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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 boy with no one to care for me.
I had been raised in foster care, moving from home to home until I was sixteen and then I was placed with a family that seemed okay.
They were the Weber’s, Shane and Laura, and they had a son, Shane Jr., who was my age.
We became friends, but their parents were never really into the foster care program, and it showed.
They only did it for the tax benefits, and after two years, when they realized they couldn’t afford to keep me anymore, they kicked me out when I was seventeen.
It was back to the foster care system for me until I turned eighteen and aged out of the system.
I was on my own at the young age of eighteen with nothing but the clothes on my back.
I had to fight every day just to survive, to make it on the streets until I could find a job and get back on my feet.
I never thought I would make it, that I would succeed, but I did.
I persevered and made a life for myself.
I got a job, an apartment, and a girlfriend.
Her name was Penelope, and she was beautiful.
We met at the grocery store, and I was immediately taken by her.
She was charming, sweet, and funny.
We became friends first; I showed her around the city, taking her to places she had never been before.
After another exhausting shift at the warehouse, I trudged up the stairs to my apartment.
The smell of stale cigarettes and burnt food wafted through the air, making my stomach turn.
I passed by the mailboxes, stopping in front of mine.
The rusty metal door creaked as I opened it, revealing a stack of bills and junk mail.
I sifted through them, tossing aside the catalogs and credit card offers.
One envelope caught my eye, though - a cream-colored one with gold trim and a fancy font.
It was addressed to me, but there was no return address.
I almost threw it away, thinking it was some kind of scam, but something about it felt off.
The paper was heavy and expensive-looking, not like the flimsy stuff they usually used for junk mail.
I took it with me into my apartment, dropping my keys on the counter as I made my way to the couch.
The letter was still clutched in my hand as I sat down and tore it open carefully. The words blurred together on the page as I read them.
It was from a law firm - "Harrison & Associates, Attorneys at Law" - and they were writing to inform me that I had inherited something from a man named Richard Weber.
My heart skipped a beat as I read his name.
Richard Weber?
I had never heard of him before, but the last name sounded familiar.
Could he be related to Shane and Laura?
But why would they never mention him?
I kept reading, my hands shaking slightly as I turned the page.
According to the letter, Richard Weber had passed away last month and had left behind a will.
The law firm was requesting my presence at the reading of his will, which would take place next week at their office.
There was an address listed at the bottom of the page - 345 Highland Drive.
I knew that address; it was that massive estate on Highland Drive that I used to pass every day on my way to work. I grabbed my phone off the coffee table and typed Richard Weber's name into Google.
A few articles popped up about his death, along with some photos of him standing next to his wife at various charity events.
I stared at the letter for hours, the Highland Drive address burning a hole in my brain.
That mansion - I'd passed it countless times on the bus to work, its iron gates and manicured lawns a far cry from my own cramped studio apartment.
My phone buzzed with a text from Penelope, probably another excuse for canceling our date tonight.
I ignored it.
Instead, I got up and dug out my only decent shirt from the closet, checking it for holes or stains.
The will reading was tomorrow at 2 PM.
I'd have to skip my shift at the warehouse, but something told me this was more important.
The next day, as I stood outside the law firm, Penelope's voice echoed in my mind.
"Are you sure about this?" she had asked, her tone a mix of concern and disbelief.
"Yeah," I replied, trying to sound more confident than I felt, "I need to know why a stranger would leave me anything."
The polished brass handle feels cold against my palm as I push open the glass door and step into the lobby of Harrison & Associates.
The receptionist looks up from her computer, her eyes widening slightly as they take in my worn jeans and scuffed work boots.
I can tell she's trying not to judge me, but it's hard to miss the hint of disdain in her expression.
"Can I help you?" she asks, her voice smooth but with a hint of wariness.
I clear my throat and hold out the letter.
"I'm here for the reading of Richard Weber's will," I explain, trying to sound more confident than I feel.
She glances at the letter, then back at me, her expression softening slightly.
"Ah, yes. Mr. Harrison is expecting you. Please, have a seat."
She gestures towards a row of leather chairs against the wall, and I sink down into one of them, feeling a bit out of place amidst the opulent decor.
The lobby is sleek and modern, with dark wood paneling and floor-to-ceiling windows that let in a flood of natural light.
The air is thick with the scent of freshly brewed coffee and the hum of conversation drifts from the offices beyond the lobby. A few minutes later, a tall, imposing man with a thick head of gray hair and piercing blue eyes emerges from one of the offices.
He's dressed in a tailored suit that looks like it was made for him, and he carries himself with an air of confidence that's hard to ignore.
"Mr. Weber?" he asks, his voice deep and commanding.
I stand up, nodding nervously as I extend my hand.
"That's me," I reply, trying to keep my voice steady.
He shakes my hand firmly, his grip strong but not crushing.
"Good to meet you," he says, his expression serious but not unfriendly.
"Please, come this way."
He leads me down a long hallway lined with dark wood paneling and framed photographs of various landscapes and cityscapes.
We pass by several offices, each one filled with rows of books and stacks of paperwork.
The air is thick with the scent of old books and stale air, and I can't help but feel a bit overwhelmed by the sheer amount of information that seems to be packed into every corner of this place. We eventually come to a large conference room with a massive mahogany table at its center.
The room is filled with people, all of whom turn to look at me as we enter.
"Welcome, everyone," Mr. Harrison announces, gesturing for me to take a seat at the table.
As I sit down, a woman with sharp features and a no-nonsense demeanor leans forward, her eyes fixed on me.
"You must be wondering why you're here," she says, her voice cutting through the room like a knife, "Richard Weber was your biological father."
Mr. Harrison slides a thick manila envelope across the polished conference table.
My hands shake as I open it, pulling out a stack of pages filled with legal jargon and numbers.
The first sheet catches my eye - a number so large I have to count the zeros twice.
One hundred and seventy-five Googol dollars.
Properties across the world.
Controlling shares in Weber Industries.
The stern-faced woman, who I now know is Richard's attorney, explains each item in a methodical voice.
I grip the edge of my leather chair, knuckles white, as she details the conditions - I must complete business school and work at Weber Industries for five years.
The other attendees whisper and shift in their seats, exchanging uneasy glances.
Mr. Harrison slides the Citibank card across the table, its platinum W catching the fluorescent light.
I pick it up with trembling fingers as he explains it has no spending limit.
The other attendees shift uncomfortably in their chairs while he details the extensive property portfolio - three private islands in the Caribbean, a 300-foot mega yacht docked in Monaco, penthouses in New York and London, and a fleet of luxury cars.
My throat tightens as I examine the thick stack of property deeds, each one representing more wealth than I've seen in my entire life.
Penelope, who had been silent until now, finally speaks up from across the table.
"Why would he leave all this to you?" she asks, her voice a mix of curiosity and disbelief.
Mr. Harrison clears his throat, glancing at me before addressing the room. "Richard always intended for his son to inherit everything," he explains, "but he wanted you to prove yourself first."
I take the heavy fountain pen from Mr. Harrison, its weight matching the gravity of this moment.
The leather chair creaks as I lean forward to review each page, my warehouse-calloused fingers carefully turning the crisp documents.
The conference room falls silent except for the scratching of my signature on multiple lines.
With each stroke, I feel the old Shane - the orphan, the warehouse worker, the disappointment - falling away.
When I reach the final page, I pause, remembering Penelope's doubtful words.
Then I sign with extra flourish, punctuating my name with newfound authority.
Penelope leans back in her chair, her eyes narrowing as she studies me.
"Do you even know the first thing about running a company?" she challenges, skepticism dripping from her words.
I meet her gaze steadily, feeling the weight of Richard's legacy on my shoulders.
"I don't know," I admit, my voice firm, letting her words hang in the air.
The conference room falls silent again as I stand up from the leather chair, straightening my worn shirt.
Mr. Harrison steps forward with a business card in his hand.
"A car will pick you up tomorrow morning to meet the board," he explains, his voice professional but with a hint of warmth.
I take the card and tuck it into my pocket, along with the signed documents and the platinum card.
As I walk toward the door, I pause and turn back to face the room.
My eyes lock onto Penelope, who shifts uncomfortably in her seat.
"I will learn," I say, my voice steady and determined.
"And I will honor Richard's legacy."
After leaving the law firm, I walk to a nearby park and sit on a bench, my hands still trembling from signing those life-changing documents.
I pull out my phone and scroll through my contacts, stopping at the names of the only people who ever stood by me during my darkest times.
I dial Jake first, then conference in the twins Landon and Lance, and finally Marcus.
My voice cracks as I tell them to meet me at our usual spot - the run-down diner where we'd shared countless meals when we could barely afford them.
I push open the glass door of the diner, the familiar bell chiming above my head.
Jake, Landon, Lance, and Marcus are already seated in our usual corner booth, their coffee cups steaming.
The cracked vinyl seat squeaks as I slide in next to Jake, nodding at Betty, our long-time waitress.
"The usual?" she asks with a warm smile.
I nod, and she disappears into the kitchen.
My friends lean forward, concern etched on their faces.
"What's going on, man?" Jake asks, his voice laced with worry.
I pull out the papers and spread them across the sticky tabletop between half-empty sugar packets and worn menus.
Their eyes widen as I explain everything - Richard Weber, the billions, the company.
Marcus spills his coffee when I mention the Caribbean islands.
"You're serious?" Marcus stammers, wiping the spilled coffee with a napkin.
"Dead serious," I reply, my voice steady despite the chaos in my mind.
Landon leans back, crossing his arms. "So, what's the plan, Shane? You gonna be some corporate big shot now?"
I lean back in the booth, my fingers tracing the edge of the platinum card still in my pocket.
"I don't know," I admit, my voice barely above a whisper.
Jake reaches across the table and grabs my shoulder, steadying me as the weight of everything crashes down.
The fluorescent lights overhead flicker, casting an eerie glow on the scattered papers.
Betty returns with our meals and refills our coffee cups, oblivious to the billions represented by the papers between the salt shakers and ketchup bottles.
Lance picks up a property deed, studying it with wide eyes.
"Man, you own an island," he whispers, handing it to Landon.
My hands start trembling again as I pull out the platinum card and place it on the table next to my plate of eggs.
Landon looks at me, his eyes narrowing. "Shane, are you sure you want this? It's a lot to handle."
Jake chimes in, his voice firm. "Whatever you decide, we're with you, but make sure it's what you really want."
Marcus nods, adding softly, "Yeah, man, don't let the money change who you are."
I lean forward, pushing my half-eaten breakfast aside and placing my elbows on the crinkled papers.
"I'm scared it will," I admit, my voice breaking.
Jake nods, his expression understanding.
Marcus and Lance exchange concerned glances.
I pull out Richard's photo from the stack of documents and slide it across the table to them.
"This is him," I explain, my voice steady.
"Richard Weber. My biological father. I never met him, but he left me everything."
Landon picks up the photo, studying it intently before passing it to Lance.
"He looks like you," Lance observes, his voice filled with a mix of awe and curiosity.
I nod, my eyes fixed on the photo as Landon passes it back to me.
"I guess we'll never know why he chose to leave everything to me," I say, my voice tinged with a mix of sadness and gratitude.
Marcus leans forward, his eyes locked on mine.
"Maybe he saw something in you that we've always known - that you're a good man, Shane. And maybe he wanted to give you a chance at a better life."
I look at each of them, their faces etched with genuine concern and support.
"Thank you," I say, my voice filled with emotion.
"Just promise me you won't let this money change who you are."
I nod, determination surging through me.
"I promise. And I want us to meet here every week, no matter what happens. This place has been our home for years, and I don't want to lose that connection." Landon smiles, reaching across the table to clasp my hand.
"Deal," he says firmly.
The others echo his sentiment, their hands joining in a tight circle of solidarity.
As we finish our meals and the waitress clears the table, I reach for my wallet - not the platinum card given to me by the lawyers but my old worn leather wallet that holds memories of late nights and shared dreams.
I lean forward in our diner booth, pushing aside my half-eaten breakfast.
The inheritance papers crinkle under my elbows as I push them aside.
"Remember that auto shop idea we used to talk about?" I ask, watching their expressions shift from confusion to recognition.
Marcus drops his fork, and Jake straightens up in his seat.
I pull out the platinum card and place it deliberately between us on the table.
"We could do it now - all of us together. I've got the capital, and you guys have the skills."
Lance starts scribbling numbers on a napkin, calculating costs and potential profits.
Landon furrows his brow, considering the logistics.
I grab the napkin from Lance's hand, determination coursing through me.
While Lance calculates costs on his napkin, I pull out my phone and open a document I've been working on during lunch breaks at the warehouse.
It's a rough business plan for a video game company.
I pass the phone to Marcus, our resident gaming expert.
He scans it quickly, his eyes widening as he reads.
"It's a video game company," he says, looking up at me with excitement.
I nod, leaning forward.
"We could create games that tell stories about underdogs rising above their circumstances. Games that inspire people to chase their dreams."
Jake looks at me, his expression thoughtful.
"That sounds amazing, but how does it fit with the auto shop idea?"
I smile, feeling a surge of excitement.
"We can do both. The auto shop is our original dream - something we've always wanted to do together. And the video game company can be something new, something we create together using our unique skills."
Marcus looks up from my phone, his eyes shining with excitement.
"I love it," he says, passing the phone to Landon.
Landon studies the document intently before passing it to Lance.
Lance nods, his eyes scanning the numbers and projections.
"It's doable," he says finally, handing the phone back to me.
I look around the table at my friends, feeling a sense of hope and possibility.
"We can do this," I say firmly.
"We can make both of these dreams a reality." Jake leans back in his seat, a thoughtful expression on his face.
"Where would we set up shop?" he asks.
I pull out my phone again and open Google Maps.
"I was thinking about that too," I say, showing them the location I've marked on the map.
"It's an old warehouse space just outside of town. It's big enough for both the auto shop and the video game studio."
Marcus looks at me in surprise.
"That's right next to where we work now," he says.
I nod, smiling.
"I know. It's perfect."
Lance pulls out another napkin and starts sketching a rough layout of the warehouse space.
"We could divide it in half," he says, drawing a line down the middle of the napkin.
"The auto shop on one side and the video game studio on the other."
I lean over his napkin, studying his sketch.
The auto bays line one side, and computer stations fill the other.
In the middle, a shared break room connects the two spaces.
My friends huddle closer, looking at the layout.
Marcus points to a corner of the napkin.
"We could put in a small coffee bar there," he suggests.
Jake nods, calculating in his head.
"If we get four lifts, we could fit eight cars in the shop at a time," he says.
I check my new platinum card - we could start demolition tomorrow.
I pull out my phone and search for local commercial real estate agents.
There's a highly-rated firm downtown, so I click on their website and find the contact number.
My hands still tremble a little when I dial, but I'm getting used to making these kinds of calls.
The agent answers on the first ring, her voice professional and friendly.
"Good morning, thank you for calling Downtown Commercial Properties. My name is Sarah Chen. How can I help you today?"
"Hi Sarah," I say, trying to sound confident.
"I'm looking for a warehouse space to rent. Do you have any properties available?"
"Yes, we do," she says.
"What size are you looking for?"
"About 10,000 square feet," I reply.
"And what kind of features are you looking for in the space?" she asks.
"Good ventilation would be important," I say.
"And high ceilings. We'll need to install some lifts."
"Okay," she says, typing on her computer.
"And what about location? Do you have a specific area in mind?"
"Not really," I say.
"As long as it's within a reasonable commute from downtown."
"Alright," she says.
"I think I have a few properties that might fit what you're looking for. Let me just check on the availability."
I wait on hold for a few minutes while she checks on the properties.
When she comes back on the line, she has three options for me to consider. "The first property is located just outside of downtown," she says.
"It's a 10,000-square-foot warehouse with high ceilings and good ventilation. There are also several auto bays already installed, which could save you some money on renovations."
"That sounds promising," I say.
"What's the address?"
She gives me the address, and I write it down in my old, worn notebook.
"What about the second property?" I ask.
"The second property is located in an industrial park just north of downtown," she says.
"It's also 10,000 square feet, but it doesn't have any auto bays installed. However, it does have a large parking lot and easy access to the highway."
"Okay," I say, writing down the address.
"What about the third property?"
"The third property is located in an up-and-coming neighborhood just south of downtown," she says.
"Can we schedule a time to see both properties?" I ask, glancing at my friends for confirmation.
"Absolutely," Sarah replies. "How does tomorrow afternoon sound?"
"That works for us," I say, feeling a mix of nerves and excitement.