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MidReal Story
The Billionaire Reversal
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
discovering he was the secret heir to a multibillion dollar inheritance. He is resilient, determined, and sarcastic. Shane faced a tumultuous childhood after being kicked out of the elite private school his foster family afforded him. His life took a dramatic turn when his deceased grandfather's will revealed his inheritance. Despite being labeled a failure by those around him, Shane proves them wrong as he embraces his new role of wealth and power.
Julia
shallow, and dismissive. Julia struggled to accept Shane's circumstances and repeatedly pressured him to end their relationship to be with her desired partner. When Shane inherited the fortune, she attempted to win him back but ultimately rejected him again. Her lack of empathy and persistent need for material comfort highlight her superficial nature and contribute to the breakup of Shane and his foster family.
Nigel
cruel, and entitled. Nigel resented Shane for inheriting the wealth that could have been his, and frequently bullied him as a child. When Nigel learned of Shane’s inheritance, he attempted to apologize but it was too late for redemption. His past actions continue to haunt Shane as he navigates his new life as a wealthy young man without Nigel by his side.
I was an orphan, a poor one at that.
I had been raised in foster care with a bunch of other kids.
Some were lucky and had families that adopted them.
I wasn't one of those lucky ones.
Instead, I was transferred from one foster home to another until I turned sixteen.
At that point, I was kicked out and forced to live on my own.
I had no idea what I was going to do or where I was going to stay until I could find a job that would pay my rent.
Luckily, I had been placed with a foster family that had the means to send me to a private elite school.
The school was for rich kids, and it was hard for me to fit in there.
I was mocked and made fun of until I was kicked out for fighting.
After another exhausting shift at the convenience store, I dragged my feet to my dingy apartment.
I trudged up the stairs and headed straight for the mailbox.
I opened it and pulled out the stack of mail.
There was a bill from the electric company, one from the water company, and another from the cable company.
I set those aside and continued to sift through the rest of the mail.
There was a thick cream-colored envelope that caught my eye.
The return address was "Morton & Associates, Attorneys at Law."
I had never heard of them before, so I wasn't sure why they were sending me a letter.
I ripped open the envelope and pulled out the letter inside.
It was typed on expensive-looking paper with a gold seal in the corner.
The letter was addressed to me, but there was no indication of who had written it or why they were contacting me. As I read through the letter, I realized that it was about my biological family.
I had never met them before, but apparently, my grandfather had died and left me his fortune.
The letter explained that I was his sole heir and that I would inherit his entire estate.
The letter went on to say that I would be required to meet with the attorney's office in order to finalize the transfer of assets.
They had scheduled a meeting for tomorrow morning at their downtown office.
My hands were shaking as I read through the letter again.
I couldn't believe what I was reading.
I had always known that I came from a wealthy family, but I never thought that I would see any of that money.
I had been rejected by them long ago, and I didn't think that they even knew I existed anymore. My biological father had been a wealthy man who had made his fortune in real estate.
He had been married to a woman named Elizabeth, but they had gotten divorced when I was just a baby.
After that, he had moved away and started a new family with another woman named Sarah.
She had given birth to a son named Jack, and they had lived happily ever after while I was shuffled around from foster home to foster home.
My biological mother had died when I was young, so I never got to know her very well either.
But now, according to this letter, my grandfather had passed away and left me his fortune.
The next morning, I sat nervously in the attorney's office, waiting for the meeting to begin.
"You're the last person I expected to see here," a voice said, and I turned to see Jack standing in the doorway.
"What are you doing here?" I asked, my voice barely hiding my surprise.
"I'm here to contest the will," Jack replied coolly. "Grandfather never mentioned you, and I don't believe you deserve any of this."
I sat across from him in the dimly lit conference room, my hands steady on the polished mahogany table.
The attorney, Mr. Morton, shuffled through the inheritance documents while Jack glared at me from across the table.
He was dressed in an expensive suit with his hair perfectly styled, giving off an air of old money.
I pulled out my mother's diary from my backpack and placed it deliberately between us on the table.
The worn leather-bound book contained dated entries about her relationship with our grandfather, along with photos and letters that proved their connection.
I flip through the worn pages until I find the entry from December 1995, my fingers trembling slightly as I locate the passage.
Jack leans forward, his jaw clenched, while Mr. Morton sets down his papers to listen.
The diary's musty scent fills the air as I begin reading my mother's elegant handwriting: "Dad visited today with Christmas presents. He held baby Shane, tears in his eyes, and promised to always watch over us both."
I continue reading about the monthly visits, the trust fund he established, the photos of us together at the park.
With each word, Jack's face grows paler.
I pull out the final piece of evidence - a faded Polaroid from Christmas 1995.
The image shows my grandfather in his signature navy suit, cradling me as an infant while my mother beams beside him.
My hands are steady now as I slide it across the polished mahogany, watching Jack's reaction.
His jaw clenches as he picks up the photo, studying the undeniable proof.
The timestamp and my grandfather's handwritten note on the back - "My daughter Sarah and grandson Shane, Christmas '95" - leave no room for doubt.
Jack's eyes narrow, but he knows he's lost this fight.
He leans back in his leather chair, his shoulders sagging.
His manicured fingers drum against the photo before he slides it back to me.
The conference room falls silent except for the soft whir of the air conditioning.
Mr. Morton shuffles papers, waiting for my response.
I take my time, remembering all the nights I went hungry while my half-brother lived in luxury.
"We proceed exactly as grandfather intended," I say, keeping my voice steady.
"The estate transfers to me, and you receive the stipend Outlined in the will."
Jack's voice is low, almost a growl.
"You think this changes everything, Shane?"
Mr. Morton clears his throat, interjecting with a calm authority.
"I'm afraid the evidence is quite clear, Mr. Anderson. If you have no further objections, we can proceed with the inheritance acceptance forms."
Jack's shoulders slump further as the fight drains out of him.
He pulls a silver pen from his pocket and signs the papers with a flourish, sliding them back to Mr. Morton without meeting my eyes.
The attorney reviews each page methodically, initialing them with precision.
I gather my mother's diary and the photos, carefully returning them to the worn backpack that has carried my few possessions for years.
Jack stands abruptly, adjusting his designer tie with a practiced tug.
He strides toward the door, his footsteps echoing in the conference room.
With his hand on the polished handle, he pauses, glancing over his shoulder as if he might speak.
But he thinks better of it, pushing through the door with a soft click.
As the door closes, Mr. Morton looks up from the papers, his expression softening.
"You've done well, Shane. Your grandfather would be proud."
I nod, feeling a weight lift from my shoulders.
"Thank you, Mr. Morton," I reply quietly, my voice steady for the first time in years.
I lean back in my chair, watching as he files the signed papers away in a crisp manila folder.
The sound of rustling papers fills the room as he slides it into his briefcase, closing the worn leather with a soft click.
He looks up, his eyes meeting mine across the polished mahogany table.
"There's one more matter, Mr. Weber," he says, his voice measured.
He reaches into his briefcase once more, pulling out a slim envelope.
It's sealed with a small sticker bearing the law firm's logo, and the return address is written in elegant script: "Elizabeth Weber."
My heart skips a beat as I recognize the name - my grandmother.
I take the envelope from him, my hands shaking slightly as I turn it over in my hands.
The paper feels heavy, substantial against my fingertips.
I run my thumb over the embossed logo, feeling the slight indentation where the ink has sunk into the paper. Mr. Morton watches me intently, his expression unreadable.
"Go ahead," he says quietly, his voice low and encouraging.
I take a deep breath, sliding my finger under the sealed flap.
The paper tears easily, revealing a stack of documents inside.
I pull them out slowly, feeling a mix of anticipation and trepidation building inside me.
The first document is a letter, addressed to me in my grandmother's familiar handwriting.
My eyes scan the page quickly, taking in the words that leap off the page.
"Dear Shane," it begins, "I hope this letter finds you well. I'm writing to you today to let you know that I've left everything to you - my estate, my trust fund, everything."
I look up at Mr. Morton in shock, my mind racing with questions.
He nods sympathetically, gesturing for me to continue reading. I turn back to the letter, my eyes scanning the pages quickly.
As I read on, I learn that my grandmother passed away last month - something I had no idea about.
She had been living in Vermont for years, and we had lost touch after my grandfather's death.
But despite our distance, she had never forgotten about me - her only grandson.
The letter explains that she had been keeping track of me over the years, following my progress from afar.
She was proud of me for pursuing my dreams and working hard to achieve them.
I stare at her elegant handwriting, tracing the curve of her name with my fingertip.
The conference room feels different now - smaller, more intimate.
Mr. Morton remains silent, watching me as I pull out my phone and find the photo of the convenience store where I worked last week.
I place it next to Elizabeth's letter, creating a visual timeline of my life's transformation.
The weight of my backpack presses against my leg, filled with my mother's diary and family photos.
I lean forward in my chair, watching as Mr. Morton spreads the papers across the conference table.
The documents are neatly organized, detailing my grandmother's extensive holdings.
There are vacation homes in five different countries, investment portfolios, and charitable foundations.
My fingers trace over the property deeds, feeling the weight of the paper beneath my touch.
Mr. Morton points to each document, explaining its significance in a low voice.
As he speaks, a photo falls from between the pages.
It's an old picture of Elizabeth, standing in front of her Vermont estate.
The sprawling gardens are filled with vibrant flowers, and a small pond glimmers in the background.
I pick up the first document requiring my signature - a transfer of the main estate deed.
"Shane," Mr. Morton says, his voice gentle yet firm, "there's something you should know about the Vermont estate."
I look up from the document, curiosity piqued.
"It's not just a home," he continues, leaning forward slightly, "it's where your grandmother hid the key to a family secret."
I follow his directions, pulling out the blueprints and spreading them across the conference table.
My finger traces the outline of the main house, taking in the intricate details of the architecture.
The plans show a sprawling estate with multiple wings, each filled with lavish rooms.
But there's one section that catches my eye - a peculiar room in the east wing, tucked away behind the library.
The architectural plans label it as a storage space, but something about it seems off.
Mr. Morton leans forward, his eyes scanning the blueprints intently.
He points to the room, his finger tapping lightly on the paper.
"That's where your grandmother spent most of her time in her final months," he explains quietly.
"She wouldn't let anyone enter that room. Not even her closest confidants."
I frown, studying the blueprints more closely.
The room is situated in a way that makes it impossible to access from any other part of the house.
It's as if it was intentionally hidden away. "What's so special about this room?" I ask Mr. Morton, my voice barely above a whisper.
He looks up at me, his eyes filled with a mix of sadness and intrigue.
"It's where she kept all her secrets," he says softly, "the key to everything she left behind."
I feel a surge of curiosity course through me as I study the blueprints more closely.
The room is small, tucked away in a corner of the east wing.
It's surrounded by thick walls, and there's only one entrance - a door that leads directly into the library.
I can see why my grandmother would have wanted to keep this room hidden away.
It's almost like a secret compartment, hidden in plain sight.
As I continue to study the blueprints, I notice something else peculiar about the room.
There's a small symbol etched into the wall next to the door - a symbol that looks eerily familiar.
I turn to Mr. Morton, pointing to the symbol on the blueprint. "What does this mean?" I ask him curiously.
He looks at me for a moment before answering, his expression thoughtful.
"That's your family crest," he explains gently, "it's been passed down for generations."
I nod slowly, taking in his words.
It makes sense now - this room must have been used by my ancestors for important matters.
I can feel a sense of history surrounding me as I continue to study the blueprints.
I lean back in my chair, watching as Mr. Morton pulls another document from his briefcase.
His expression is unreadable, and I can't help but wonder what this new document holds.
"There's one more matter to discuss," he says, his voice low and serious.
"It's an obscure clause in your grandmother's will, triggered by her passing."
He slides a thick manila envelope across the table, his eyes locked on mine.
"This contains information about a distant relative of yours," he explains, "a great-uncle named Thomas Weber."
I take the envelope, my hands gripping it tightly as I pull out the contents.
The documents reveal that Thomas Weber was a wealthy businessman who made his fortune in South American mining operations.
He never married or had children, and upon his death in 1989, he established a trust that would pass to the next legitimate Weber heir once both your grandfather and grandmother were deceased. I scan the paperwork, my mind racing with the implications.
This means that not only did I inherit my grandmother's vast fortune, but I also inherited this additional wealth from a distant relative I never knew existed.
Mr. Morton leans forward, his eyes locked on mine as he explains the extent of this additional inheritance.
"It includes mining rights in several countries, offshore accounts, and even a private island off the coast of Brazil," he says quietly.
"The island is called Isla del Cielo, and it's been in your family for generations."
I feel a shiver run down my spine as I listen to Mr. Morton's words.
I lean back in the leather conference chair, watching as Mr. Morton methodically pulls out the final documents.
His hands move with precision, laying out the papers in a neat stack.
I can feel my heart pounding in my chest as I watch him work.
Finally, he looks up at me, his eyes serious.
"These are the final inheritance figures," he says quietly.
I lean forward, my hands reaching for the papers.
They feel heavy in my hands, filled with the weight of my family's legacy.
I scan the pages, my eyes widening as I take in the numbers.
My grandfather's inheritance alone totals 200 googol dollars - a sum so vast it's almost incomprehensible.
The list of properties is endless, stretching across multiple pages.
There are vacation homes in exotic locations, investment portfolios, and even a private jet.
I run my fingers over the pages, feeling the weight of the paper beneath my touch. And then there's the black and gold Citibank card with its platinum W logo gleaming under the fluorescent lights.
It feels substantial in my hand, its weight heavy against my palm.
I turn it over, studying the intricate details etched into its surface.
This card represents more than just wealth - it symbolizes power and influence.
As I continue to scan the documents, I come across another section detailing my grandmother's inheritance.
It adds another 100 googol dollars to the total, bringing the grand sum to 300 googol dollars - a staggering amount that makes my head spin.
But there's still one more document left to review - the inheritance from my great-uncle Thomas Weber.
As I open it, I'm met with a figure that takes my breath away: 150 googol dollars.
The total inheritance now stands at 450 googol dollars - a sum so vast it defies comprehension. I sit back in my chair, trying to process the magnitude of what I've just inherited.
The weight of responsibility settles heavily on my shoulders as I realize that this fortune comes with expectations and obligations.
I look up at Mr. Morton, who watches me intently from across the table.
He knows what this means for me - not just financially but also personally.
I take a deep breath and reach for the pen lying next to me on the table.
With steady hands, I sign each document methodically, acknowledging receipt of this vast inheritance.
I pull out my old flip phone from the backpack I brought with me.
The scratched screen flickers to life as I turn it on.
I'm sitting alone in the conference room now, Mr. Morton having stepped out for a moment.
My fingers scroll through the contact list, and I'm surprised to see that there are only five names left.
After all these years, my life has been reduced to just a handful of people.
I hover my finger over each name, remembering how they came into my life.
Alex was the kid who shared his lunch with me in high school when I couldn't afford one.
Mark was the guy who let me crash on his couch when I was homeless for a while.
Landon was the one who helped me get my first job at the local convenience store.
Jake was the friend who taught me how to fix cars so I could get a better-paying job at the mechanic's shop.
And Lance was the guy who stood up for me when those bullies tried to beat me up on the street. I press call on Alex's number first, my heart pounding as it rings.
I pace the thick carpet of the conference room while holding the phone to my ear, waiting for his familiar voice.
The leather chair I occupied earlier is empty now, and I can't sit still with all this nervous energy coursing through me.
Through the window, I can see the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the mahogany table that's still covered in all the inheritance papers.
When Alex finally answers with his usual "Hey man," all the rehearsed words I had planned to say disappear from my mind.
I grip the platinum card in my free hand, watching as the W logo catches the light streaming through the window.
I grip the phone tighter, my voice cracking as I speak.
"Alex, can you meet me at Joe's Coffee?"
There's a pause on the other end of the line, and I can almost hear him thinking.
"Joe's? Man, I haven't been there in ages. What's up?"
I take a deep breath, trying to steady my voice.
"I need to tell you something. It's important."
He sighs, and I can hear the sound of tools clanging in the background.
"Look, man, I'm in the middle of my shift at the auto shop. Can it wait till later?"
I glance out the window again, watching as a sleek black car pulls up in front of the building.
The driver gets out and stands by the door, waiting for me.
It's my new driver, arranged by Mr. Morton.
The car is a far cry from the city bus Alex and I used to ride together when we were broke.
"No," I say firmly into the phone.
"It can't wait. Please, Alex. Meet me there."
There's another pause, and then he agrees.
"Fine. But just for a bit. I gotta get back to work."
I nod even though he can't see me.
"Thanks, man. See you soon."
I hang up and check my watch for what feels like the hundredth time.
Two hours until I have to face Alex with news that will change everything between us forever. I walk over to the table and gather all the inheritance papers that Mr. Morton left for me to review one last time before signing them over to him.
I carefully place them inside my old backpack that's seen better days.
The worn leather straps creak as I sling it over my shoulder.
As I head towards the door, I catch one last glimpse of myself in the mirror hanging on the wall.
My dark hair is disheveled from running my hands through it too many times while pacing around this room.
My eyes look tired from lack of sleep and stress.
I step outside, and the driver opens the car door for me with a polite nod.
As we pull away, I can't help but think about how different my life is now compared to just a few days ago.
I dial Mark's number next, needing another voice of reason before meeting Alex.
"Hey man," Mark's familiar voice comes through the phone as I settle into the backseat of the car.
"What's up?"
I can hear the sound of machinery humming in the background.
He's probably working his shift at the construction site.
"I'm on my way to meet Alex," I say, glancing out the window as we drive past rows of skyscrapers.
"He sounded hesitant on the phone. I don't know what to say to him."
Mark chuckles.
"Come on, Shane. Just be straight with him. You've been friends since high school."
I sigh, running my hand through my hair again.
"It's not that easy. He's going to think I've changed because of all this."
I gesture towards the platinum card still clutched in my hand.
"Remember when you helped him fix that transmission even though you were dead broke? That's who you are, Shane. Money doesn't change that."
I close my eyes, gripping the phone tighter.
Mark is right, as always.
He knows me better than anyone else.
"You're right," I say finally.
"Thanks, man."
"No problem," he replies.
"Just tell him how you feel and it'll be fine."
We hang up, and I look down at the stack of papers in my backpack again.
There are contracts and documents detailing every asset that now belongs to me.
It's surreal seeing my name next to dollar amounts that are higher than anything I could have ever imagined. The car pulls up in front of Joe's Coffee, and the driver gets out to open my door.
As I step out onto the sidewalk, a gust of wind blows through my hair, carrying the scent of freshly brewed coffee from inside the shop.
I glance around, wondering if Alex is already here waiting for me.
The driver clears his throat behind me.
"Sir, where would you like me to wait for you?"
I turn to face him, realizing he must have been watching me stand here lost in thought for a moment too long.
"Oh, sorry. Um...there's a parking lot around back. You can wait there."
He nods politely and gets back into the car without another word.
I watch as he drives away before turning towards Joe's Coffee again.
The sign above the door reads "Joe's Coffee" in bold letters with a picture of a steaming cup beneath it.
I take a deep breath and push open the door, ready to face whatever comes next.
I push through the glass door, and the familiar bell above it chimes loudly.
The smell of freshly brewed coffee fills my nostrils as I step inside.
Joe's Coffee is a small, unassuming place that looks like it hasn't been updated in years.
The tables are scratched and worn, and the chairs creak when you sit down.
The walls are painted a dull gray color, and the menu board above the counter is covered in grease stains.
But despite its rough appearance, Joe's Coffee has always been a welcoming place.
It's where Alex and I would go to grab a cup of coffee on our way to work when we were both broke and struggling to make ends meet.
It's where we would sit for hours talking about our dreams and aspirations over steaming cups of coffee.
And now, it's where I have to tell Alex that my life has changed forever.
I scan the room, looking for Alex's familiar face.
He's sitting at our usual corner table, hunched over his phone with his grease-stained mechanic's uniform visible under his jacket.
His dark hair is messy, and there are circles under his eyes from lack of sleep.
He looks up as I approach him, a mixture of confusion and concern etched on his face. "Hey man," he says, gesturing for me to take a seat across from him.
"What's going on?"
I sit down, adjusting my backpack on the floor next to me.
It feels heavy with all the inheritance papers stuffed inside.
I glance around the coffee shop again, taking in the familiar sights and sounds one last time before everything changes forever.
"Can I get you anything?"
a voice asks behind me.
I turn around to see a young waitress standing there with a notepad in her hand.
She looks like she's new here; I don't recognize her from all the times Alex and I came here before.
"Uh...yeah," I say, trying to think of what to order.
"Just a cup of black coffee please."
She nods and turns to walk away before stopping suddenly and looking back at me with a curious expression on her face.
"You look familiar," she says, furrowing her brow as if trying to place me.
"Have we met before?"
I shake my head no, feeling a little self-conscious about how much I must have changed since moving away from this city. "Nope," I say with a smile.
"I'm just visiting from out of town."
Alex leans back in his chair, eyeing me with a mixture of skepticism and curiosity.
"So, what's this big news you couldn't tell me over the phone?"
I take a deep breath, feeling the weight of the moment pressing down on me.
I grip my coffee cup tightly, watching the steam rise up into the air as I wait for Alex to say something.
The inheritance papers are pressed against my leg through the backpack, a constant reminder of what I have to tell him.
Around us, the café bustles with its usual afternoon regulars - the same people who watched Alex and me scrape together coins to buy a cup of coffee just last month.
My throat tightens as I force out the words.
"Alex, you know how I've been struggling since moving away?"
He nods, his eyes fixed intently on me.
I take another deep breath before continuing.
"Well, something happened. Something that changes everything."
His eyebrows furrow in confusion, but he remains silent, waiting for me to continue.
I reach down into my backpack and pull out the stack of documents Mr. Morton gave me.
"I inherited a lot of money," I say finally, my voice barely above a whisper.
Alex's eyes widen in shock as I place the papers on the table in front of him.
He picks one up, scanning it quickly before looking back at me with a mixture of disbelief and understanding. "A googol dollars," he says slowly, his voice filled with awe.
I nod, feeling a mix of emotions swirling inside me - excitement, guilt, fear.
The bell above the door chimes loudly again as someone else enters the café.
I glance over my shoulder to see Julia walking towards us, stopping dead in her tracks when she sees us sitting there together.
Her eyes lock onto mine for a moment before she turns around and hurries back out onto the sidewalk without saying a word.
Alex follows my gaze and raises an eyebrow at me curiously.
"Who was that?" he asks, his voice filled with amusement.
"Just someone I used to know," I reply quietly, turning my attention back to him.
He looks down at the papers in his hand again, shaking his head slowly as he reads through them.
"Man...this is crazy," he says finally, placing them back on the table in front of him.
"I can't believe you're rich now."
"But what does this mean for us?"
I lean forward across the coffee-stained table, my hands clasped around my untouched mug.
Alex's question hangs in the air, but seeing him sitting there in his grease-stained uniform reminds me of all the late-night conversations we had about opening our own auto shop one day.
I pull out a napkin from the dispenser and start sketching a rough blueprint - a modern garage with ten bays, a comfortable waiting area for customers, and top-of-the-line equipment.
I slide the napkin across the table to Alex, pointing to where his name would go on the sign: "Weber & Martinez Auto Services."
His eyes widen as he takes in my vision, but then he flinches when I mention funding it entirely myself.
I lean back in my chair, relief washing over me as his initial hesitation fades into excitement.
He grabs the napkin and starts adding details - specific brands of equipment we should buy, suggestions for improving the layout.
As he talks rapidly about potential locations and how to find the perfect spot, his greasy uniform brushes against the inheritance papers on the table.
But I don't care anymore.
We discuss hiring his top mechanics from his current shop, and I pull out my phone to start searching for commercial properties.
I pull up listings on my phone while Alex leans in, pointing at properties near the highway.
The realtor, Sarah Chen, answers on the second ring.
Her polished tone shifts from professional to eager when I mention my budget range.
Alex raises his eyebrows as I request viewings for all five industrial lots in the downtown area.
Sarah suggests meeting at 9 AM tomorrow at the largest property - a former dealership with fifteen service bays.
After hanging up, I glance out the window and catch Julia watching us through Joe's front window.
I watch as she bursts through Joe's Coffee's door, her designer heels clicking against the linoleum.
Her perfume wafts over to our table, overpowering the smell of stale coffee.
She leans over us, her perfectly manicured nail pointing at the dealership address on my phone.
Alex shifts uncomfortably in his seat as Julia explains that Mr. Thompson, the owner, is her uncle's golf partner.
I grip my coffee cup tighter, remembering how she left me for someone wealthier just months ago.
When she slides into the booth uninvited and pulls out her phone to call her uncle, I catch Alex's concerned glance.
"Julia, what's your angle here?" Alex asks, his voice steady but wary.
She pauses mid-dial, her eyes flicking between us before settling on me.
"I want in," she says, a hint of vulnerability breaking through her confident facade.
I lean back in my chair, studying her face as she fidgets with her designer purse.
The inheritance papers peek out from my old backpack beside me, a stark reminder of how much has changed.
Alex shifts uncomfortably in his mechanic's uniform, glancing between us as the tension builds.
Julia opens her mouth to speak, then closes it again, her perfectly manicured nails drumming against the worn table surface.
When she finally meets my eyes, I repeat my question more firmly, "What exactly do you want?"
She pulls out her phone, swiping through photos of the dealership property.
"My uncle can expedite the sale process," she explains, her voice steady but her hands betraying a slight tremble.
Alex crosses his arms, his work uniform a stark contrast to Julia's designer outfit.
I catch her stealing glances at the inheritance papers peeking from my backpack.
I lean back in my chair, studying her face as she squirms under my direct question.
Her perfectly manicured fingers drum against her designer purse while she glances between me and the inheritance papers peeking from my backpack.
Alex shifts uncomfortably beside me, his work uniform a stark contrast to Julia's polished appearance.
She opens her mouth to respond, then closes it again, clearly calculating her next words.
When she finally speaks, her voice wavers slightly as she claims she just wants to help an old friend succeed.
I lean forward at our table in Joe's Coffee, fixing her with a hard stare.
"What's your uncle really after?"
Her composure cracks for a moment as she clutches her purse tighter.
Alex creaks against the vinyl chair, his work uniform rustling with the movement.
Her eyes dart between my face and the inheritance papers peeking from my backpack.
She starts explaining how her uncle just wants to help local businesses, but her voice wavers.
When I press about his recent failed property deals, she stops mid-sentence.
Silence stretches between us, heavy with unspoken truths.
I watch Alex's phone vibrate on the coffee shop table, breaking the tension.
Julia stammers, trying to come up with an excuse.
Alex's eyes widen as he answers the call.
"Hello?"
He listens for a moment, then his face lights up.
"Really? That's amazing!"
He turns to me, grinning.
"I won a trip to Paris. All expenses paid."
Julia's face falls.
"Who's going with you?"
Alex turns to me again.
"Do you want to come?"
I remember our old conversations about traveling, back when we could barely afford bus tickets.
Before I can answer, Julia speaks up.
"I could be your plus-one."
Alex shakes his head firmly.