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MidReal Story
The Billionaire's Revenge
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 was 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.
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 background and choices. She represents the societal pressures and expectations that often lead to heartbreak and betrayal.
Unnamed Adoptive Parents
They are Shane's adoptive parents who kicked him out when he was seventeen. They are cruel,heartless,and materialistic. The parents viewed Shane as a burden due to his povertystricken upbringing and the financial struggles it brought. Their decision to adopt Shane was likely motivated by selfinterest rather than genuine care. Their rejection of Shane after inheriting the fortune showcases their true nature as they return to their old lifestyle.
I was an orphan, raised in foster care.
I had no one and belonged nowhere.
My girlfriend left me for a richer guy.
I was seventeen when I was kicked out of my foster home.
I had nothing and knew no one.
But I didn't give up.
Today, she's going to marry the guy she left me for.
I'm not attending the wedding, but I heard it's going to be held in a castle, which is only owned by one family in the world—the Weber family.
They're the only family in the world with a net worth of over a googol.
A googol is a huge number that equals 1 followed by 100 zeros!
No one knows who inherits the massive wealth of the Webers.
Rumors say the old man changed his will every few days.
Some said he'd leave it all to charity.
Others said he'd give it all to his new girlfriend.
I sit alone in my dingy studio apartment, staring at the pile of unpaid bills on my coffee-stained table.
The clock ticks loudly, echoing through the silence.
I'm lost in my thoughts, brooding over my miserable life, when I hear a knock on the door.
It's the mailman.
He hands me a thick cream envelope and stares at me with curiosity.
I don't blame him.
I never receive any mail other than collection notices.
The envelope feels heavy in my hands, and the paper is expensive.
The golden wax seal catches my attention, and I can't help but wonder who sent it and why.
The mailman leaves, but not before glancing back at me with wide eyes.
I look down at the envelope again and notice the intricate design of the seal—the Weber family crest.
An image of intertwined W's surrounded by thorny roses.
My hands tremble as I hold it, and I can't help but wonder if this is some kind of prank. I break the seal, and a familiar scent wafts up—a mix of lavender and pine, reminiscent of my grandfather's signature cologne.
I open the envelope and find a handwritten letter inside, written in elegant script.
"You're the sole heir to the Weber fortune," the letter reads, and I nearly drop it in shock.
"What? This has to be a mistake," I mutter to myself, my voice shaky.
Suddenly, my phone rings, and it's an unknown number; I answer hesitantly, "Hello?"
I stare at my vibrating phone, my heart pounding in my chest.
The screen flashes with an unknown number, and I hesitate for a moment before swiping to answer.
Three rings echo through the silence, and then a crisp voice speaks on the other end.
"Hello?"
I say, my voice barely above a whisper.
"Good afternoon. Is this Mr. Weber?" asks the voice.
I nod, even though I know he can't see me.
"Yes," I manage to croak.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Weber. My name is James Morton, and I'm calling from Weber & Associates Law Firm."
My grip on the phone tightens as I listen to his words.
"We've received notification that you've received a letter from the late Mr. Weber," he continues.
I glance down at the paper in my hands, still trying to process what I've just read.
"Yes," I say again, my throat dry.
"Mr. Morton, what's going on? Why am I receiving this letter?"
I ask, my voice shaking slightly.
"Mr. Johnson," he responds calmly, "the letter explains that you are the sole heir to the Weber fortune. As per Mr. Weber's wishes, we are required to guide you through the inheritance process." My mind reels as I try to comprehend what's happening.
Me?
An heir to one of the wealthiest families in the world?
It feels like a dream, but the weight of the paper in my hands and the seriousness in Morton's voice tell me otherwise.
"What do I need to do?" I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.
"Tomorrow morning at 9:00 AM sharp," Morton replies firmly.
"We will be scheduling a meeting with you at the Weber estate to discuss the details of your inheritance."
My breath catches in my throat as I hear him mention the Weber estate.
I've only seen pictures of it in magazines—a grand mansion surrounded by lush gardens and towering walls.
It's a place of luxury and exclusivity that feels worlds away from my small studio apartment.
"Tomorrow morning?" I repeat, trying to process everything quickly.
"Yes, Mr. Weber ," Morton confirms.
"I will send you a car to pick you up at 8:30 AM sharp. Please be ready."
I nod again, forgetting that he can't see me over the phone.
"Okay," I manage to say, my voice barely above a whisper.
Morton's voice remains professional and detached as he continues speaking.
"Also, please be advised that formal attire is required for the meeting. I will send you a dress code guideline via email shortly."
I glance down at my worn jeans and faded t-shirt, feeling a sense of panic wash over me.
My only decent outfit was a wrinkled navy suit I found at a thrift store, which I wore for job interviews.
I hadn't had the chance to wear it since then.
"Mr. Morton," I say, trying to keep my voice steady.
"I don't have any formal clothes."
There's a brief pause on the other end of the line before Morton responds.
"Don't worry, Mr. Weber. The car will bring you some suitable attire."
He says it so casually, as if it's no big deal.
But for me, it feels like a whole new world opening up.
"Thank you," I manage to say, my voice barely above a whisper.
"You're welcome, Mr. Weber," Morton replies.
"We will see you tomorrow morning."
With that, he hangs up the phone, leaving me staring at the screen in disbelief. Back in my cramped studio apartment, I pace the floor nervously.
The clock ticks away, and I find myself checking my phone every few minutes to make sure I haven't lost track of time.
The wrinkled navy suit hangs on the bathroom door, and my scuffed dress shoes sit by the bed.
I've set three different alarms on my phone to ensure I don't oversleep.
The letter lies on my nightstand, and I can't resist rereading it every few minutes, touching the thick paper to reassure myself that this is real.
As the hours pass, sleep becomes elusive.
My mind races with thoughts of tomorrow's meeting and what it could mean for my life.
I try to imagine what the Weber estate looks like in person—its grandeur and opulence that I can only dream of.
But as the clock strikes 11 PM, I force myself to lie down on the creaky bed and close my eyes tightly.
I know that showing up exhausted won't make a good impression.
I drift into a restless sleep, knowing that tomorrow will change everything.
I jolt awake at 6 AM, an hour before my first alarm.
The sunlight barely filters through the threadbare curtains, casting a dim glow over the room.
I stumble out of bed and stagger to the bathroom, catching a glimpse of myself in the cracked mirror.
My eyes are bloodshot from lack of sleep, and my face is pale and gaunt from years of poverty.
I splash cold water on my face, trying to shake off the remnants of sleep.
The shower is lukewarm, but I stand under it for longer than usual, scrubbing my skin with cheap soap.
I want to wash away the dirt and grime that's accumulated over years of living in this run-down apartment.
As I dry off with a frayed towel, I catch sight of a text message from Morton confirming that the car will arrive at 8:30 sharp.
I spend the next hour obsessively cleaning my apartment, even though I know I'll never set foot here again. At 8:15 AM, I peer out the window and see a sleek black Mercedes pulling up outside.
The driver steps out, holding a garment bag in his hand.
I take a deep breath, knowing that the life I've known is about to change forever.
The driver hands me the garment bag, and I take it from him with trembling hands.
It feels heavy, like it's filled with more than just clothes.
I nod my thanks and head back inside, closing the door behind me.
I place the garment bag on the bed and unzip it slowly, revealing a black Armani suit, a crisp white shirt, and a pair of polished leather shoes.
The price tags are still attached to each item, and I can't help but gasp at the total cost.
The suit alone costs more than six months of rent for this apartment.
I take out each piece of clothing carefully, laying them on the bed.
The fabric feels luxurious against my fingertips, so different from the cheap polyester suits I've worn before.
I take off my worn jeans and t-shirt and slowly start to dress.
The suit pants fit perfectly, and the shirt is crisp against my skin.
But as I reach for the cufflinks, I realize that I have no idea how to put them on.
I fumble with them for a few minutes before finally managing to secure them in place. As I slip on the suit jacket, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror hanging on the wall.
The suit is immaculate, but my reflection shows a man who doesn't belong in such fine clothes.
My hair is messy, and my eyes are still bloodshot from lack of sleep.
I run a hand through my hair, trying to tame it into submission.
But as I look at myself again, I realize that it's not just my appearance that's out of place.
This suit represents a world that I've never known—a world of luxury and privilege that feels foreign to me.
As I fasten the last button on the jacket, it feels like I'm leaving behind everything I've ever known.
The suit is more than just clothes; it's a symbol of a new life that's waiting for me outside these walls. When I'm finally dressed, I gather up my few belongings into a worn folder: my driver's license, social security card, and birth certificate.
My hands still shake slightly as I clutch the folder tightly against my chest.
I take one last look around the apartment, then step outside to meet my future.
I pause at the door, gripping the worn duffel bag that contains everything I own: some clothes, a few photos, and basic toiletries.
The leather of the new Armani suit creaks as I bend down to check the zipper one last time.
My hand trembles while locking the door, knowing I'll never use this key again.
The driver stands by the car, holding the back door open for me.
Walking past my rusty bicycle chained to the railing, I catch a glimpse of Mrs. Chen from next door watching through her window.
She nods once, a silent acknowledgment of the journey I'm about to undertake.
The leather seat feels cool and smooth against my palms as I settle into the back of the Mercedes.
I place the duffel bag beside me, careful not to crease the suit.
Through the tinted windows, I watch as my apartment building grows smaller in the side mirror, a fading piece of a life I'm leaving behind.
The driver navigates through morning traffic with ease, the car gliding like a dark ghost on the streets.
The interior smells of fresh leather and a hint of pine, reminding me of the cologne that clings to the letter in my pocket.
As we stop at a red light, I catch a glimpse of myself in the privacy divider that separates me from the driver.
I look like a stranger in this expensive suit, but my eyes betray my nervousness.
"First time in a suit like that?" the driver asks, glancing at me through the rearview mirror.
"Yeah," I admit, my voice barely above a whisper, "I never thought I'd be wearing something like this."
He nods knowingly, "Well, Mr. Morton said you're the one to watch—said you might just change everything."
The Mercedes pulls up to a towering iron gate, adorned with the intricate Weber crest.
As we wait, I notice security cameras moving in our direction, tracking our every move.
The driver speaks into an intercom, and the gates silently swing open.
We drive up a winding path lined with perfectly trimmed hedges that stretch like sentinels on either side.
The mansion grows larger with each turn, its stone facade glistening in the morning light.
My palms grow sweaty against the leather seat as we approach the entrance.
I spot Mr. Morton standing at attention by the grand doors, his suit crisp and immaculate.
The car comes to a smooth stop, and the driver opens my door.
I step out, gripping my duffel bag tightly.
I trail behind Mr. Morton through the entrance, my worn duffel bag bumping against my leg with each step.
The heavy oak doors thud shut behind us, making me flinch.
Morton's polished shoes click against the marble floor as he leads me through the grand foyer.
Portraits of stern-faced Webers line the walls, their eyes seeming to follow us as we move.
My new dress shoes squeak awkwardly with each step, breaking the silence.
A maid appears from a side door, her eyes widening slightly upon seeing me.
She reaches for my duffel bag, but I clutch it tighter, not wanting to let go of the only thing that feels like mine in this place.
Mr. Morton notices and waves her away with a slight frown.
We continue down the corridor, and I realize there's no turning back now.
I grip my duffel bag tighter and follow Mr. Morton up the curved marble staircase.
My hand slides along the polished wooden banister, feeling the slight grooves worn by years of use.
Each step feels heavier than the last in these stiff leather shoes.
The staircase winds past more Weber family portraits—stern faces in expensive frames watching my ascent.
On the second-floor landing, I pause to catch my breath, pretending to admire a crystal chandelier that casts rainbows across the floor.
My legs shake from nerves, and I hope Morton doesn't notice.
He waits impatiently ahead, checking his gold watch for what feels like the hundredth time.
When I hesitate too long, he clears his throat and points down a long hallway lined with closed doors.
I walk behind Morton, my duffel bag bumping against the expensive wallpaper.
Ornate sconces cast flickering shadows across the doors.
Each door has a brass nameplate, but I can't read the names in the dim light.
My new shoes click against the hardwood floors, echoing Morton's measured footsteps.
We stop at the last door on the right.
Morton pulls out an old brass key and unlocks it with a heavy click.
He pushes the door open, revealing a study filled with leather-bound books and a massive oak desk.
A portrait of an elderly man hangs above a cold fireplace.
"Is that him?" I ask, nodding toward the portrait.
"Yes," Morton replies, his voice low. "That's your grandfather, and he's left you more than just a legacy."
"What do you mean?" I ask, feeling a chill run down my spine.
I sink into a leather armchair, its soft cushions creaking under my weight.
The chair feels out of place in this formal study.
Morton hands me a thick cream envelope sealed with the Weber crest.
My fingers tremble as I break the seal and slide out the contents.
The paper is expensive and heavy, making it hard to unfold.
I find multiple documents and a handwritten letter on elegant stationery.
The study falls silent except for the ticking of an antique clock and Morton's steady breathing as he watches me from behind the desk.
Before I can start reading, Morton places a crystal glass of water on the table beside me.
"Your grandfather had a secret," Morton says, his voice barely above a whisper.
I look up, meeting his gaze. "A secret?" I echo, my curiosity piqued despite the growing unease.
Morton nods, leaning forward. "He was involved in something that could change everything for you and this family."
I unfold the thick cream paper with trembling fingers, smoothing out the deep creases.
Morton hovers behind the desk, watching my every move.
The elegant cursive handwriting fills both sides of the page, starting with "My dearest grandson Shane."
My eyes dart across each line, searching for answers about my past, but the words blur together.
A photo slips from between the pages onto my lap.
I pick it up, studying it closely.
It shows my grandfather standing beside a massive vault door with intricate symbols etched into it.
When I pick up the photo, Morton tenses and steps closer to me.
His shoes squeak against the hardwood floor.
"There's more to this house than you know," he says, his voice a mere breath against the silence.
I lean forward in the leather chair, my fingers leaving sweat marks on the photo's glossy surface.
Morton walks to a painting beside the fireplace and swings it aside, revealing a hidden wall safe.
He enters a code, his fingers moving swiftly.
"Your grandfather spent decades collecting artifacts with unexplained powers," he explains, his voice low and mysterious.
The safe clicks open, and Morton removes a small wooden box.
The symbols on the box match those on the vault door in the photo.
He places it on the desk between us with a soft thud.
My hands tremble as I reach for the box, but before I can touch it, Morton pulls it back.
"Not yet," he says firmly.
"We need to discuss ground rules first."
I stare at the box, my fingers itching to touch its intricate carvings.
"What kind of ground rules?" I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.
Morton meets my gaze, his expression serious. "Once you open this box, there's no turning back; you're stepping into a world that defies logic."
I swallow hard, the weight of his words sinking in. "And if I choose not to open it?"
Morton spreads a stack of financial documents across the mahogany desk.
The papers rustle against the polished surface as he arranges them neatly.
I stare at the numbers, my vision blurring.
The inheritance summary shows 400 googol dollars.
My mind struggles to comprehend such a vast amount of money.
Morton points to each line item methodically, his finger tracing the columns.
"Private islands in the Caribbean, a fleet of mega yachts, penthouses in every major city, and extensive stock portfolios."
He slides a blue Citibank card with a platinum W emblem toward me.
I pick it up with trembling fingers, the cool plastic pressing against my skin.
"This has no spending limit," Morton explains, his voice steady.
I lean forward in the leather chair, my heart pounding in my chest.
I stare at the wooden box on the desk, its strange symbols seeming to shift under the dim light of the study.
"I want to know everything," I say, my voice firm.
Morton nods gravely and slides the box toward me.
I reach out with trembling fingers and touch the wood, feeling its warmth against my skin.
The symbols etched into its surface are unfamiliar, but they seem to shimmer under my touch.
With shaking hands, I run my fingers over the intricate carvings, searching for a hidden latch or mechanism.
After a few moments, I find a small indentation on the side of the box.
It's almost imperceptible, but as soon as I press it, I hear a soft click.
The lid slowly opens, revealing a faint blue glow emanating from within.
I lean back in the leather chair, my chest tight as I process everything.
The inheritance papers, the mysterious box, the limitless credit card in my trembling hand.
Through the study window, I watch gardeners meticulously trim the endless hedges of my new estate.
The weight of 400 googol dollars presses down on me.
I think of my cramped studio apartment, of Penelope leaving me for someone richer, of my adoptive parents kicking me out.
My fingers curl around the credit card as anger mixes with my fear.
Standing up suddenly, I walk to my grandfather's portrait and stare into his knowing eyes.
I lean forward, my voice steadier than I expected.
"How do I secure the inheritance?"
Morton pulls out a thick folder from his briefcase and places it on the desk.
"There are three steps," he explains, his voice calm.
"First, you must sign the transfer documents for the accounts and properties."
He slides a stack of papers toward me.
"Second, you must meet with the Weber family board of trustees tomorrow at 9 AM. They will discuss your responsibilities and expectations."
He hands me a card with an address and time printed on it.
"Third, you must move into this mansion immediately. It's a non-negotiable condition of the inheritance."
I nod, my mind racing.
Morton slides the papers across the desk, along with an ornate fountain pen bearing the Weber crest.
I pick up the pen, feeling its weight unfamiliar in my hand.
I grip the fountain pen tightly, refusing to sign.
Morton shifts uncomfortably in his chair, adjusting his tie for what feels like the hundredth time.
"Why me?" my voice cuts through the silence.
"Out of everyone, why did my grandfather pick a nobody?"
Morton stands up from his chair and walks to the window, his back to me.
He pauses, looking out at the sprawling garden before turning to face me.
"Your grandfather had been watching you for years," he says quietly.
"He hired private investigators to monitor your life. Every struggle, every rejection, every moment of resilience. He knew everything."
Morton returns to the desk and pulls out a thick file from his briefcase.
He places it in front of me, its weight substantial.
Inside, I find photographs and notes chronicling my life, a testament to a legacy I never knew was mine.
As I flip through the surveillance photos, a cream envelope slips from between the pages and lands on the desk.
Morton reaches for it, but I snatch it first.
Inside, I find a set of account details for a Swiss bank vault, along with a note written in my grandfather's own handwriting.
I read the words, my hands trembling.
"This account is yours alone," it says.
"Five hundred quintillion dollars, set aside for one purpose: for me to have."
My eyes meet Morton's, a question hanging in the air.
"What does this mean?"
I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
Morton clears his throat, his eyes darting to the envelope and back to me.
"That account is... different," he says hesitantly.
"It's not part of the main inheritance. It's your grandfather's way of giving you something more personal."
I grip the account details tightly, my mind racing with possibilities.
"Can I access these funds now?"
I ask, my voice steady despite the turmoil inside me.
Morton shifts uncomfortably in his seat, glancing at his watch as if time itself is against us.
"Technically," he begins slowly, "this particular account doesn't require board approval. But we should still follow proper channels."
"Proper channels?" I echo, suspicion lacing my voice.
Morton nods, his expression unreadable. "Your grandfather wanted you to have a choice, but he also wanted you to understand the weight of that choice."
I narrow my eyes, feeling the gravity of his words.
I lean forward in the leather chair, my eyes fixed on Morton's face.
He pulls out another document from his briefcase, his hands slightly trembling as he places it on the desk.
"There's a hidden clause," he begins, his voice measured.
"One that your grandfather included, bypassing the board's approval process entirely."
He points to a small paragraph in the fine print, and I lean closer to read it.
Sweat beads on Morton's forehead as he explains the implications.
"This clause allows you to access all funds immediately, no questions asked."
I look up at him, my heart pounding in my chest.
"Why would my grandfather include this?"
Morton's voice drops to a whisper.
"It goes against every standard Weber family protocol."
I reach for the document, my fingers brushing against his.
"And what about the board? Won't they know?"
Morton shakes his head.
"They can't touch this account. It's your grandfather's final gift to you."
I glance at the account details again, my mind racing with possibilities.
"What do I do now?"
Morton slides a sealed envelope across the desk toward me.
"Open this," he says quietly.
I tear open the envelope, revealing a single sheet of paper with a handwritten message.
Morton watches me closely, his expression unreadable.
"Your grandfather believed you could change the family's legacy," he says softly.
I stand from the leather chair, my decision made.
"I need to go to Switzerland," I tell Morton, my voice firm.
He tenses slightly, but nods and pulls out his phone.
"I'll arrange for the Weber private jet to be ready," he says, stepping out of the room.
While Morton makes the call, I gather the documents for the Swiss account and my duffel bag.
The weight of my old possessions feels familiar against my back, a stark contrast to the new inheritance papers clutched in my hand.
Morton returns after a few minutes, ending his call.
"The jet will be ready in two hours at the private airfield," he informs me.
Before leaving the study, I take one last look at my grandfather's portrait.
"Do you think he knew I'd come to this decision?" I ask, my voice tinged with uncertainty.
Morton hesitates, then nods slowly. "He always believed you'd find your own path, even if it meant breaking away from the family's expectations."
I take a deep breath, feeling the weight of his words settle over me.
I pull out my phone, needing to share this unbelievable news with someone real.
Marcus has been my only true friend since childhood, sticking by me through foster homes and homelessness.
My fingers hover over the keypad as Morton excuses himself to finalize the flight arrangements.
I type and delete several messages, struggling to find the right words to explain my situation.
Finally, I settle on a simple text: "My life just changed. Need to talk."
I hit send, watching as the message shows as delivered.
But there's no response.
I glance at the time; Marcus should be on his lunch break at the construction site.
I decide to call him instead, pressing the phone to my ear as it rings.
"Hey, what's up?" Marcus answers, his voice slightly muffled by background noise.
"Marcus, you won't believe this," I say, trying to keep my voice steady.
I pace back and forth near my grandfather's desk, listening to the sound of Marcus processing the news.
The noise of the construction site fades into the background as he moves to a quieter spot.
"Switzerland? Are you serious?"
Marcus asks, his voice filled with disbelief.
I explain about the secret Swiss account, how I need to access it immediately.
Marcus goes silent on the other end of the line, and for a moment, I wonder if we've lost our connection.
"Marcus? You still there?" "Yeah, I'm here," he responds finally.
His voice sounds distant, as if he's trying to process everything I've just told him.
"I just... I don't know what to say."
I grip the documents tightly in my hand, feeling a mix of emotions swirling inside me.
"I know it sounds crazy," I admit.
"But it's true. And I have to go."
Marcus sighs heavily over the phone.
"Be careful, man. Sudden wealth can change people."
I pause in my pacing, feeling a lump form in my throat.
"I just need to know you're still on my side," I say quietly. There's another long silence before Marcus finally speaks again.
"Of course, I'm on your side. You're my best friend."
His words bring a small sense of relief, and I take a deep breath.
"Can you meet me at the airport before my flight? The jet leaves in two hours."
I hear Marcus shuffling through papers on his end before he responds.
"Yeah, yeah, I can make it. But you owe me an explanation in person."
I smile slightly at his words, grateful that Marcus is willing to be there for me despite everything.
"Thanks, Marcus. I really appreciate it," I say, feeling the weight of the situation lift slightly.
"Just promise me one thing," he replies, his tone turning serious.
"Don't let this money change who you are."
I check my duffel bag one last time, making sure the documents for the Swiss account and my inheritance are safely tucked away in the side pocket.
Morton steps forward, handing me a new leather passport holder.
"Your grandfather's private banking credentials are inside," he explains.
I nod in understanding, slipping the passport holder into my jacket pocket.
As I walk towards the front entrance of the mansion, the sound of my Armani shoes echoes against the marble floors.
Two security guards stand by the heavy oak doors, waiting to escort me out.
With a nod, they open the doors, revealing a sleek black Rolls Royce waiting outside.
The driver stands by the open door, ready to assist me.
I hand him my duffel bag, but keep the documents close to my chest.
Before stepping into the car, I turn back for one last glance at the mansion's grand facade.
The weight of my choices feels heavier than the inheritance itself.
Through the Rolls Royce's tinted windows, I spot Marcus's beat-up Toyota parking outside the mansion gates.
He steps out, wearing his dusty construction uniform, looking small against the towering iron bars.
The security guard moves to stop him, but I lower my window and wave him through.
Marcus walks up the long driveway, his work boots leaving marks on the pristine gravel.
When he reaches the car, his eyes lock with mine - there's concern there, maybe even fear.
I notice his hands are still covered in concrete dust as he reaches for the door handle.
I lean forward in the leather seat and make an impulsive decision.
"Come with me to Switzerland," I say through the open car door.
Marcus's eyes widen, and he looks down at his clothes, then back at me in my expensive suit.
"I can't, man. I have a job."
I pull out the limitless credit card Morton gave me and wave it at him.
"Consider this your new job."
Marcus hesitates, glancing at the card before looking back at me.
"But what about everything here?"
I smile, a sense of adventure washing over me.
"Leave it all behind. We're starting fresh."
The driver opens the trunk of the Rolls Royce, and together we toss Marcus's work boots inside.
He pauses for a moment before sliding into the pristine leather interior, leaving behind a trail of dust on the seat.
Morton steps out of the mansion, his phone pressed to his ear.
"The jet is ready, Mr. Weber ," he informs us.
As we pull away from the mansion, I notice Marcus's hands shaking slightly as he buckles his seatbelt.
We exchange a knowing glance, and in that moment, everything changes.
Inside the Rolls Royce, I grip the leather armrest tightly.
Marcus stares out the window, his gaze distant as we drive away from the mansion.
The construction dust on his clothes leaves a faint mark on the pristine interior.
The driver takes the highway exit towards the private airport terminal, where my grandfather's jet is waiting.
Marcus breaks the silence, his voice tinged with uncertainty.
"I didn't even quit my job. I just left without notice."
I pull out my new credit card and transfer six months of his salary to his account using my phone.
"Consider it taken care of," I say, handing him back his phone.
Marcus starts to protest, but I cut him off.
"You've helped me when I was broke more times than I can count. Now it's my turn."
The car slows down at the security checkpoint before entering the private airport terminal.
Marcus looks at me, his eyes filled with gratitude and disbelief.
"I never thought I'd be flying on a private jet," he admits, shaking his head in amazement.
I chuckle softly, feeling the weight of our new reality settling in.
We follow the flight attendant up the stairs of the private jet, both of us carrying our bags.
The interior is pristine white, and Marcus's dusty work clothes stand out even more against the luxurious backdrop.
The flight attendant offers us champagne, and Marcus hesitates for a moment before accepting a glass.
His calloused hands look awkward wrapped around the delicate crystal stem.
I settle into one of the leather seats and watch as Marcus explores the cabin with wide eyes.
He touches everything cautiously, marveling at the opulence.
The pilot's voice comes through the intercom, announcing our departure time in twenty minutes.
I settle back into my seat and watch as Marcus stares wide-eyed out the jet window at the ground crew preparing for takeoff.
The flight attendant brings us another glass of champagne and begins explaining the safety procedures.
Marcus fidgets with his seatbelt, his construction-stained hands leaving faint marks on the polished buckle.
As the engines roar louder, he grips the armrests tightly.
I reach over and pat his shoulder reassuringly, remembering how he let me sleep on his couch when I was homeless.
"This is just the beginning," I tell him, watching as he forces a nervous smile.
The jet lifts off, and with it, our pasts fade into the distance.
I settle back into my leather seat as the jet reaches cruising altitude.
Marcus finally relaxes his grip on the armrests, his knuckles no longer white.
The flight attendant brings us warm towels and a platter of cheese and fruit.
Marcus hesitates for a moment before taking a piece of cheese, his eyes widening at the taste.
As we hit a patch of turbulence, Marcus tenses up again, gripping the armrests tightly.
I remember how he let me crash on his couch for weeks after my adoptive parents kicked me out, never asking for anything in return.
His presence is my anchor in this whirlwind of luxury.
I lean closer, whispering, "I'm glad you're here with me."
He turns to look at me, his eyes slowly adjusting to the surreal scene around us.
The flight attendant refills our crystal glasses with more champagne, and this time Marcus's hands are steadier as he accepts it.
The setting sun streams through the jet windows, casting a warm glow across the cabin.
I glance over at Marcus, who is watching the clouds drift lazily by outside the window.
I take a sip of my champagne, feeling the bubbles dance on my tongue.
Marcus follows suit, his eyes widening at the taste.
I smile, remembering how we used to share cheap beer on his worn couch.
"This is quite a change from sharing a six-pack on your couch," I say, chuckling.
Marcus laughs too, the sound genuine for the first time since we boarded the jet.
His shoulders finally drop their tension as he raises his glass toward mine.
I lean back in my seat, watching the sunset paint orange streaks across the clouds through the jet's window.
The crystal champagne glasses make a delicate ring as Marcus and I clink them together.
His construction-stained hands are steadier now as he holds the expensive glassware.
The flight attendant discreetly refills our glasses while I pull out the documents from my briefcase.
I spread them across the fold-out table between us, and Marcus leans in, his eyes widening at the numbers.
"These are the documents for the secret account in Switzerland," I explain, pointing to the figures on the page.
"I want you to be the sole beneficiary. If anything happens to me, this is where you'll find everything."
Marcus nods slowly, understanding the weight of what's coming.
The jet hums steadily as we soar into the unknown, our futures intertwined in silent agreement.
I lean back in my leather seat, staring at the half-empty champagne glass in my hand.
Marcus shifts closer, his shoulder pressing against mine.
The flight attendant dims the cabin lights, casting a golden glow over the luxurious interior.
The soft hum of the jet fills the air as I take a sip of the champagne, feeling its bubbles dance on my tongue.
Marcus's familiar scent mingles with the expensive alcohol, creating a heady mix.
My heart races as he moves closer, his breath warm against my ear.
I freeze, anticipating his words.
And then they come, barely a whisper: "I've always loved you."
Time seems to slow down as the weight of his confession settles over me.
My crystal glass slips from my fingers, hitting the carpet with a soft thud.
I stare at Marcus in the dim light, his words hanging in the air between us.
The spilled champagne slowly seeps into the plush carpet, but neither of us moves to clean it up.
Marcus's calloused hand inches closer to mine on the armrest.
When our fingers finally touch, electricity shoots through me.
The flight attendant's footsteps approach from the galley, but Marcus doesn't pull away.
Instead, he interlaces his concrete-dusted fingers with mine.
I grip his hand tighter, my heart pounding in my chest.
The flight attendant stops in front of us, a fresh bottle of champagne in her hands.
"Would you like a refill, sir?" she asks, her voice soft and polite.
I shake my head, not wanting the moment to break.
"No, thank you," I manage to say, my voice barely above a whisper.
She nods and walks away, leaving us alone in the dim cabin.
Marcus's thumb strokes the inside of my palm, sending shivers down my spine.
His calloused fingers feel rough against my own smooth skin, but it's a sensation I've longed for.
I glance down at our intertwined hands, the contrast striking in the soft light.
My expensive new suit and manicured nails against his work-stained clothes and rugged fingers.
It's a reminder of how far we've come from our humble beginnings. The jet hits some turbulence, and Marcus's grip on my hand tightens.
I turn to look at him, our eyes meeting in the dim light.
His gaze is intense, filled with a mix of emotions I can't quite decipher.
I lean closer, my shoulder pressing against his as I move toward his ear.
"What took you so long to tell me?" I whisper, my voice barely audible over the hum of the jet engines.
Marcus shifts in his seat, his body turning toward mine.
The flight attendant returns with a discreet smile, kneeling down to clean up the spilled champagne.
I lean back in my leather seat, acutely aware of Marcus's presence beside me.
His work-roughened hand stays clasped with mine, refusing to let go.
The flight attendant finishes her task and disappears into the galley once more, leaving us alone in the dimly lit cabin.
Marcus shifts closer, his shoulder pressing against mine.
The soft hum of the jet fills the air as I take a sip of the champagne, feeling its bubbles dance on my tongue.
Marcus's familiar scent mingles with the expensive alcohol, creating a heady mix that intoxicates my senses.
My heart races as he moves even closer, his breath warm against my ear.
I freeze, anticipating his words.
And then they come, barely a whisper: "I've always loved you."
Time seems to slow down as the weight of his confession settles over me like a heavy blanket.
My crystal glass slips from my fingers, hitting the plush carpet with a soft thud that echoes through the silent cabin. I stare at Marcus in the dim light, his words hanging in the air between us like a challenge.
The spilled champagne slowly seeps into the carpet, but neither of us moves to clean it up.
Marcus's calloused hand inches closer to mine on the armrest.
When our fingers finally touch, electricity shoots through me like a bolt of lightning on a stormy night.
The flight attendant's footsteps approach from the galley, but Marcus doesn't pull away.
Instead, he interlaces his concrete-dusted fingers with mine, sending shivers down my spine at the rough touch.
I grip his hand tighter, my heart pounding in my chest like a wild animal desperate for freedom.
The flight attendant stops in front of us, a fresh bottle of champagne in her hands and a polite smile on her face.
"Would you like a refill, sir?" she asks softly, her voice cutting through the tension between us like a knife through butter. I shake my head, not wanting the moment to break like delicate glass dropped on hard concrete.
"No, thank you," I manage to say, my voice barely above a whisper as I fight to keep my emotions in check.
She nods and walks away once more, leaving us alone in the dimly lit cabin filled with unspoken words and longing glances.
Marcus leans in, his voice low and urgent.
"I didn't know if you'd ever feel the same way," he confesses, his eyes searching mine for understanding.
I swallow hard, feeling the truth in his words.
I lean forward in my leather seat, my heart pounding against my chest like a drumbeat in the silence.
Marcus's eyes widen at my words, his face illuminated only by the soft glow of the cabin lights.
The flight attendant passes by once more, and Marcus shifts closer, his shoulder pressing against mine.
His work-roughened hand squeezes mine harder, sending sparks of electricity through my body.
The scent of concrete dust and sweat mingles with the expensive leather interior, a potent mix that intoxicates my senses.
When the flight attendant disappears into the galley, Marcus pulls our joined hands to his chest, holding them tightly against his worn construction uniform.
The soft hum of the jet engines fills the air as we sit in charged silence, both of us processing the weight of what has just been said.
Years of unspoken feelings finally laid bare between us like a map leading to hidden treasure. The dim light casts shadows across Marcus's face, accentuating the sharp angles of his jaw and the deep creases etched into his forehead from years of hard labor under the unforgiving sun.
His dark eyes hold mine, filled with a mix of vulnerability and longing that tugs at my heartstrings like a masterful musician playing a melancholic melody.
My free hand reaches up to touch his stubbled cheek, feeling the rough texture beneath my fingertips.
Marcus closes his eyes briefly, savoring the moment as I trace a gentle path along his jawline.
"Because I was scared," he admits, his voice barely audible over the hum of the engines.
"Scared of what?" I ask, my fingers still tracing his cheek.
"Of losing you," he replies, opening his eyes to meet mine with a vulnerability that takes my breath away.
I lean closer, our hands still intertwined on the armrest.
The flight attendant's footsteps echo down the aisle, growing fainter as she heads toward the front of the plane.
The cabin is dimly lit, with only a few soft lights illuminating the plush interior.
I can hear the sound of my own heart pounding in my ears as I take in every detail of Marcus's face.
His sleeve is stained with construction dust, his fingers slightly trembling against mine.
I can smell the faint scent of concrete mixed with champagne on his breath as he leans closer.
And when his eyes meet mine, they're filled with a vulnerable hope that makes my heart skip a beat.
Time seems to slow down as I move forward, closing the small distance between us.
Marcus's voice is barely a whisper, but the words are heavy with emotion.
"I thought if I told you, everything would change," he confesses, his eyes searching mine for understanding.
"But Marcus," I reply softly, "everything already has."
I shift in my leather seat, drawn to Marcus's familiar presence beside me.
The private jet's cabin feels intimate, the soft hum of the engines a gentle background noise.
Slowly, I lean towards him, my Armani suit rustling against his dusty work clothes.
His construction-worn hand squeezes mine tighter when I rest my head on his shoulder.
The rough fabric of his uniform scratches my cheek, but I don't move away.
Marcus's distinct scent envelops me - a mix of concrete dust, sweat, and traces of champagne.
His breath catches audibly, and his free hand tentatively rises to stroke my hair.
"I never wanted to risk what we had," he murmurs, his voice a mix of fear and hope.
"But isn't it worth the risk if it means we could have something more?" I ask, my heart in my throat.
Marcus hesitates, then nods slowly, a small smile breaking through his uncertainty.
I shift closer, our hands still tightly clasped.
The dim cabin lights cast a golden glow on his face, and his work-roughened fingers tremble against mine.
The jet's engines hum quietly in the background, a steady heartbeat.
The flight attendant's footsteps fade toward the cockpit, leaving us alone in the intimate space.
Marcus's familiar scent mingles with expensive champagne, creating a heady mix that intoxicates my senses.
When I lean in, his breath catches in his throat.
His stubbled cheek brushes against mine as he tilts his head, eyes closing as if savoring the moment.
My heart pounds wildly in my chest as I close the final inches between us.
Our lips meet, and in that instant, the world outside ceases to exist.
I pull back, my lips tingling from the kiss.
Marcus's words echo in my mind, and I can feel his warm breath on my skin.
The cabin feels smaller, more intimate, as his work-roughened hand squeezes mine tightly.
His construction uniform leaves dusty marks on my expensive suit, but I don't care.
The flight attendant's footsteps approach again, growing louder.
Marcus starts to withdraw his hand, but I hold it firmly in place.
When she enters with fresh champagne, I keep our fingers intertwined, refusing to let go.
I grip Marcus's hand as the plane touches down on the runway.
The landing gear bumps against the asphalt, a jarring contrast to the smooth flight.
Through the window, I see snow-capped Alps rising against a clear blue sky.
Airport workers in bright orange vests approach our plane, guiding us toward a private terminal.
"Welcome to Zurich," the flight attendant announces, her voice crisp and professional.
Marcus's hand tightens around mine, his work-stained fingers pressing into my palm.
His construction uniform seems out of place among the jet's pristine interior.
As we taxi toward the terminal, I notice a black Mercedes pulling up beside our plane.
Marcus glances at me, a shared understanding passing between us as the car door opens.
I step off the jet with Marcus, our hands still linked as we descend the metal stairs.
The crisp Swiss air hits my face, carrying a hint of snow and distant pine.
Airport workers unload our minimal luggage - my duffel bag and Marcus's work backpack.
The waiting Mercedes driver, dressed in a tailored suit, greets us with a nod before opening the car door.
Marcus hesitates, his construction-stained clothes a stark contrast to the pristine leather interior.
I squeeze his rough hand reassuringly and slide into the car beside him.
As we pull away from the jet, Marcus glances at the Swiss bank documents in my lap.
"Everything okay?"
I ask, my voice low and calm.
Marcus looks out the window as we drive through Zurich's immaculate streets, passing by luxury shops and historic buildings.
His hands fidget with the worn straps of his backpack, stained with the remnants of his construction work.
The Mercedes glides smoothly, the driver expertly navigating the city's streets.
Marcus turns to me, his eyes reflecting a mix of wonder and discomfort.
"I feel like I don't belong here," he admits, his voice barely above a whisper.
I reach into my pocket and pull out my limitless credit card.
"Driver, can you make a quick stop at Gucci?"
I ask, my voice firm and commanding.
The driver nods silently, adjusting our route without hesitation.
Marcus looks at me, confusion etched on his face.
"Why are we stopping at Gucci?" he inquires.
I smile, leaning closer to him in the car's plush interior.
"You need new clothes," I explain gently but firmly.
Marcus shakes his head, a hint of protest in his voice.
"I'm fine with what I have."
I place a reassuring hand on his knee, my touch warm and steady.
"Things are different now," I say softly.
The Mercedes pulls up in front of a sleek glass storefront adorned with the iconic Gucci logo. The driver steps out and opens our door, revealing the bustling street outside.
I exit first and then reach back into the car to take Marcus's hesitant hand.
He looks uncertain but trusts me enough to follow my lead.
As we step onto the sidewalk, a sales associate from Gucci rushes out to greet us with a welcoming smile.
"Welcome to Gucci," they say, their voice eager to please.
I nod politely and guide Marcus inside the store with me.
I lead Marcus into the private fitting room, where a tailor is waiting for us.
The tailor greets us with a professional smile and gestures for Marcus to stand on the raised platform in the center of the room.
Marcus hesitates for a moment, running his construction-stained fingers over the expensive fabric of the suits displayed around us.
The tailor begins taking his measurements with quick efficiency, wrapping the measuring tape around his chest and waist.
Marcus stands awkwardly, flinching slightly as the tape touches his skin.
His eyes meet mine in the mirror, filled with uncertainty.
The tailor helps him into a charcoal Gucci suit that fits perfectly.
Marcus's shoulders straighten, and his stance changes subtly as he looks at himself in the mirror.
The transformation is immediate - he looks like he belongs among the wealthy elite now.
When Marcus turns to face me, adjusting his new silk tie with work-roughened hands, I see him truly see himself as my equal for the first time.
He smiles, a quiet acceptance settling into his eyes.
I walk with Marcus through Gucci's private showroom, my hand resting on his lower back.
He browses the racks of designer clothes, his fingers hesitating before touching each garment.
They're still marked with concrete dust from the construction site.
When he finds a leather jacket he likes, he checks the price tag nervously.
I take it off the rack and add it to our growing pile.
The sales associate brings us espresso in delicate china cups while Marcus tries on Italian shoes.
His work boots sit discarded in the corner, a reminder of the life we're leaving behind.
Marcus takes a sip of the espresso, savoring the rich flavor.
"I never thought I'd be drinking coffee like this," he says, a hint of disbelief in his voice.
I smile, watching him embrace this new world.
I watch Marcus in the three-way mirror, his reflection clad in a new silk shirt and black leather jacket.
His construction-stained hands smooth the supple leather, no longer hesitant to touch expensive things.
When he catches me looking, a small smile forms on his lips.
The sales associate brings more options, but Marcus shakes his head.
"This one feels right," he says confidently.
He checks the fit one last time, then turns to me and says, "I'll take it."
I walk with Marcus to the Gucci counter, my hand still resting on his lower back.
He moves with a newfound confidence, his new leather jacket draped over his arm.
The sales associate starts scanning the tags of our selections while another carefully folds our purchases into tissue paper and places them in bags.
When the total appears on the screen, Marcus tenses beside me.
It's over fifty thousand francs.
I pull out my new Weber credit card without hesitation and hand it to the associate.
I sign the receipt with a steady hand, not even flinching at the amount.
When Marcus whispers that it's too much, I squeeze his arm reassuringly.
"Money isn't an issue anymore," I remind him.
Marcus nods, understanding that our lives have irrevocably changed.
I hold the boutique's heavy glass door for Marcus as we step onto the snow-covered sidewalk.
His new leather jacket creaks as he slides his arms into the sleeves and straightens the collar.
A proud smile spreads across his face.
The setting sun casts a warm glow over the city, reflecting off the windows of nearby shops.
High-end cars glide past on the street, their headlights illuminating the falling snowflakes.
Marcus catches his reflection in a storefront window and pauses to admire how the jacket fits his broad shoulders perfectly.
I watch him run his still-rough hands over the supple leather, his confidence growing with each touch.
We step into the bustling city, leaving behind the echoes of our past.
I walk with Marcus along Bahnhofstrasse, Zurich's famous shopping street.
Our shoulders occasionally brush against each other as we navigate the crowded sidewalk.
Snowflakes fall gently around us, landing on his new leather jacket.
Marcus pauses to look up at the sky, marveling at the snow.
He extends his hand, letting a flake land on his palm.
As it melts away, he smiles childishly and continues walking beside me.
Ahead of us, I spot the Patek Philippe boutique.
Its golden doors and windows reflect the glow of the setting sun.
Marcus follows my gaze, and his eyes widen with wonder.
He looks at me, then back at the boutique, and I know exactly what he's thinking.
I squeeze his hand and suggest we look at watches.
Marcus hesitates for a moment before nodding in agreement.
I remember how his cheap digital watch broke last month when he accidentally dropped it on the construction site. As we approach the boutique, I notice a security guard standing outside.
He's tall and imposing in his dark suit.
His eyes narrow slightly as he looks at Marcus's work-stained hands.
"Do you think they'll let us in?" Marcus asks, glancing at his hands with a hint of doubt.
I smile reassuringly and reply, "Trust me, they won't care once they see your new jacket."
The guard steps aside as we approach, and I whisper, "See? You're meant to be here."
I guide Marcus through the glass doors, which open with a soft click.
The guard nods respectfully as we enter the warmly lit showroom.
Crystal cases line the walls, filled with an array of timepieces that glimmer in the light.
Marcus's construction-roughened fingers hover over the glass as he examines each watch.
His earlier hesitation is replaced by genuine interest.
A sales associate approaches us with a bottle of champagne and two crystal flutes.
He offers us a drink, and Marcus accepts the glass naturally, as if he's always been surrounded by luxury.
I watch him take a sip, his eyes never leaving the watches on display.