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MidReal Story
The Billionaire Rebound
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 previously impoverished orphan who was constantly judged and belittled by those around him. He is resilient, determined, and proud. After being left pennies short of feeding himself, Shane's life takes a dramatic turn when he inherits his late grandfather's vast wealth, becoming the youngest multibillionaire. Despite past hardships, Shane remains fiercely independent and seeks to prove his worth, setting his sights on reclaiming relationships and positions lost to his previous status.
Grandfather
He was Shane's paternal grandfather who cared for him despite societal norms. He is empathetic, wise, and supportive. Grandfather secretly provided for Shane financially after losing him to the foster care system and later hid his wealth from the world. His trust in Shane is evident in leaving him his vast inheritance, which serves as the catalyst for Shane's rise from poverty to becoming a significant player in the world of finance.
Julia
She is Melissa's wealthy sister who often condescended to Shane. She is arrogant, snobbish, and dismissive. Her past behavior towards Shane was particularly hurtful, labeling him as "poor" and "beneath" her. When Shane becomes wealthy beyond measure, Julia's disdainful attitude is mirrored by Shane's determination to reconnect with him, highlighting her shallow character and lack of empathy.
I am Shane Weber.
My life has been a hard broken road.
I am an orphan who was raised by my grandma in a slum area.
I don't have much money, sometimes I even lack money to buy food.
My girlfriend left me for another guy who is richer than me.
I am poor, extremely poor.
But my life is about to change.
I just received a call from my grandfather's lawyer.
He informed me that my grandfather passed away, and he left all his wealth to me.
I am the only heir of my grandfather.
It turns out that my grandfather is one of the richest men in the world.
He is the only multibillionaire in the world.
His wealth can be compared to the wealth of a small country.
I still remember how people looked at me when I first heard the news that my grandfather is one of the richest men in the world.
They were shocked, but they also looked at me with disgust and disappointment.
They thought that a guy like me, who was raised in a slum area, did not deserve to inherit such a huge amount of money.
They thought that I was not worthy of such a big inheritance.
"My god, how can this be?
A guy like you inheriting billions of dollars?
This is crazy!
You are not deserving of such a big inheritance."
I stand alone in my cramped apartment, staring at the lawyer's business card in my trembling hand.
The peeling wallpaper and broken heater seem even more pathetic now.
A hysterical laugh bubbles up from my chest, starting as a small chuckle before erupting into uncontrollable laughter.
I collapse onto my worn-out couch, the springs creaking under my weight.
The lawyer's words echo in my head: "multi-googolaire."
My phone buzzes - another message from Melissa, probably having heard the news.
I delete it without reading and continue laughing, tears streaming down my face.
Through the thin walls, I hear my neighbor banging, telling me to shut up.
My hands shake as I pick up my cracked phone, the lawyer's business card propped against an empty ramen cup on my wobbly kitchen table.
The streetlight outside flickers, casting uneven shadows across the room.
I punch in each number deliberately, double-checking the digits.
The line rings once, twice, three times.
I pace the cramped space between my mattress and the window, stepping over a pile of past-due notices.
When a crisp voice answers, "Morrison & Associates," I clear my throat, struggling to steady my voice.
"This is Shane Weber," I say, gripping the phone tighter.
"I'm calling about my grandfather's inheritance."
"Ah, Mr. Weber," the voice replies smoothly, "we've been expecting your call."
"Is it really true?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
"Yes, Mr. Weber," the lawyer confirms, "your grandfather left specific instructions that you are to inherit everything, but there's something you need to know."
The lawyer's voice crackles through my phone's damaged speaker.
I sink onto my threadbare couch, the springs groaning beneath me.
"There are certain formalities we must follow," he continues.
"Your grandfather left detailed instructions about the transfer of his assets. We need you to come to our office for a formal reading of the will."
I glance at the clock on my phone - 9:47 PM.
"What time?"
I ask, my voice shaking.
"Tomorrow morning at 10 AM sharp," he replies.
"We'll need you to come to our downtown office."
"I don't have a car," I admit, feeling a surge of panic.
"That's not a problem, Mr. Weber," the lawyer assures me.
"We'll send a car for you. Just be ready by 9:30 AM."
I look down at my worn jeans and faded t-shirt, realizing I don't own anything suitable for a law office.
"I... I don't have any clothes," I stammer.
"Mr. Weber," the lawyer says gently, "please don't worry about that. Your grandfather was very clear that we should make this process as easy as possible for you. Just be yourself." I nod, even though he can't see me, and scribble down the appointment time on the back of an overdue electric bill.
"Mr. Weber," the lawyer's voice softens, "there's one more thing you should know before tomorrow."
"What is it?" I ask, my heart pounding in my chest.
"Your grandfather insisted that you meet someone important at the reading—a person who holds a key to your past."
I grip the phone tighter, my knuckles turning white.
"Who is it?"
I press, needing answers.
There's a pause on the other end, papers shuffling in the background.
"I'm not at liberty to say," the lawyer responds carefully.
"But they were close to your grandfather in his final years."
My mind races through possibilities - was it someone from the foster system?
A long-lost relative I never knew?
The lawyer clears his throat.
"This person specifically requested to be present. I think it's best if you meet them tomorrow."
I sink deeper into my worn couch cushions, the springs creaking beneath me.
"Please," I try one more time, "can you tell me anything about this person?"
The lawyer's voice turns polite but firm.
"I'm afraid that's all I can say for now, Mr. Weber," he replies.
"Please be ready tomorrow at 9:30 AM. The car will bring you to our office."
I hang up, the phone slipping from my trembling hands.
The room feels smaller than ever.
I drag myself to the tiny bathroom, flicking on the light.
The cracked mirror above the sink reflects a stranger's face - dark circles under my eyes, stubble covering my jaw, and hair that hasn't seen a barber in months.
I look nothing like someone who would attend a formal will reading.
I turn off the light and make my way to the closet, pushing aside a stack of unpaid bills.
The closet is nearly empty except for a few worn shirts and a pair of jeans that are almost as faded as the ones I'm wearing.
I dig through the pile and find a dress shirt that I remember wearing to my last failed job interview.
It's wrinkled and smells stale, but it's the best I have.
I carry it to the kitchen, where I find an iron in one of the drawers.
I set it down on the counter and search for an ironing board, only to remember that I don't own one.
Instead, I grab a towel and lay it flat on the counter, hoping it will do. The iron sputters to life in my hand as I plug it in.
I adjust the heat setting and place the iron on the towel, watching as it slowly flattens out the wrinkles in my shirt.
But my hands keep shaking, making it difficult to hold the iron steady.
Finally, after what feels like an eternity, I manage to smooth out most of the wrinkles.
I turn off the iron and let it cool before hanging up my shirt on a hook by the door.
The collar is frayed and one of the buttons is missing, but it's better than anything else I own.
I set an alarm on my phone for 7 AM so I can get ready in time for the car to arrive at 9:30 AM.
I lie awake in the dark, my mind restless with questions about the stranger who holds the key to everything I've never known.
I pace back and forth in my small kitchen, staring at the contact information for Tom on my phone's screen.
We haven't spoken in weeks, not since he tried lending me money for rent and I stubbornly refused.
But now, I need him more than ever.
My thumb hovers over the call button as I rehearse what I'm going to say.
I take a deep breath and press dial, holding my breath as the phone rings.
Tom answers on the second ring, his voice groggy from his night shift at the hospital.
"Hey, man," he mumbles, "what's up?"
I blurt out everything - the inheritance, the mysterious attendee at tomorrow's reading, and my desperate need for someone to lean on.
Tom listens quietly, letting me spill it all without interrupting.
When I finally run out of words, he clears his throat.
"Do you want me to come with you?" he asks gently.
For the first time today, my shoulders relax slightly.
"Yeah," I reply, my voice cracking with relief.
"Would you?"
"Thanks, Tom," I whisper, feeling a glimmer of hope in the darkness.
I pace back and forth outside my apartment building at 9:15 AM, my freshly ironed but still frayed shirt clinging to my sweaty back.
The morning sun beats down on the cracked sidewalk, warming the chill of the early morning air.
I glance at my phone for what feels like the hundredth time, checking the time and waiting for the promised car to arrive.
At 9:25 AM, a sleek black Mercedes pulls up to the curb.
A man in a crisp black uniform steps out of the driver's side door and approaches me with a polite smile.
"Mr. Weber?" he asks, his voice smooth as silk.
I nod, feeling a little awestruck by the luxury car and its impeccably dressed driver.
He opens the back door for me, revealing a plush leather interior that smells like new car and money.
I slide into the seat, feeling a little out of place in my shabby clothes and worn shoes.
The driver closes the door behind me and returns to his seat, starting the engine with a quiet purr.
As we pull away from the curb, I catch a glimpse of myself in the rearview mirror and cringe at my disheveled appearance.
I run a hand through my hair, trying to tame the unruly waves that always seem to stick up in every direction. The driver glances at me in the mirror and offers a sympathetic smile.
"Don't worry," he says softly.
"You look fine."
I nod my thanks, feeling a little more at ease as we merge onto the busy city streets.
But as we drive through expensive districts filled with towering glass skyscrapers and high-end boutiques, my anxiety returns.
I pull out my phone again, this time checking for any messages from Tom to confirm that he's on his way to meet me at the lawyer's office.
When I don't see anything, I shoot him a quick text: "On my way. See you soon?"
I stare at my phone's screen until it goes dark, willing Tom to respond.
The car glides smoothly through traffic, finally pulling up in front of a towering glass building that seems to touch the clouds.
The driver opens my door for me, helping me out onto the sidewalk with a courteous nod. I glance up at the building's sleek facade and feel a wave of nervousness wash over me.
This is it - this is where I'll learn everything about my grandfather's life and death.
I take a deep breath and scan the crowded street for Tom's familiar face.
I spot him through the crowd of suited professionals streaming past the glass building.
His jeans and faded jacket stand out against their polished suits, just like my own shabby clothes.
He pushes through the morning pedestrian traffic, dodging a bike messenger and nearly tripping over a briefcase.
When he reaches me, his strong arms wrap around my shoulders in a bear hug that lifts me slightly off the ground.
The familiar scent of his leather jacket and coffee breath fills my lungs, reminding me of late-night talks and laughter over cheap beer.
I grip his shoulder, steadying myself against the dizzying reality of everything that's happened in the past twenty-four hours.
Together, we step into the building, ready to face whatever truths await.
The elevator doors close with a soft chime, trapping us in a polished steel box lined with mirrors.
I catch glimpses of our reflections from every angle - Tom's broad shoulders and kind eyes beside me, my own disheveled appearance multiplied infinitely.
The numbers tick upward: 5, 6, 7.
My gaze falls on the frayed cuff of my shirt, where a loose thread dangles like a tiny snake.
I tug at it absently, trying to tuck it back into place.
At floor 15, the elevator stops with a ding, and the doors slide open to admit a sharp-suited executive clutching a briefcase and talking on his phone.
He glances at us with barely concealed disdain before stepping inside, his voice dropping to a hushed murmur.
Tom shifts closer to me, his presence both protective and reassuring.
I focus on my breathing, counting each floor as we ascend higher and higher into the clouds.
The elevator doors open on the 23rd floor, revealing a sleek hallway lined with oil paintings and brass nameplates.
Tom places a hand on my shoulder, guiding me out into the hushed luxury of the law firm's offices.
We follow the discreet signs to Conference Room A, our footsteps echoing off the marble walls.
Through the glass partitions, I catch glimpses of lawyers typing away on their computers, their faces intent and focused.
We turn a corner, and suddenly the conference room comes into view.
Through the glass walls, I see a long mahogany table surrounded by high-backed leather chairs.
Several people are already seated, their heads swiveling as they watch us approach.
They're all dressed in expensive suits, their expressions ranging from curiosity to suspicion.
My worn shoes squeak against the polished floor, drawing even more attention to our shabby appearance.
A receptionist sits at a curved desk outside the conference room, her perfectly manicured nails clicking against her keyboard as she types furiously.
She looks up as we approach, her eyes narrowing slightly behind designer glasses.
"Can I help you?" she asks coolly.
Tom steps forward, his voice steady and confident.
"We're here for the meeting with Mr. Smith," he says.
The receptionist nods curtly and taps at her computer screen before looking back at us with a hint of disapproval in her eyes. "Name?" she asks briskly.
"Tom Weber and Lily Weber," Tom replies smoothly.
She nods again and checks something on her screen before gesturing toward the heavy double doors of Conference Room A.
"You can go right in," she says.
I step into the conference room with Tom close behind me, his warm hand resting against the small of my back.
It's a gesture he's made countless times before, but somehow it feels different this time.
His touch is firmer, more possessive, as if he's staking a claim on me.
My skin tingles where his fingers press through the thin fabric of my shirt, sending a shiver down my spine.
I'm acutely aware of the weight of his gaze on me, even as we walk past the lawyers seated around the table.
Their eyes follow us, filled with a mix of curiosity and suspicion.
I feel like a wild animal on display, being judged and evaluated from every angle.
But with Tom by my side, I can face anything.
He guides me to two empty chairs at the far end of the table and pulls one out for me.
As I sink into the soft leather seat, his hand slides reluctantly away from my back, leaving behind a ghost of warmth that lingers on my skin. He takes the chair beside me, his broad shoulders brushing against mine in a comforting touch.
I find myself leaning slightly toward him, seeking solace in his solid presence.
The head lawyer clears his throat loudly, drawing our attention to the stack of papers spread out before us.
He slides a thick document across the polished mahogany table, its cover embossed with gold lettering.
"This is the document outlining the terms of your inheritance," he explains, his voice smooth and practiced.
"Please take a moment to review it carefully."
My hands tremble slightly as I reach for the document, flipping through the pages filled with dense legal jargon.
My eyes widen as I catch glimpses of astronomical numbers and complex financial terms that might as well be written in a foreign language.
The head lawyer points to several yellow tabs marking specific sections of the document.
"These indicate where you need to sign," he explains patiently, his voice dripping with condescension.
"Please pay close attention to each section before signing."
I nod nervously, feeling the weight of everyone's gaze on me.
Tom leans closer, his shoulder pressing against mine in a reassuring touch.
He points to a section highlighted in yellow and begins to explain it in simpler terms, his voice steady and calm. As he talks, I feel my panic slowly recede, replaced by a growing sense of determination.
I will get through this.
I will make sense of these complicated documents and sign my name with confidence.
The lawyers around the table watch us intently, their expressions ranging from curiosity to outright disdain.
But I refuse to let their judgment affect me.
I focus on Tom's words, absorbing every detail like a sponge.
Finally, after what feels like an eternity, I reach the last page of the document.
A silver pen appears before me, its sleek body glinting in the fluorescent lighting.
It feels heavy in my hand, substantial and solid against my trembling fingers.
I grip the pen tightly, feeling its unfamiliar weight in my calloused palm.
The lawyers lean forward, their expensive suits rustling softly as they watch my every move.
Tom's warmth radiates beside me, a steady presence that grounds me in this sea of uncertainty.
I position the pen above the signature line, my hand hovering for a moment before I begin to write.
The golden letters of my grandfather's name catch the light above his printed signature, a stark contrast to the messy scrawl that is about to follow.
Slowly, deliberately, I form each letter of my name - first the 'S', then 'h', continuing until the final flourish of 'Weber' is complete.
The ink flows smoothly across the cream paper, leaving behind a trail of dark blue that seems more confident than I feel.
I slide the inheritance papers across the polished mahogany table, watching them glide over the surface until they reach the lawyer's manicured hands.
The weight of my decision settles in my chest, heavy and unyielding.
I keep my gaze locked on the lawyer's face, refusing to look away first.
His expression shifts from one of condescension to discomfort under my unwavering stare.
Tom's shoulder remains pressed against mine, a steady presence that grounds me in this moment of transformation.
The lawyer clears his throat, shuffling the papers into a leather portfolio while avoiding my intense gaze.
I lean back in the leather chair, releasing a shaky breath that I hadn't realized I was holding.
The sound of the lawyer's stamp hitting the paper echoes through the room, followed by the scratch of his pen as he dates the final page.
"You did the right thing," Tom whispers against my ear, his warm breath sending a shiver down my spine.
His words wash over me like a soothing balm, easing the tension in my shoulders even as my heart continues to race.
The lawyer's eyes flicker up to meet mine, his expression a mask of professional approval tinged with a hint of disbelief.
He nods once, twice, as if trying to convince himself that this is indeed real.
I watch him intently, observing how he carefully arranges the papers into a neat stack before sliding them into a manila envelope.
"There's something else you should know," Tom says quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.
I turn to him, my heart skipping a beat at the seriousness in his eyes.
"The inheritance comes with a condition—you're required to take over your grandfather's position on the board."
