been in foster care.
My adopted parents didn’t even want me around once I turned seventeen and left for college; they kicked me out, saying they couldn’t afford to take care of me anymore and that I was on my own.
College was hard, but I made it through, graduating with good grades and minimal student loans.
However, my girlfriend left me for a guy who made better money.
She had always complained about how broke I was and the fact that I couldn’t afford her the expensive gifts she wanted.
I thought we were okay until I found out she was cheating on me with a richer guy.
That broke my heart and made me realize that she wasn’t the girl for me.
Not only had she cheated on me, but she also valued material possessions more than our love.
But now, as I looked at my financial accounts in front of me, it seemed like my life was about to make a drastic turn.
I stared at the computer screen, the numbers burning into my retinas.
My hands shook as I refreshed the page again, watching those impossible zeros remain unchanged.
Standing up from my rickety desk chair, I paced the small space of my studio apartment.
The carpet was worn and faded, but it was home.
My fingers found their way into my unwashed hair, tugging at the strands in frustration.
The room felt smaller than usual, suffocating with possibility.
I walked to the bathroom mirror, studying my reflection.
Same threadbare t-shirt, same tired eyes staring back at me.
My fingers found their way to my forearm, and I gripped the skin hard between thumb and forefinger, twisting until pain shot through my arm.
My legs gave out, and I collapsed to the floor.
The threadbare carpet scratched against my palms as I landed hard.
My phone clattered beside me, still open to the screen that had changed everything.
That number glared at me, taunting and impossible.
My chest tightened, and I struggled to breathe properly.
Hot tears spilled down my cheeks, dropping onto my worn t-shirt.
The familiar musty smell of my cramped apartment filled my nostrils, mingling with the sound of my ragged breathing.
I pressed my forehead against the cool wall, trying to steady myself.
Still sitting on my worn carpet, I wiped my face with my sleeve and gripped my phone tightly.
My hands shook as I navigated through my contacts, finding the bank's number saved from earlier verification calls.
The fluorescent light above flickered, casting uneven shadows across the room.
I pressed each number carefully, double-checking to ensure accuracy.
The dial tone echoed in the quiet apartment, each ring amplifying my anxiety.
My throat felt dry as I waited, rehearsing what to say.
The call connected, and I whispered, "Is this real?"
The bank representative's voice crackled through my phone speaker.
"Miss, I assure you, the amount was a system error. It seems a decimal point was misplaced. The true inheritance is three hundred googol dollars."
My heart pounded in my chest as I dropped the phone.
My hands shook so violently that I could barely pick it back up.
The representative's voice continued to speak, but her words were muffled by static.
I struggled to focus on her words, my mind reeling with the enormity of what she had just said.
"Mr., are you still there?"
The representative's voice cut through the static, her tone growing concerned.
I nodded, even though she couldn't see me.
"Yes," I managed to choke out.
"Good. As I was saying, we have immediate wealth management services available to you. We also recommend implementing additional security measures to protect your assets."
I scrambled to grab a pen from the cluttered desk beside me, knocking over an empty coffee mug in the process.
It shattered on the floor, but I didn't care.
Still sitting on my floor among the coffee stains and broken ceramic, I reached into my pocket and pulled out an old receipt.
Flipping it over to the blank side, I pressed the pen against the thin paper.
My hands shook as I scribbled down the contact information for the wealth management services.
The representative's voice continued to explain the various services they offered, but I was too focused on writing down each number carefully.
The pen tore through the paper slightly, leaving a small hole in the corner of the receipt.
I paused between each digit, double-checking to make sure I had written it correctly.
A sudden draft from my broken window made the thin paper flutter, and I pressed it flat against the carpet.
I crawled across my coffee-stained carpet to retrieve my phone, which had fallen near the edge of the room.
The crumpled receipt clutched in my hand, I punched in each digit carefully, double-checking against the smudged ink.
The dial tone echoed through my tiny apartment while I perched on the edge of my threadbare couch.
A sleek, professional voice answered on the first ring.
"Elite Wealth Solutions. How may I assist you?"
I cleared my throat, trying to sound more confident than I felt.
My ratty t-shirt and the broken mug pieces still scattered across the floor didn't exactly scream "wealthy client."
"I need to discuss managing my inheritance," I said, my voice cracking slightly.
"Of course, sir. Could you please provide your account number for verification?"
I hesitated, glancing at the receipt with the hastily scribbled numbers.
"Actually, there's something else," I said, my voice steadying. "I need to know if this is really happening."
There was a pause on the other end of the line, and I gripped the phone tighter.
My legs felt weak, so I slumped further into my threadbare couch, the springs creaking under my weight.
The representative continued explaining their services - investment portfolios, security measures, private banking.
Each word hammered home the reality of my situation.
I glanced around my cramped studio - the leaking faucet, the patched walls, the stack of overdue bills on my rickety coffee table.
My hands were still shaking when I reached for a pen to write down the meeting time she proposed for tomorrow morning.
I hang up the phone and immediately start searching through my closet for something presentable to wear to tomorrow's meeting.
My hands push past threadbare t-shirts and faded jeans until I find it - my only suit, the one I bought second-hand for job interviews.
The fabric is worn at the elbows, and the pants are slightly too short.
Standing in front of my cracked bathroom mirror, I try it on, grimacing at how it hangs loose on my thin frame.
I check my wallet - just enough money for a quick haircut before tomorrow.
I take a deep breath, determined to step into a new world despite the frayed edges of my old one.
While getting my haircut at the cheap barbershop downtown, I feel something crinkle in my suit pocket.
Between snips of the scissors, I reach in and pull out a yellowed envelope that I've never seen before.
The barber continues cutting while I examine the letter, postmarked fifteen years ago.
My hands shake as I unfold the paper, causing hair clippings to scatter across it.
The letter is from my mother's sister, explaining an inheritance she left me in a safety deposit box.
The barber glances at me in the mirror, concern etched on his face.
I walk into First National Bank, clutching the crumpled letter in my hand.
The marble floors and polished counters make my newly cut hair and worn suit feel even more out of place.
At the service desk, I show my ID and the letter to a teller who looks at me skeptically.
She types slowly on her computer, raising her eyebrows when she sees my name.
It's probably because of the news about my inheritance that's been in the papers lately.
After several minutes of verification, she leads me through a heavy security door to the vault area.
Inside the vault, I find a small box with my name on it, and as I open it, the weight of my future shifts.
I sit alone in a private room, the safety deposit box placed carefully on the polished wooden table before me.
My hands shake as I insert the key and lift the lid.
Inside, I find a thick manila envelope, its edges yellowed with age.
As I remove the documents, a small photograph falls onto the table - my mother holding me as a baby.
Beneath the photo lies a stack of legal papers, their formal letterhead bearing my grandfather's name.
My throat tightens as I begin reading the inheritance documents, detailing not just the money, but properties and companies I now own.
I spread the documents across the table, organizing them into piles by type.
The property deeds list multiple private islands in the Caribbean and Mediterranean.
Another stack details five mega yachts docked around the world.
My fingers brush against a sleek blue card - a Citibank platinum with a distinctive W emblem.
Under the harsh fluorescent lights, I count the assets: 300 googol dollars from my grandfather, and an additional 400 quintillion from my mother's account.
I sit at the bank's mahogany conference table, spreading out the inheritance documents before me.
Using the bank's landline phone, I dial the number for Harrison & Associates Law Firm, my fingers leaving sweaty marks on the keypad.
While waiting through three rings, I organize the papers showing my mother's quintillions and grandfather's googols.
A secretary answers, and I struggle to explain my situation, my voice cracking when I mention the inheritance amount.
While on the bank's landline with Harrison & Associates, my phone buzzes with an email from the wealth management team.
I put the secretary on hold and open the message, scanning through dense legal text about asset transfer protocols.
A highlighted section catches my eye - a clause triggering immediate wealth transfer upon discovery of both inheritance documents.
My hands shake as I realize opening that safety deposit box just activated this provision.
I grab a pen and write down the exact wording, double-checking every detail.
I lean against the polished conference table, phone pressed to my ear while studying the highlighted text.
The wealth management representative, Ms. Chen, confirms my understanding - both inheritances are now active and fully accessible.
She walks me through the immediate steps: setting up secure banking protocols, arranging armed transport for documents, and scheduling emergency meetings with financial advisors.
My hands shake as I write each requirement in precise detail on the bank's letterhead paper.
I take a deep breath, knowing the world as I knew it has irrevocably changed.
I sit in my shabby suit at the bank's conference table, dialing the number for Blackstone Financial Group.
The receptionist answers, her voice polished and polite.
I explain my situation, and her tone shifts when I mention my name - clearly, news of my inheritance has spread.
She connects me directly to Thomas Maxwell, their top advisor.
While waiting, I spread out the inheritance papers, running my fingers over the official seals and signatures.
Maxwell's deep voice comes through, and I schedule a meeting for tomorrow morning at 9 AM.
Before hanging up, he emphasizes bringing all documentation, especially the newly discovered safety deposit box contents.
I carefully organize the papers on the conference table, sorting them into three labeled manila folders.
My hands still shake slightly as I separate the documents - grandfather's googols in one folder, mother's quintillions in another, and property deeds in a third.
The bank manager brings a secure briefcase for transport, watching as I place each folder inside.
The leather feels smooth against my calloused hands, a stark contrast to my worn suit.
Before leaving, I double-check each document, counting pages methodically.
As I close the briefcase, the bank manager clears his throat.
"Mr. Weber," he says cautiously, "there's something else you should know about your grandfather's assets."
I look up, meeting his gaze, and he continues, "He left a letter for you, with instructions to read it only after the inheritance was activated."
I sit alone in the bank's conference room, the briefcase resting on the polished table.
The bank manager has left, giving me privacy to read my grandfather's letter.
It rests on top of the other documents, a sealed envelope with my name written in elegant calligraphy.
My fingers trace the edge of the envelope, feeling the thick, expensive paper.
The afternoon sun streams through the windows, casting a warm glow over the room.
The gold-embossed family crest on the letter seems to shimmer in the light.
I hesitate to open it, remembering how my adoptive parents kicked me out when I turned eighteen, how Penelope left me for someone richer.
Finally, I close the briefcase's brass latches with a sharp click.
Just as I'm about to leave, the door swings open and Penelope stands there, her eyes wide with surprise.
"I heard about the inheritance," she says, her voice a mix of curiosity and something else I can't quite place.
I nod slowly, trying to keep my emotions in check, "And I suppose you're here to see if there's anything left for you?"
I grip the briefcase tighter as she steps into the conference room uninvited, her designer heels clicking against the marble floor.
She's wearing a dress I've never seen before, clearly bought by her new boyfriend.
Her practiced smile falters when I don't return it.
"I wanted to talk about us," she says, her voice softening, "about second chances."
I cut her off mid-sentence, my voice steady, "You left me on the day of our wedding, Penelope. You said I'd never amount to anything."
The bank manager appears in the doorway, his expression concerned.
"Is there a problem?"
I stand up from the conference room table, clutching the briefcase in one hand.
Penelope steps closer, reaching for my arm, but I move away from her manicured fingers.
The bank manager hovers by the door, unsure what to do.
I gather my few belongings - the crumpled receipt with wealth management numbers and my cheap pen.
Walking past Penelope without meeting her pleading eyes, I nod to the bank manager.
"Thank you," I say, my voice steady.
I stride down the bank's marble hallway, my worn shoes squeaking against the polished floor.
The briefcase feels heavy in my sweaty grip.
Security guards flank me on both sides, their presence both reassuring and intimidating.
Behind me, I hear Penelope's heels clicking as she follows, her voice calling my name with increasing desperation.
"Please, just listen to me!"
At the main entrance, the guards move to block her path.
I push through the revolving glass doors into the warm afternoon sunlight.
Outside, a black SUV idles by the curb - arranged by the bank for my security.
I climb into the backseat, clutching the briefcase tighter.
Penelope's pleas are muffled by the tinted windows as they roll up behind me.
I sit in the back of the armored SUV, clutching the briefcase of inheritance documents while we drive through downtown traffic.
The security team keeps in contact via radio, discussing routes to Harrison & Associates.
My grandfather's sealed letter presses against my leg through my thin suit pants.
Through the bulletproof windows, I watch people on sidewalks going about their normal lives, unaware that the richest person in history passes by in this vehicle.
When we stop at a red light, I notice Penelope's car following us three vehicles back.
I grip the briefcase tighter as our SUV pulls up to the glass tower of Harrison & Associates.
Through the tinted windows, I see Penelope's car stop across the street.
The security team flanks me as I step out onto the polished concrete sidewalk.
My old shoes scuff against the pristine surface.
We enter the gleaming marble lobby, where receptionists stare at my shabby suit while checking my ID.
A senior partner rushes down from his office to greet me personally, his eyes widening at the secure briefcase containing proof of my astronomical wealth.
As we head to the elevator, I see Penelope entering the lobby, her heels clicking on the marble floor.
Security blocks her path, and she calls my name again.
I step into the gleaming elevator with my security team.
The senior partner swipes a keycard, pressing the button for the 85th floor.
Through the glass walls of the elevator, I watch the city shrink below us while fluorescent lights reflect off my scuffed shoes.
My stomach lurches at the rapid ascent, reminding me of my discomfort with heights.
When the doors open to mahogany-lined halls, I hear Penelope's muffled shouts from the lobby far below.
We enter a conference room with a polished mahogany table and leather chairs.
The senior partner sits beside me, reviewing each document as I spread them out.
Security guards stand by the door, blocking Penelope's repeated attempts to get in.
I grip my grandfather's unopened letter tightly.
My worn suit feels out of place against the luxurious leather chair.
I sign paper after paper, transferring control of vast fortunes and properties into my name.
The final signature seals my fate as the room falls silent, and I realize there's no turning back.
I lean forward in the leather chair, my worn suit crinkling as the senior partner places a thick document before me.
The cover page reads "Immediate Asset Protection Protocol."
Through the conference room's glass walls, I see Penelope arguing with security in the hallway, gesturing wildly.
The partner explains this document will lock down my inheritance from potential claims - specifically mentioning "opportunistic individuals" while glancing at Penelope.
My hand grips the pen tighter as I think about my ex-girlfriend's sudden interest in reconnecting.
I lean over the mahogany conference table, carefully reading each line.
The leather chair creaks as I shift, my shabby suit catching on the expensive upholstery.
Through the glass walls, I see Penelope still arguing with security, gesturing wildly in her designer dress.
The senior partner points to each signature line with his gold pen, explaining how this document blocks all claims to my inheritance.
My hand trembles slightly as I sign my name five times, but each signature grows more confident.
"Do you really think this is what your grandfather wanted?" the senior partner asks, his voice low and probing.
I pause, the pen hovering above the final line, and reply, "He always said to protect what was ours, but I never imagined it like this."
With a knowing nod, the partner leans back and adds, "Sometimes protection means making difficult choices, even if it means shutting out those we once trusted."
I grip the heavy fountain pen, its weight unfamiliar in my calloused hand.
The senior partner slides the last document across the polished mahogany, pointing to the signature line with his manicured finger.
Through the glass walls, I see Penelope still arguing with security, her mascara now smeared from crying.
My shabby suit sleeve drags across the expensive paper as I lean forward.
The letters of my name flow shakily at first, then with growing confidence.
Each stroke of the pen represents another barrier between my past life and my new reality.
I lean over the mahogany conference table, the fountain pen heavy in my hand as I study the final signature line.
The leather chair creaks beneath my shabby suit while the senior partner hovers nearby, watching intently.
Through the glass walls, Penelope's sobs become muffled background noise.
My fingers tremble slightly as I press the pen to paper, but I force them steady.
The ink flows smoothly, each letter of my name more deliberate than the last.
"Do you really think this is what your grandfather wanted?" the senior partner asks, his voice low and probing.
I pause, the pen hovering above the final line, and reply, "He always said to protect what was ours, but I never imagined it like this."
With a knowing nod, the partner leans back and adds, "Sometimes protection means making difficult choices, even if it means shutting out those we once trusted."
I lean forward, the leather chair creaking in protest.
The senior partner stands beside me, his gold cufflinks catching the afternoon light.
Through the glass walls, Penelope's muffled sobs echo in the background.
My worn suit sleeve brushes against the mahogany table as I grip the fountain pen tightly.
Taking a deep breath, I press the pen to paper.
The ink flows smoothly as I write each letter of my name with growing confidence, ending with a bold stroke that stretches across the page.
"Are you sure this is the only way?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
The senior partner meets my gaze, his eyes steady and unyielding. "It's the only way to ensure your grandfather's legacy remains intact."
From outside, Penelope's voice breaks through, pleading, "Please, just let me talk to him!"
I grip the fountain pen tighter, my knuckles turning white against its polished surface.
The leather chair creaks as I shift forward, positioning the document directly in front of me.
The senior partner's shadow falls across the table as he leans in, pointing to the last empty line.
Through the glass walls, Penelope's mascara-streaked face watches my every move.
My worn suit sleeve brushes against the paper as I lower the pen.
With slow, deliberate strokes, I sign my full name - Shane Alexander Weber.
Each letter marks a new chapter in my life, one built on determination and resilience.
I slide the signed document across the mahogany table to the senior partner, my hand lingering on the paper for a moment.
The expensive fountain pen leaves a trail of wet ink on my signature.
Through the glass walls, Penelope's sobbing grows louder as reality sets in.
The senior partner picks up the document, methodically checking each page under the conference room's bright lights.
His gold cufflinks catch the light as he places the papers in a leather portfolio.
I give him a determined nod, sealing my choice to cut ties with my past.
I rise from the leather chair, my worn suit pulling tight across my shoulders.
The senior partner extends his manicured hand, his gold cufflinks catching the conference room lights.
My calloused palm meets his smooth one in a firm handshake.
Through the glass walls, Penelope watches silently now, her mascara-stained face pressed against the barrier.
The partner's genuine smile and steady grip reassure me as we complete this moment of transformation.
My other hand still rests on the signed documents, feeling the raised letterhead beneath my fingers.
"Shane," Penelope's voice trembles as she speaks through the glass, "do you really believe this is what he would have wanted?"
I pause, my hand still on the documents, and reply, "He wanted me to be strong enough to make my own choices."
The senior partner nods approvingly, adding, "And sometimes strength means letting go of the past to build a future."
I stand up from the mahogany conference table, my worn suit brushing against the leather chair one last time.
The signed documents feel heavy in my hands as I gather them into the secure briefcase.
Penelope pounds on the glass wall, her mascara-streaked face distorted by tears, but I don't look at her.
The senior partner guides me toward the private elevator, while security handles my ex-girlfriend's hysterics.
As the elevator doors close, I take a deep breath, ready to embrace what comes next.
I lean against the polished brass rail, the briefcase heavy in my hand.
The senior partner presses the lobby button, and I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirrored walls.
My shabby suit is a stark contrast to the sleek elevator, but my fresh haircut gives me an air of determination.
As we descend, I pull out the unopened letter from my grandfather, running my fingers over the sealed envelope.
Through the glass walls, I watch Penelope's figure grow smaller on the 85th floor.
I settle into the back of my armored SUV, finally ready to read my grandfather's letter.
The leather seats feel foreign against my worn suit as I carefully break the wax seal.
Security guards flank the vehicle while I unfold the expensive paper with trembling hands.
The afternoon sun streams through bulletproof windows, illuminating my grandfather's elegant handwriting.
My throat tightens as I read his opening words: "My dearest grandson Shane."
Traffic noise fades away as I focus on each sentence, discovering his reasons for choosing me as his heir.
I sit in the SUV, reading my grandfather's letter while my wealth management team sends property listings to my phone.
The beachfront villa catches my eye - six bedrooms, modern amenities, and private beach access.
Though the team suggests larger estates, I choose this relatively modest property, remembering my grandfather's words about smart choices.
Through the tinted windows, I direct the driver to the villa's address.
The realtor meets us at the gate, her eyes widening at my security detail.
As I walk the grounds in my worn suit, I inspect each feature - the infinity pool overlooking the ocean, a fully equipped dojo, and a private dock for yacht access.
I lean against the villa's marble counter, pulling out my new platinum card while the realtor prepares the paperwork.
Through floor-to-ceiling windows, waves crash against the private beach as my security team patrols the perimeter.
The realtor's hands shake slightly as she types in the $45 million asking price on her tablet.
My worn suit sleeve catches on the counter's edge as I reach to sign the digital purchase agreement.
Before finalizing the transaction, I request immediate occupancy and additional security installations.
"Mr. Shane, are you sure about this?" the realtor asks, her voice barely concealing her surprise.
"Absolutely," I reply, glancing at the crashing waves outside.
"My grandfather always said to trust my instincts, and this feels right."
I lean against the marble counter, reviewing the final villa paperwork when the realtor clears her throat.
She points to a special clause on her tablet - a 33% discount for immediate cash buyers.
My worn suit sleeve drags across the screen as I study the numbers dropping from $45 million to $30 million.
The realtor explains that the seller needs quick closure due to divorce proceedings.
I tap my platinum card against the counter, remembering my grandfather's words about recognizing good opportunities.
I lean over the marble counter, watching the realtor's manicured fingers tap the tablet screen to process my payment.
My worn suit sleeve catches on the counter's edge as I slide my platinum card across the smooth surface.
The realtor's eyes widen when the transaction clears instantly, transforming her previous skepticism into eager attention.
Through the villa's floor-to-ceiling windows, I notice Penelope's car pulling into the driveway, likely having followed us here.
I stand at the villa's floor-to-ceiling windows, watching Penelope's car approach.
My security team immediately moves into position at my signal, two guards blocking the front entrance while another speaks into his radio.
Through the glass, I see Penelope step out in her designer dress, makeup still smeared from crying at the law firm.
When she starts walking toward the door, I pick up my phone and dial 911, calmly reporting her for stalking.
The call connects, and I watch as the security team intercepts her at the gate.
