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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?
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Shane Weber
He is a former orphan who was raised in foster care, discovering he is the heir to a multibilliondollar fortune. He is resilient, sarcastic, and determined. Shane faced a tumultuous childhood, where he was mistreated by some foster families but found solace with a few kind ones. His life takes a dramatic turn when he learns of his grandfather's vast inheritance. Despite being labeled a failure by his exgirlfriend and others, Shane perseveres, seeking revenge on those who wronged him while using his newfound wealth to help others.
Bethany
She is Shane's loyal and supportive best friend. She is kind, witty, and courageous. Bethany stands by Shane throughout his struggles, offering emotional support and humor to cope with difficulties. When Shane inherits the fortune, she is one of the first people he confides in, showcasing the depth of their friendship. Her presence in Shane's life provides stability and encouragement as he navigates the changes brought about by his inherited wealth.
Grandfather
He was Shane's paternal grandfather, who secretly raised him due to the main protagonist's father's absence. He was protective, wise, and loving. Grandfather hid Shane’s inheritance from him until he was old enough to understand it, leaving him with a large sum after passing away. His actions ultimately protect Shane from financial hardship, enabling him to reclaim his life and seek revenge on those who mistreated him.
I was an orphan, and I didn't even know my parents.
I had been raised in foster care, and I had been moved around from family to family until I was eighteen.
Some of them were kind, and a few were downright cruel.
I learned early on that if I wanted to survive, I had to be on my own.
I didn’t have any friends or family left, and I had to make my way in the world by myself.
It was hard, but I was determined.
I got a job at a local diner and went to community college at night.
I worked my ass off because I wanted a better life for myself.
I didn’t want to be poor forever.
I thought things were starting to look up when I met Lara.
She was beautiful and sweet, or so it seemed.
We dated for almost two years, and I thought for sure that I would marry her.
That was my dream: to have a woman who loved me, no matter what.
I didn’t care about being rich or famous; I just wanted to be happy.
That was my goal in life, but it seemed like no matter what I did, I would never achieve it.
Lara left me for someone who had more money than me.
She didn’t even want to give me a chance to change things between us.
I wipe down the same counter for the tenth time, scrubbing imaginary stains as the evening rush dies down.
The diner's fluorescent lights cast harsh shadows, making every coffee stain and grease spot stand out.
My manager Dave notices my obsessive cleaning and assigns me extra shifts - perfect for keeping my mind occupied.
Between serving regulars their usual orders and restocking supplies, I barely have time to think about Lara.
The rhythmic clink of dishes and sizzle of the grill become my constant companions.
When a customer leaves their half-eaten burger, I catch myself wondering if it's the same fancy restaurant where Lara's new boyfriend takes her.
The lunch rush dies down, leaving me alone with sticky tables and half-empty coffee cups.
My arms ache from carrying plates, but the physical exhaustion doesn't block out memories of Lara.
Through the diner's grimy windows, I watch a couple share dessert - the woman feeding her date a spoonful of pie, just like Lara used to do with me.
My stomach churns.
The ketchup bottles I'm refilling start to blur as tears threaten.
Dave notices my distraction and suggests I take five.
Grateful for the escape, I untie my apron and toss it on the break room hook.
I slump onto the metal bench behind the diner, where the dumpster's stench mingles with cooking grease from the kitchen vents.
The smell used to make me nauseous, but after months of working here, it barely registers.
My phone buzzes in my pocket - another message from Bethany, asking if I'm okay.
I ignore it.
I'm not ready to talk about it yet.
Instead, I pull out the letter from my wallet - Lara's breakup letter, its creases worn from how many times I've read it.
A delivery truck rumbles past, spraying puddle water near my feet.
The paper shakes in my grip as I read her words again, each one cutting deeper than before.
My hands shake as I smooth it out on my thigh, positioning my phone above it.
The screen's glow illuminates her handwriting - those perfect loops and curves hiding such ugly words.
I snap three photos before getting one clear enough to read.
The letter goes back in my wallet - I'm not ready to throw it away yet.
Bethany's message still waits: "You ok? Haven't heard from you in days."
I open our chat and attach the photo, adding only "This is why."
The image uploads slowly in the alley's poor reception.
Bethany's reply comes almost instantly: "I can't believe she did this to you."
I stare at the screen, unsure how to respond, when another message pops up: "You deserve so much better, you know that, right?"
Before I can type a reply, the back door creaks open and Dave sticks his head out, "Hey, break's over, but if you need more time, just say the word."
I shake my head, but he comes out anyway, his large frame making the bench creak.
The smell of burger grease clings to his uniform.
He settles beside me, his bulk crowding the narrow bench.
"I saw the letter," he says quietly, nodding toward my wallet.
My hands clench, but I don't deny it.
Dave's been a good boss, never pushing for details about my personal life.
I wonder how much he's read.
"I'm sorry," he says softly.
I shrug, not trusting myself to speak.
Dave clears his throat, glancing at the dumpster before focusing on me.
"I've been there too, you know."
He leans back against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest.
"My wife left me ten years ago. Took everything. I had to start over."
He snorts softly, shaking his head.
"Thought I'd never recover. But you do. You always do."
His eyes drift off, lost in memory.
"She left me for a real estate agent. Said I worked too much. Can you believe that? I was working my ass off to give her everything she wanted." He pauses, collecting his thoughts before continuing.
"It hurt like hell. Couldn't sleep for weeks. But then I threw myself into work. Started coming in early and leaving late. Found solace in the rhythm of it all. And eventually... well, eventually it got better."
He sighs heavily, looking at me again.
"I know it doesn't feel like it now, but it will get better."
His words hang in the air as a car alarm goes off in the parking lot.
Dave stands up slowly, brushing off his pants.
"Just remember, you're not alone in this," he says, giving my shoulder a reassuring squeeze.
I nod, feeling a bit of the weight lift, "Thanks, Dave. I guess I just needed to hear that."
He smiles faintly, "Anytime. Now let's get back in there before the dinner rush hits."
I push through the back door behind him, hit by the familiar mix of grease and coffee smells.
The kitchen staff bustles around, prepping for dinner service.
Maria works the grill, flipping burgers with practiced efficiency while Carlos loads the dishwasher.
Dave hands me a fresh apron from the stack, then moves to check the prep stations.
I tie the apron strings with trembling fingers, still feeling the weight of Lara's letter in my back pocket.
The routine motions ground me - checking my notepad, grabbing a pen, straightening my nametag.
Through the kitchen window, I see the first dinner customers arriving.
Maria glances over her shoulder, catching my eye, "You good, Shane?"
I nod, trying to muster a smile, "Yeah, just... you know, life stuff."
Carlos chimes in from the sink, his voice light but sincere, "We're here if you need anything, man."
I lean against the front counter, watching the evening traffic pass by outside the window.
The diner's neon sign casts a colorful glow on the sidewalk.
It's moments like these that I usually find comforting - the rhythm of refilling salt shakers, wiping down tables, counting my tips at the end of the night.
But tonight, it all feels suffocating.
My fingers brush against my wallet, where Lara's letter waits like an unwanted companion.
Dave emerges from his office, a fresh copy of tomorrow's schedule in hand.
He pauses, noticing my distant gaze, "You alright?"
I turn to him, my voice steadier than I expect, "I can't do this anymore."
Dave's expression softens, understanding flickering in his eyes.
He nods slowly, "Okay, Shane. If you're sure."
I untie my apron and place it on the counter.
Then I unpin my nametag and set it beside the apron, the metal clicking against the surface with finality.
Dave watches me, his voice gentle, "You got a plan for what's next?"
I shrug, feeling the weight of uncertainty, "Not really. Just know I need to figure things out."
He nods again, offering a small smile, "Sometimes that's the best place to start."
I push through the glass door one last time, the familiar bell chiming behind me.
The parking lot is nearly empty except for Dave's pickup and a few employee cars.
Standing on the cracked concrete, I breathe in deeply, tasting the mix of exhaust fumes from passing traffic and lingering grease from the kitchen vents.
My uniform shirt clings to my back with dried sweat.
I reach into my pocket, fingers brushing against Lara's letter, but this time I pull out my phone instead.
The screen shows three missed calls from Bethany.
I walk to my car, a rusty Honda Civic parked near the back of the lot.
The only light comes from the diner's neon sign and a few flickering overhead lamps.
My fingers hover over the screen, Bethany's contact photo glowing in the dark - a picture of us laughing together at her birthday party last year, before Lara left.
The memory feels like it belongs to someone else, a distant echo of happier times.
I lean against the hood of my car, the metal still warm from being parked under the sun all day.
The smell of french fries clings to my clothes and skin, mixed with defeat and uncertainty.
With a deep breath, I tap on Bethany's name and wait for her to answer.
After three rings, her voice breaks through the static, "Shane? Where have you been? You weren't answering your phone."
Her concern tightens my throat.
I grip the phone harder, watching as the last lights in the diner go out one by one.
"I had to leave the diner, Beth. I just couldn't stay there anymore."
There's a pause on the line before she speaks again, her voice softer, "Does this have anything to do with Lara's letter?"
I swallow hard, the truth hanging heavy between us, "Yeah, it does. I need to figure out what it all means."
"I'm here for you, Shane. You know that."
Her words are a balm to my frayed nerves.
I press the phone closer to my ear, needing the sound of her voice as the neon sign flickers above us, casting alternating shadows on the cracked pavement.
The group of late-night customers laughs loudly inside, their muffled joy piercing through the glass like a distant echo.
"Tell me everything," Bethany says, her voice steady.
I take a deep breath and explain it all - quitting my job, feeling lost, and how every table I cleaned reminded me of Lara.
The neon sign hums above, its colors bleeding into each other.
My fingers trace the outline of Lara's letter in my pocket while I talk.
Bethany listens attentively, offering words of comfort and understanding.
When I finish, she suggests coming over to her place, but I decline.
Tonight, I need to be alone with my thoughts.
We say our goodbyes, promising to talk again soon.
Then I pull out the letter one last time.
I unfold it slowly, the paper crinkling in my hands.
Bethany's voice lingers in my mind as I read Lara's familiar handwriting.
"Dear Shane," it begins, "I'm sorry for leaving without saying goodbye."
I sit in my car, staring at the letter when my phone buzzes with an unknown number.
I almost ignore it, but something makes me answer.
"Hello?"
A formal voice greets me on the other end, "Good evening, is this Shane Weber?"
My grip on the phone tightens, "Yeah, who's this?"
"My name is James Morton. I'm calling from Morton & Associates Law Firm."
The mention of a law firm makes my heart race.
I lean back in the driver's seat, trying to remain calm.
"What can I do for you, Mr. Morton?"
"We've been trying to reach you regarding a matter of great importance," he explains.
"I'm afraid I don't understand."
There's a pause on the line before he continues, "Are you the grandson of Theodore Weber?"
My throat tightens at the mention of my grandfather's name.
I barely remember him from childhood stories and faded photographs.
"Yes, that's right," I reply cautiously.
"Mr. Weber, we've been searching for you. It's urgent that we meet regarding your grandfather's estate."
The steering wheel creaks under my tightening grip as I listen to his words.
The letter falls forgotten to the floor of the car. "What about his estate?"
I manage to ask, my voice barely steady.
"We need to discuss the matter in person. There are papers that require your signature," Mr. Morton explains patiently.
"Papers? What kind of papers?"
"Inheritance documents. Your presence is necessary for the transfer of assets."
My mind races with questions and doubts.
I try to process everything he's telling me.
"Mr. Morton, I... I don't know what to say."
"There's no need to say anything just yet," he assures me.
"Just meet me tomorrow morning at our office. We'll go over everything then."
Before I can respond, he provides an address and a time for our meeting.
I find myself agreeing without fully understanding what lies ahead.
I grip the steering wheel tightly, my knuckles turning white as I drive through the familiar streets.
The city lights blur together, a kaleidoscope of colors against the dark canvas of night.
Mr. Morton's words echo in my mind - grandfather, inheritance, estate.
Each red light gives me a moment to process what just happened, but my thoughts remain jumbled.
The apartment building comes into view, its shabby exterior illuminated by the streetlights.
I park in my usual spot and kill the engine.
The silence is deafening as I stare at Lara's letter on the floor mat.
I should pick it up, but I leave it there, too preoccupied with thoughts of tomorrow's meeting.
The walk to my third-floor apartment feels longer than usual.
I unlock the door and step inside, flipping on the light switch.
The room is small and cluttered, a reflection of my current life.
I collapse onto my worn couch, staring at the water stains on the ceiling.
My eyes follow the cracks in the paint as I try to make sense of everything.
A knock on the door startles me out of my thoughts.
I glance through the peephole to find Jake from apartment 3B standing there with a six-pack of beer in his hands.
I've seen him around the building before, but we've never really talked beyond pleasantries.
He's caught me crying in the stairwell once, but he never mentioned it again.
I open the door, and he offers me a smile.
"Hey, Shane. I saw your light on and figured you'd be up for a drink."
His voice is friendly, and I appreciate the distraction.
"Sure, come in."
Jake walks past me, heading straight to my kitchen like he knows where he's going.
I follow behind, watching as he pulls out two beers and opens them with the bottle opener I keep in the drawer. The familiar crack of opening beers fills my quiet apartment.
He hands me one and takes a seat in my only chair, leaving me to sit on the couch.
We sip our beers in silence for a moment before he speaks up again.
"Rough day?"
His question catches me off guard, but I guess I do look like I've had a rough day in my diner uniform with my hair tied back and no makeup on.
"Yeah, you could say that," I reply, taking another sip of my beer.
Jake nods sympathetically and waits for me to continue.
"I quit my job today," I explain, "and then I got a call about some kind of inheritance from a grandfather I barely remember."
Jake listens intently as I recount everything that happened at work and with Mr. Morton's call.
He leans back in the chair, considering my words.
"Sounds like a lot to handle all at once," he says, his voice steady and reassuring.
"Do you think this inheritance could change things for you?"
I shrug, unsure of what to say.
"I don't know. It sounds too good to be true."
Jake nods again, taking another sip of his beer.
"Only time will tell. But for now, let's focus on the good things in life."
He raises his bottle in a toast.
"To new beginnings and unexpected opportunities."
I clink my bottle against his and take a long drink.
We sit there in comfortable silence, passing the rest of the night with beer and small talk.
Eventually, Jake leaves, and I'm left alone once more.
I sit at my kitchen counter, staring at the business card Mr. Morton gave me earlier.
The white cardstock feels heavy between my fingers as I turn it over repeatedly.
Empty beer bottles litter the counter, and my phone shows 2 AM.
Despite the late hour, I can't bring myself to sleep.
My hands shake slightly as I enter the law firm's number into my contacts.
The thought of this inheritance being real makes my heart race.
I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself, when my phone buzzes again.
It's a text from Jake: "Hey, forgot to mention—heard anything about your grandfather's old house?"
Confused, I reply: "No, why?"
I pace my small apartment at 3 AM, unable to sleep.
Jake's text keeps replaying in my mind.
Why would he ask about my grandfather's house?
The question bothers me more than I care to admit.
My phone buzzes again, breaking the silence.
It's Jake: "Just wondered. You should get some rest."
I stare at the screen, unsure of how to respond.
But before I can type anything, another text comes through: "Also, I can drive you to Morton's office tomorrow if you'd like."
I hesitate for a moment, then reply: "You don't have to do that."
Jake responds quickly: "You shouldn't have to face this alone. Let me help."
I think about it for a few seconds before texting back: "Okay, thanks."
We agree to meet at 8 AM outside my apartment building.
I try to organize the wrinkled documents on my counter and find a clean shirt for tomorrow.
But no matter what I do, my hands keep shaking.
I sit on my bed at 3:30 AM, staring at my phone screen.
Jake's offer to drive me feels wrong somehow, but I can't quite put my finger on why.
My thumb hovers over Bethany's contact photo—a picture of her from our beach trip last summer, her blonde hair blowing in the wind.
I type and delete three different messages before finally settling on something simple: "Meeting lawyer about inheritance tomorrow 9AM. Morton & Associates downtown. Could really use my best friend there."
I hit send and wait for her response.
While I wait, I dig through my closet for the only suit I own—a black pencil skirt with a white blouse and a blazer that's seen better days.
I lay it out on my bed, smoothing out the wrinkles as best I can.
My phone buzzes again.
I check the time: 4 AM.
Relief washes over me as I read Bethany's response: "Of course! I'll be there. Good luck!"
I quickly text Jake that I've made other arrangements, then delete our conversation thread entirely.
My hands are steady as I iron my suit on the kitchen counter, using a towel to protect the fabric from the scorching heat.
The familiar motion calms my racing thoughts about tomorrow's meeting.
When the suit is pressed, I hang it on the shower rod and take out my only pair of dress shoes from under the bed.
I lie in bed at 5 AM, staring at the ceiling when my phone rings.
It's Bethany.
"Hey," I answer, my voice hoarse from lack of sleep.
"Good morning, sunshine," she chirps.
"I was thinking we could grab breakfast before the lawyer thing. You know, pancakes and coffee."
My stomach churns at the thought of eating anything, but I don't want to disappoint her.
"Sure," I say, trying to sound more awake than I feel.
"How about Rosie's Diner? It's on the way to the office."
"Sounds perfect."
We agree to meet there at 7:30 AM, giving us enough time to eat before the appointment.
I hang up and get out of bed, pulling on a pair of jeans and a plain T-shirt.
As I'm getting dressed, I notice a small tear near the pocket of my suit pants.
I groan inwardly and grab my emergency sewing kit from the nightstand drawer.
My hands tremble as I thread the needle and begin stitching the tear as best I can.
I sit cross-legged on my bed, the needle glinting under the dim lamp light.
My fingers fumble with the black thread, trying to match it as closely as possible to the fabric.
As I work, my fingertips brush against something in the pocket.
I pause, confused, and reach in to pull out a crumpled $100 bill.
I stare at it for a moment, trying to remember when I last put it there.
It must have been months ago, after a good night of tips at the bar.
I had stuffed it away, intending to save up for an engagement ring for Lara.
The discovery feels like a punch to the chest.
I shove the bill back into my pocket and finish the last few stitches with shaking hands.
When I'm done, I check my phone for the time: 6:30 AM.
I check my reflection one last time in the hallway mirror, adjusting my worn leather jacket that barely hides the wrinkled T-shirt underneath.
The $100 bill burns a hole in my pocket, so I take it out and transfer it to my wallet, making sure to place it far away from Lara's letter.
I zip up my jacket and grab the keys from the counter.
The door creaks as I lock up, the sound echoing down the empty corridor.
The early morning air hits me as I exit the building, carrying with it the scent of damp pavement.
I glance down at the first floor and spot Mrs. Chen watering her plants on her balcony.
She waves at me, but I just nod in return and hurry down the sidewalk, checking my phone for the time: 7:15 AM.
The walk to Rosie's takes exactly twelve minutes if I don't stop to admire the street art or window shop.
I push through Rosie's glass door at 7:28 AM, the bell above it chiming in its familiar way.
The morning regulars are already seated in their usual spots: truck drivers at the counter, office workers huddled over their laptops in the corner booths, and a few families with young kids in the middle booths.
Sarah, the waitress who always works mornings, spots me as I walk in and starts pouring my coffee before I even reach my booth.
I slide into the corner booth by the window where Bethany and I had our first breakfast after I moved into my first foster home.
The vinyl seat creaks beneath me as I pull out my phone to check for any messages from Bethany.
There's nothing.
Sarah brings over my coffee and sets it down in front of me with a smile.
"Thanks," I say, wrapping my hands around the warm mug.
The steam rises up, carrying the rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee.
I cradle the mug between my palms, letting its warmth seep into my cold fingers.
Through the streaked diner window, I watch as a delivery truck unloads crates of fresh produce.
The workers stack the boxes methodically in the back alley, their movements practiced and efficient.
I take a sip of the coffee, feeling the bitter taste fill my mouth.
It's a familiar sensation, one that reminds me of all the mornings I've spent here before my shifts at the diner.
Sarah comes back to refill my cup without asking, her movements fluid from years of service.
I nod my thanks and take another sip.
My phone sits silently on the scratched tabletop, still no messages from Bethany.
The clock above the register reads 7:35 AM.
I grip the phone tightly in my hand, staring at Bethany's contact photo.
My thumb hovers over the call button.
Sarah passes by with a tray of food for another table, and I catch her eye.
"Refill?" she asks, nodding toward my cup.
I shake my head, and she continues on her way.
The morning bustle of clattering plates and muted conversations fills the diner.
I take another sip of my coffee, feeling its warmth spread through me.
The phone still rests in my hand, Bethany's face staring back at me from the screen.
I press the call button, and the phone rings once, twice, three times before going to voicemail.
I leave a message, trying to keep my voice steady.
"Hey, where are you? It's 7:36. Call me when you get this."
I leave a five-dollar bill under my cold coffee cup and push through Rosie's glass door at 7:40 AM.
The morning traffic drowns out the door's chime behind me.
Bethany's apartment is eight blocks away, past the construction site and that new organic market.
I walk quickly, weaving through other pedestrians on the sidewalk.
The phone feels heavy in my pocket, still no answer from Bethany.
My dress shoes pinch as I pick up the pace, knowing I need to be at Morton's office by 9 AM for our meeting.
At the crosswalk by Third Street, I spot an ambulance parked outside Bethany's apartment building.
My heart skips a beat, and I break into a jog, reaching the building just as a paramedic exits.
"Excuse me," I say, breathless, "what's going on here?"
The paramedic glances at me, then back at the building. "There was an emergency call from apartment 3B. Do you know the resident?"
I push through the glass doors, ignoring the doorman's greeting.
The elevator has a neon orange "Out of Order" sign taped across its doors.
I take the stairs two at a time, my dress shoes echoing in the stairwell.
Mrs. Rodriguez is watering her plants outside 3A, and she nods as I pass.
On the third floor, two police officers block the doorway to 3B.
Between them, I see Jake lying on a stretcher, his face pale and his eyes closed.
A third officer stands beside him, speaking in hushed tones to a man in a suit who must be a detective.
The detective looks up and catches my eye.
He excuses himself and walks over to me.
"Excuse me," he says, "do you know the victim?"
I hesitate, remembering Jake's questions about my grandfather's house.
Before I can answer, my phone buzzes in my pocket.
The detective watches as I reach for it.
I pull out the vibrating phone, still standing in Jake's doorway.
The detective looks at me expectantly, but I ignore him, my hands shaking as I check the screen.
It's an unknown number.
"Are you going to answer that?" he asks.
I nod, holding the phone to my ear.
"Hello?"
There's a pause on the other end of the line, and for a moment, I think it's another wrong number.
Then a gruff voice speaks before I can say hello again.
"Shane Weber? This is Detective Morris. We have your friend Bethany at the station."
My stomach drops.
The paramedics wheel Jake past me, an oxygen mask covering his face.
The detective beside me takes out his notepad, watching me closely for my reaction.
"Is she okay?"
I ask, my voice shaking.
"She's fine," the detective says.
"But we need you to come down to the station. There's been an incident."
I stand in Jake's doorway, my phone still clutched in my hand.
The detective, a middle-aged man with a kind face, explains what happened.
Jake broke into Bethany's apartment early this morning, searching through her files and computer.
When Bethany woke up and caught him, they struggled.
She managed to knock him unconscious with a lamp, and he's now on his way to the hospital.
Bethany is at the police station giving her statement.
The detective asks me to wait here while he searches Jake's apartment for evidence.
I nod, still trying to process what I've just heard.
Twenty minutes later, the detective returns with a stack of photographs in his hand.
"Mr. Weber," he says, "we found some things in your friend's apartment that we think you should see."
He hands me the photographs one by one, explaining each image.
There are maps of my grandfather's estate, surveillance photos of me at the diner, and detailed notes about my inheritance scattered across Jake's desk. My hands shake as I flip through the photos, recognizing Lara's handwriting on some of the papers.
The detective watches me closely for any sign of recognition or guilt.
"Mr. Weber," he asks finally, "do you know why your friend would have these documents?"
I shake my head, trying to process what I'm seeing.
"I have no idea," I say honestly.
The detective nods and takes back the photographs.
"We'll need you to come down to the station and give a statement," he says gently.
"Can you do that for us?"
"Of course," I reply, trying to keep my voice steady.
The detective's eyes narrow slightly, as if weighing my words.
"Good," he says, "because we need to figure out why Jake was so interested in your family's affairs."
I walk behind Detective Morris through Jake's building, my dress shoes clicking against the worn stairs.
The morning sun filters through dirty windows, casting long shadows across the floor.
Residents peek out their doors as we pass, whispering to each other and quickly shutting them again.
In the lobby, Morris holds the door open while he speaks into his radio, updating dispatch on our status.
Outside, his unmarked police car is parked next to an ambulance.
Paramedics are loading Jake into the back of the ambulance, his eyes closed and an oxygen mask covering his face.
My phone buzzes again in my pocket - probably the law firm calling to ask where I am.
But I ignore it for now; all I can think about is getting to Bethany at the station.
"Shane, you need to know something," Detective Morris says as we reach his car.
"What is it?" I ask, feeling a knot tighten in my stomach.
"Bethany mentioned a name during her statement—someone called 'The Broker.' Does that mean anything to you?"
I climb into the backseat of Detective Morris's unmarked police car, my suit wrinkled and stained from the coffee I spilled earlier.
The leather seat feels cold against my back as he pulls out into morning traffic.
Detective Morris glances at me in the rearview mirror, explaining how they found Bethany's broken lamp next to Jake's body.
My phone buzzes again with calls from Morton & Associates, but I silence it.
At each red light, Morris looks at me through the rearview mirror, asking casual questions about Jake's interest in my grandfather's estate.
I answer honestly, watching as we pass familiar streets and landmarks.
I'm still trying to piece together how Jake and Lara fit into all of this, and how they might be connected to my inheritance.
As we merge onto the highway, Detective Morris's voice cuts through my thoughts: "Shane, you need to decide who you can really trust."
I lean forward, gripping the back of the leather seat.
"Detective, can we make a quick detour? I need to explain something about Morton & Associates."
He hesitates for a moment, checking his watch.
"Okay, but make it quick," he says.
Twenty minutes later, we pull up to the gleaming office building where I was supposed to meet with Mr. Morton this morning.
The sun glints off the glass and steel facade as we park in front of the building.
I see Mr. Morton pacing near the entrance, his phone pressed to his ear.
"Stay here," Detective Morris says as he steps out of the car.
I watch him approach Mr. Morton, who looks up in surprise.
They exchange a few words before Morris returns to the car.
"He's agreed to meet with us," Morris says as he starts the engine again.
"But make it quick."
We pull into an underground parking garage beneath the building and take an elevator up to the 14th floor.
The ride is tense and silent, except for the soft hum of machinery and the occasional ding of passing floors.
Detective Morris stands next to me, his badge visible on his belt, while Mr. Morton checks his phone nervously. When the doors finally open, we step out into a sleek lobby with polished marble floors and modern artwork hanging on the walls.
Mr. Morton leads us down a hallway lined with glass-walled offices, nodding at employees who look up curiously as we pass.
His secretary greets us warmly and waves us toward Mr. Morton's office at the end of the hall.
Inside, I see stacks of files and papers covering his desk and bookshelves lining one wall filled with law books and framed photographs of his family.
Mr. Morton closes the door behind us, and with a grave expression, he says, "Shane, there's something you need to know about your grandfather's will."
I lean forward in the leather chair, my sweaty hands gripping the armrests.
Mr. Morton pulls out a thick folder from his desk drawer and places it on the polished mahogany surface.
The label reads "Weber Estate" in bold black letters.
He opens the folder, spreading documents and photographs across his desk.
Detective Morris stands behind me, his presence both reassuring and unsettling at the same time.
Mr. Morton clears his throat before speaking, his voice filled with a mix of sadness and determination.
"Shane, your grandfather was a remarkable man. He built his fortune through hard work and shrewd investments. But there was something else he was passionate about—protecting his family's legacy."
He pauses for a moment, studying me intently.
"Your grandfather had suspicions about some irregular activities around the estate. He believed that someone was trying to undermine his business dealings."
My eyes widen as I process this revelation.
"What kind of activities?"
I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
Mr. Morton leans forward, his eyes locked on mine.
"He suspected that someone was trying to sabotage his investments, to gain control over the estate. He hired a private investigator to look into it." As he speaks, he pulls out a stack of photographs from the folder and places them on the desk.
They appear to be surveillance shots taken from a distance.
I recognize Lara in one of them, meeting with Jake six months ago—before our breakup.
My throat tightens as I see another photo showing Jake talking to someone else—a man in a suit who looks vaguely familiar but I can't quite place him.
"Who is this man?"
I ask, pointing at the photo.
Mr. Morton's expression turns grave again.
"That's someone we've been tracking for months. We call him 'The Broker.'"
My eyes widen further as I hear that name again.
"The Broker? Isn't that who Bethany mentioned?"
Detective Morris asks, stepping closer to examine the photos more closely.
Mr. Morton nods solemnly.
"Yes, it is. We believe he's connected to these suspicious activities around your grandfather's estate."
As I scan through the photographs, I notice another figure in several of them—a woman with long blonde hair who looks eerily familiar as well.
But it can't be...
"Who is she?"
I ask hesitantly, pointing at the woman's image.
"Is that... my mother?" I ask, my voice trembling with disbelief.
Mr. Morton nods slowly, his eyes filled with a mixture of sympathy and concern.
"We believe she might have been involved, Shane, but we're not sure to what extent."
I slump back in Morton's leather chair, my fingers tracing over the edge of a photograph.
It shows my mother sitting across from Jake at a small café last month.
She's sliding an envelope across the table while Jake glances around nervously.
Morton hands me another photo.
This one shows my mother entering The Broker's office building the day before Lara left me.
The timeline starts clicking into place in my head.
My hands shake as I reach for my wallet, pulling out the letter Lara wrote to me.
I compare the handwriting with the notes found in Jake's apartment—notes about my grandfather's estate and how they planned to split the money.
Detective Morris leans forward, studying the writing samples side by side.
"Shane, this handwriting matches," Detective Morris says, his voice steady but urgent.
Mr. Morton looks at me, his expression a mix of pity and resolve.
"Your mother might have been working with The Broker all along," he adds quietly.
I watch Detective Morris walk over to a painting on the wall in Morton's office.
He runs his fingers along the frame, searching for something.
Then, he presses down on a small indentation, and the canvas slides open, revealing a hidden keypad behind it.
Morton hands him a folded piece of paper from his desk.
It contains a code sequence my grandfather wrote down before he died.
The detective punches in the numbers, and a mechanical click breaks the tense silence in the room.
A wall panel slides open, revealing a steel safe hidden behind it.
Detective Morris opens the safe and pulls out a thick envelope sealed with my grandfather's signature.
He places it on Morton's desk in front of me.
"This is the real will," he says gravely.
"It was hidden away to protect it from those who would try to steal your inheritance."
I sit at Morton's mahogany desk, my hands trembling as I break the seal on the envelope.
The paper feels thick and expensive, so different from the cheap notebook paper Lara used to write her breakup letter that still sits in my wallet.
Detective Morris and Morton watch intently as I unfold the crisp pages.
My grandfather's elegant handwriting fills the first page, starting with "My dearest Shane."
It's the same greeting he used whenever I visited him during my childhood—a rare occurrence, but one that always left a lasting impression on me.
As I begin reading, the office falls silent except for the gentle hum of the air conditioning.
"Shane, there's something you need to know," Detective Morris interrupts gently, his eyes meeting mine with a seriousness that makes my heart race.
"Your grandfather's will names you as the sole heir, but it also contains instructions for a secret trust fund," Mr. Morton adds, leaning forward with a look of urgency.
"A trust fund?" I echo, my voice barely steady, as the weight of their words begins to sink in.
I lean forward in the leather chair, my fingers gripping the armrests tightly.
Mr. Morton pulls out a thick folder from his desk drawer and places it in front of him.
The label reads "Weber Trust" in bold letters.
I glance up at the photo of my grandfather on Morton's desk, as if he's watching over us.
Morton clears his throat before speaking.
"The trust contains Trillions of dollars in tech investments, real estate holdings, and offshore accounts," he explains, his voice filled with a mix of awe and reverence.
"But there's more. There are strict conditions about how the money is managed."
My grip on the armrests tightens further as I listen intently to Morton's words.
Detective Morris takes notes on a small pad, his brow furrowed with curiosity.
"The trust fund has been set up to ensure that you are prepared to handle the wealth responsibly," Morton continues, his voice steady and authoritative.
"It requires you to complete a series of tasks and prove your capability before you can access the full inheritance."
I feel a surge of determination course through me as I listen to Morton's explanation.
I want to prove myself worthy of my grandfather's trust, even though I never knew him well. "The first requirement is that you attend an executive training program at the Weber Institute," Morton says, pulling out a brochure from the folder and handing it to me.
I take it from him, my hands shaking slightly as I flip through its pages.
The program seems rigorous, designed to equip me with the knowledge and skills necessary to manage such vast wealth effectively.
"The institute is located in New York City," Morton continues, his voice steady but laced with a hint of excitement.
"You will be required to live on campus for the duration of the program."
I look up at him, my heart pounding in my chest.
"How long will it take?"
I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
Morton leans back in his chair, a small smile playing on his lips.
"Six months," he replies, his eyes locked onto mine.
"And after that?"
"You will be granted full access to the trust fund," he says, his voice filled with a sense of finality.
I return to my apartment, my mind still reeling from the revelation.
I pull out my old duffel bag from under the bed and start packing.
The reality of inheriting Trillions hasn't sunk in yet; it all feels like a dream.
As I methodically fold my few decent clothes and place them in the bag, my hands pause on the diner uniform I quit wearing yesterday.
It feels like a lifetime ago.
I check my bank account: $247.83 total.
Barely enough for a bus ticket to New York.
While packing my toiletries, Bethany calls to offer help.
I decline; I need to do this alone.
The Weber Institute brochure sits on my nightstand, its glossy pages showing me the life I'm about to enter.
I sit at Morton's mahogany desk, examining the inheritance documents.
My fingers tremble as I turn each page.
The numbers blur before my eyes: 400 googol dollars.
A figure so large my mind can't process it.
The property list seems endless: private islands in the Caribbean, mega yachts docked in Monaco, penthouses in major cities worldwide.
Morton slides a metallic blue Citibank card across the desk.
The platinum W catches the office light.
I pick it up; its weight feels significant in my palm.
Detective Morris whistles softly at the extensive asset inventory.
I stand in my cramped bedroom, staring at the packed duffel bag and the Weber Institute brochure on the nightstand.
The old Honda keys lie on the dresser next to the bus ticket to New York, departing in two hours.
The familiar smell of my apartment - instant coffee and laundry detergent - suddenly feels foreign.
I check my wallet one last time: the platinum W card, $247.83 in cash, and Lara's letter, which I finally crumple and toss in the trash.
My phone shows three missed calls from Bethany.
I silence it.
As I turn to leave, the door creaks open and Bethany steps in, her eyes wide with concern.
"You're really going through with this?" she asks, her voice a mix of disbelief and worry.
I nod, trying to muster a reassuring smile. "I have to, Beth. It's my chance to finally make something of myself."
She looks at the duffel bag and then back at me, her gaze lingering on the brochure that still peeks out of my jacket pocket.
I stand in my bedroom doorway, gripping the worn duffel bag filled with the few possessions I've managed to accumulate over the years.
The Weber Institute brochure peeks out from my jacket pocket, its glossy pages a constant reminder of what awaits me.
My fingers brush against the platinum card that still feels foreign in my wallet.
Bethany watches silently as I do one final scan of my small apartment - the peeling wallpaper, the creaky floorboards, the window with the broken latch that never quite closed properly.
Each detail holds a memory, a struggle, or a late night spent worrying about making ends meet.
We stand there, both of us avoiding eye contact, the tension thickening in the air.
My duffel bag feels heavier with each passing moment, not just because of the weight of my belongings but because it holds everything I've managed to salvage from a life that's been turned upside down.
The platinum card burns in my pocket, a constant reminder of the new reality I'm about to step into.
Bethany fidgets with her car keys, her eyes darting between me and the open door.
"Are you sure you don't want me to drive you to the bus station?"
she asks again, her voice laced with a mix of concern and resignation.
I shake my head, feeling a lump form in my throat.
"No, Beth. I need to do this on my own."
She nods, understanding etched on her face, but she doesn't move.
The fluorescent lights in the hallway flicker above us, casting an eerie glow over our silent goodbye.
I adjust the strap of my bag on my shoulder, trying to find the right words to say.
But there aren't any; there never are in moments like these. Finally, I reach out and pull Bethany into a tight embrace.
She buries her face in my shoulder, and I feel her tears dampen my shirt.
We hold each other for what feels like an eternity, the world around us fading into insignificance.
It's just us - two souls caught in a moment of transition and uncertainty.
Eventually, I force myself to let go, stepping back and meeting her tear-stained gaze.
"Take care of yourself," I whisper, my voice barely audible over the sound of our heartbeats.
Bethany smiles weakly and nods again.
"You too," she replies softly.
I linger in the doorway for a moment, watching as she wipes away her tears and takes a deep breath.
The familiar hallway stretches before me, its worn carpet and flickering lights a reminder of the life I'm leaving behind.
Mrs. Chen emerges from her apartment across the hall, watering can in hand, oblivious to our goodbye.
She nods politely as she tends to her plants, the smell of damp earth filling the air.
My hand instinctively goes to my pocket, where the platinum card feels like a weight against my thigh.
I take one last look at Bethany, who gives me a small, encouraging smile.
Adjusting the strap on my shoulder, I give her a final nod and turn away.
My footsteps echo against the walls as I make my way toward the stairwell.
Each step feels heavier than the last, as if I'm carrying not just my belongings but the burden of an uncertain future.
I grip the metal handrail of the stairwell, feeling its familiar cold surface one last time.
The fluorescent lights flicker above as my footsteps echo down the concrete steps.
Three floors stretch below me, each one a chapter in my story.
The second floor, where I helped Mrs. Chen carry her groceries every Friday.
The first floor, where I celebrated passing my GED with a bottle of cheap champagne.
The ground floor, where I first stepped in with nothing but a broken dream and a determination to make a life for myself.
My duffel bag bumps against my leg with each step.
The platinum card presses against my thigh through my pocket, a constant reminder of what awaits me.
I pause at the door to the stairwell's final floor.
My hand rests on the cold metal push bar, my fingers tracing the familiar grooves.
Through the scratched window, I see the usual morning crowd hurrying past - office workers clutching coffee cups, delivery drivers unloading vans, kids heading to school.
The sounds of traffic and distant sirens filter through the door.
I take a deep breath, feeling the weight of my decision settle upon me.
With one firm push, I step out onto the concrete sidewalk, merging into the flow of people rushing to start their day.
I stand on the busy sidewalk outside my apartment building, gripping the strap of my duffel bag tightly as morning commuters rush past.
The familiar neighborhood looks different now - the corner bodega where I bought cheap coffee, the laundromat with its broken change machine, the deli where I scraped together enough money for a lunch sandwich.
My new platinum card weighs heavy in my jacket pocket.
I pull out my phone and check Google Maps for directions to the subway station.
A delivery truck honks its horn, making me jump.
I take a deep breath and step forward, ready to embrace whatever comes next.
I merge into the morning rush on Seventh Avenue, my duffel bag bumping against other commuters' briefcases.
The smell of coffee wafts from Joe's Cart, where I've spent countless mornings counting out spare change for a small cup.
Today, the platinum card in my pocket could buy me a whole pot, but I don't stop.
A businessman in an expensive suit shoulders past me, muttering about "street people" as he eyes my worn jeans and faded T-shirt.
I straighten my posture and keep walking, knowing soon I'll be the one in designer suits.
I descend the grimy subway stairs, my duffel bag bumping against the railing.
The familiar smell of urine and stale air hits me as I approach the turnstile.
My hands fumble with my wallet, bypassing the platinum card to find my last MetroCard.
I hold my breath as I swipe it through - just enough fare for one ride.
The turnstile clicks open, and I step through, merging with the crowd on the downtown platform.
The train roars in, screeching to a stop in front of us.
I step onto the crowded car, my duffel bag bumping against other passengers as I make my way toward an empty window seat.
The worn fabric of the seat scratches against my jeans as I sit down, placing my bag between my feet.
Through the grimy window, I watch as the stations I've waited at countless times before slide past - places where I've counted out spare change for fare, where I've dreamed of a different life.
The platinum card presses against my leg through my pocket, feeling foreign and heavy.
The man next to me glances at my bag and then at my face.
"First day on the job?" he asks, nodding toward the card peeking out of my pocket.
I hesitate, then nod slowly. "Yeah, but it's not just a job," I reply, feeling the weight of the truth in my words.
I grip the subway seat tighter as the train jerks forward, throwing me against the man next to me.
My duffel bag slides on the floor, and I quickly pull it back between my feet.
The man's leather jacket creaks as he shifts closer, his eyes still fixed on the platinum card peeking out of my pocket.
The fluorescent lights overhead flicker, casting strange shadows across his face.
"So, what's this new job of yours?" he asks, his voice low and curious.
I glance around the car, but no one seems to be listening.
Everyone is absorbed in their phones or sleep.
"It's a long story," I reply, trying to keep my voice steady.
The man leans in closer, his breath hot against my ear.
"I've got time," he says, his voice dripping with an unsettling intensity.
I press myself against the window, feeling the cool glass against my cheek.
"It's not just a job," I finally admit, my voice barely above a whisper.
His eyes narrow, a mix of intrigue and suspicion. "Then what is it?" he presses, his tone demanding but oddly gentle.
I swallow hard, the truth clawing its way up my throat. "It's a chance to change everything," I confess, feeling both liberated and terrified by the admission.
The man's eyes widen, and he leans back slightly.
"Change everything, huh?" he repeats, his voice tinged with curiosity.
I nod, feeling the weight of my decision settling upon me.
The train screeches to a stop at my destination, and I quickly stand up, gripping my duffel bag tightly.
The man stands as well, his movements mirroring mine.
I move toward the subway doors, but he follows closely behind.
The platform is nearly empty as I step out of the train, the sound of his footsteps echoing behind me.
I quicken my pace, weaving through the sparse crowd.
My heart races in my chest as I spot a transit officer standing near the turnstiles.
I alter my course, heading toward him while pretending to check my phone.
The stranger hesitates for a moment before turning away toward a different exit. I climb the stairs leading out of the station, my heart still pounding in my chest.
The sounds of the city flood around me as I emerge onto a busy street - yellow cabs honking their horns, people rushing to and fro.
I pause for a moment, catching my breath and trying to shake off the encounter.
"Hey, you alright?" a voice calls out, and I turn to see a familiar face from the office.
"Yeah," I reply, forcing a smile, "just had an unexpected run-in on the train."
I hurry along the crowded sidewalk, gripping my duffel bag tighter while checking over my shoulder for any sign of the man.
The platinum card presses against my leg through my pocket as I weave between shoppers and office workers.
A street vendor selling hot dogs from a cart gives me a concerned look as I pass, and I realize I must appear more rattled than I thought.
When I spot the same leather jacket in the crowd behind me, I duck into a coffee shop.
The bell above the door jingles as I enter, and I quickly slide into a booth near the back.
Moments later, the man from the train steps inside, scanning the room until his eyes land on me.
"Mind if I join you?" he asks, his voice calm but insistent.
I grip my coffee cup tightly, the ceramic cool against my fingers.
The man slides into the booth across from me, his movements deliberate and controlled.
His leather jacket creaks as he settles in, his eyes never leaving mine.
The platinum card feels like it's burning through my pocket as he studies me with calculating eyes.
The sounds of the busy coffee shop swirl around us - the clinking of cups, the hum of conversation.
The man places his hands on the table, and I notice a ring glinting in the dim light.
It's a silver band with a black onyx stone, familiar somehow.
And then it hits me - it's the same ring I've seen in photos of The Broker meeting with my mother all those years ago.
My throat goes dry as I realize who this man must be.
"You know who I am," he says, his voice low and confident.
I nod slowly, my mind racing.
"And you know what this is about," he continues, his gaze unwavering. "I think so," I manage to say, my voice barely above a whisper.
He leans back in the booth, a small smile playing on his lips.
"I know about your inheritance," he says matter-of-factly.
"And I know about your grandfather's estate."
I feel a shiver run down my spine as he speaks.
The man leans forward again, his eyes locked on mine.
"I'm here to make you a proposition," he says, his voice taking on a persuasive tone.
"A mutually beneficial proposition."
I sit across from him, my coffee growing cold in front of me.
The man slides a document across the table, his onyx ring glinting in the light.
I take it, scanning the pages filled with legalese and financial jargon.
The document outlines a plan to split my inheritance - half to him, half to me.
The man leans back, watching me intently as I read.
My phone vibrates in my pocket, pulling my attention away from the document.
I hesitate for a moment before pulling it out and checking the screen.
It's a message from Morton - a confirmation that the inheritance is legally secured in my name.
I look up to find The Broker watching me closely, his smile fading as he sees the message on my screen.
His hand tightens around his coffee cup, knuckles whitening.
He can't touch my fortune without my cooperation.
I push the document back across the table, watching as his eyes narrow.
The leather of his expensive jacket creaks as he leans forward, reaching for the document.
His onyx ring catches the fluorescent light overhead, and my fingers brush against the platinum card in my pocket.
The morning crowd's chatter fills the tense silence between us.
When he reaches for the document, I place my hand firmly on it, look him directly in the eyes, and say "No."
His eyes flicker with surprise, but he quickly regains his composure.
"You might want to reconsider," he says smoothly, though there's a hint of steel in his voice.
I shake my head, feeling a surge of confidence. "I don't think I will."
The man's smile falters, and he opens his mouth to speak, but before he can, the door to the coffee shop swings open and Morton rushes in.
He scans the room, his eyes locking onto us.
He strides over, a thick manila envelope clutched in his hand.
"Excuse me," he says, sliding into the booth next to me.
The man across from us narrows his eyes, but Morton ignores him, opening the envelope and pulling out a stack of papers.
He slides them across the table, and I watch as they fan out, revealing legal documents and financial records.
The man across from us leans forward, scanning the pages with growing unease.
I catch glimpses of my grandfather's signature on some of them, along with other names I don't recognize.
Morton clears his throat to get our attention.
"As you can see," he begins, "your grandfather had already taken steps to ensure that you would be protected."
The man across from us glances up sharply.
"What are you talking about?"
Morton smiles tightly.
"The restraining order your grandfather filed against you years ago. It clearly states that you are not entitled to any part of his estate."
The man's face tightens as he looks back down at the papers. Morton continues, "And as you can see from these bank records, you've been trying to access his fortune for years. But it's all been blocked by the court."
The man's hand clenches into a fist on top of the table, his onyx ring scraping against the surface.
Morton pulls out another set of papers and slides them across the table.
"And then there are these."
They're photos - grainy images of The Broker lurking around my grandfather's house, following him in public.
"You've been harassing him for years," Morton says calmly.
"Trying to intimidate him into giving you what you want. But it didn't work."
The man across from us looks up again, his eyes narrowed into slits.
"You can't prove any of this," he growls.
Morton just smiles again.
"The court will decide that," he replies, his voice steady and unyielding.
I rise slowly from the booth, gathering up the papers and sliding them back into the envelope.
The man across from me watches, his eyes blazing with barely contained rage.
His onyx ring scrapes against the edge of the table as he grips it tightly.
But he doesn't move, doesn't speak.
Morton's presence is enough to keep him in check.
The documents feel heavy in my hands - proof of my grandfather's foresight and determination to protect me from this man.
My duffel bag bumps against my leg as I step away from the table.
The platinum card presses against my chest, a tangible reminder of the power I now hold.
Morton places a steady hand on my shoulder, guiding me toward the door.
We exit the coffee shop, leaving The Broker seething at his table.
The morning sun hits my face, and I adjust the strap of my duffel bag on my shoulder.
Morton's presence is steady beside me as we walk down the busy sidewalk.
The hum of the city fills the air - a cacophony of car horns, chatter, and distant sirens.
I breathe in deeply, feeling the cool morning air fill my lungs.
The world feels fresh and full of possibility.
"So," Morton says beside me, breaking the silence.
"What do you plan to do now?"
I pause for a moment, looking down at the platinum card in my pocket.
It feels different now - not just a symbol of wealth, but a symbol of responsibility.
I look back at the coffee shop window, where The Broker still sits, watching us leave. I turn away and start walking again, Morton keeping pace beside me.
"I'm ready to start my training," I say finally, my voice steady and firm.
Morton nods, a small smile playing on his lips.
"Good," he says.
"We'll head to the Weber Institute. They'll help you get settled in."
As we walk, I glance back one last time at the coffee shop.
The Broker is still sitting there, watching us through the window.
His eyes narrow as our gazes meet, and for a moment, I feel a shiver run down my spine.
But then Morton places a hand on my shoulder again, guiding me forward.
We walk in silence for a few minutes, Morton leading the way through the crowded sidewalk.
His phone rings, and he pulls it out of his pocket to answer.
"Hello?"
He listens for a moment, his expression changing from calm to concerned.
"Okay," he says finally, hanging up.
He turns to me, his eyes serious.
"We need to go."
I follow him as he quickens his pace, weaving through the crowds with a sense of urgency.
We turn a corner and Morton leads me to a parked car.
He unlocks it and motions for me to get in.
As I settle into the passenger seat, Morton climbs behind the wheel and starts the engine.
The car pulls out into traffic, and Morton glances at me sideways.
"There's something you should see," he says, reaching into his briefcase and pulling out a thick folder.
He hands it to me, and I take it, feeling its weight in my hands. I open the folder and find myself staring at aerial photos of a massive private island.
The island is covered in dense forests and surrounded by crystal-clear waters.
I can see a long stretch of pristine beach along one side, with towering cliffs on the other.
"What is this?"
I ask, looking up at Morton.
"That," he says, "is Weber Island Holdings."
I turn back to the photos, studying them more closely.
The island looks remote and untouched - like something out of a fantasy novel.
I can't believe I've never heard of it before.
"How big is it?"
I ask, turning back to Morton again.
"About 500 acres," he replies.
"And what's so special about it?"
Morton glances at me sideways again, his expression serious.
"It's your grandfather's private estate," he says quietly. I stare at him in shock for a moment, then look back down at the photos again.
A private island?
How could I have not known about this?
I feel like there's so much I don't know about my grandfather's life - so much that he kept hidden from me.
I turn the page and find myself looking at geological surveys of the island's terrain.
There are notes scribbled in the margins about mineral deposits and natural resources.
"What does this mean?"
I ask Morton, pointing to one of the surveys.
Morton leans over slightly, glancing at the page.
"It means," he says, "your grandfather wasn't just protecting you from The Broker. He was also safeguarding something far more valuable."
I look at him, my mind racing. "You mean there's more to this island than just its beauty?"
Morton nods, his eyes serious.
"Your grandfather left behind detailed instructions for you," he says.
"He wanted to make sure you knew everything about the island and its resources."
I sit in Morton's parked car outside his office building, still trying to process everything he's told me.
The leather folder with the geological surveys and aerial photos of Weber Island lies open in my lap.
It's hard to believe that this island is mine now - a private estate filled with rare minerals and natural resources worth billions.
Morton sits beside me, going over the details of my grandfather's will and the instructions he left for me.
"There are several options for you," he explains, pointing to different sections of the documents.
"You can choose to sell the island, donate it to charity, or keep it as your own personal estate."
I look up at him, trying to process all of this information.
"What do you think I should do?"
I ask him, feeling overwhelmed. Morton sighs, running a hand through his hair.
"I can't tell you what to do," he says gently.
"But I can tell you that your grandfather wanted you to have this island. He wanted you to know about its value and its importance."
I nod slowly, looking back down at the documents in front of me.
I can see that my grandfather put a lot of thought into this - into making sure I would be protected and taken care of after he was gone.
And now it's up to me to decide what happens next.
I take a deep breath and look up at Morton again.
"Okay," I say finally.
"I'll do what he wanted. I'll keep the island."
Morton nods, a small smile on his face.
"I think that's the right decision," he says quietly.
"Now let's get started on the paperwork."
As we begin filling out the forms and signing our names, I can't help but feel a sense of excitement and anticipation for what comes next. The leather folder is heavy in my hands as I step out of Morton's car and onto the sun-baked driveway leading up to his office building.
The afternoon air is warm against my skin, carrying the sweet scent of blooming flowers from the nearby garden beds.
I glance down at the folder, adorned with my grandfather's initials in elegant gold lettering.
It feels like a weighty responsibility has been placed upon me - one that I'm not entirely sure I'm ready for.
As I enter Morton's office, the sleek glass and steel interior gleams in the sunlight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
The air is crisp and clean, filled with the scent of freshly brewed coffee wafting from the break room.
I make my way to Morton's desk, where he greets me with a warm smile.
"Good afternoon," he says, gesturing for me to take a seat.
"I trust you've had a chance to review the documents?"
I nod, setting the folder down on his desk.
"Yes, thank you," I reply, taking a seat in one of the plush leather chairs opposite him.
Morton nods, pulling out a stack of papers from his desk drawer.
"Excellent," he says, placing them in front of me.
"These are the final documents related to your inheritance. Please review them carefully and sign where indicated."
I take a deep breath, scanning the pages in front of me.
The stack is taller than my old diner order pad, filled with legal jargon and financial terminology that makes my head spin. Morton notices my confusion and leans forward to explain each document in detail.
"This one is the deed to your grandfather's property," he says, pointing to a thick packet of papers bound together with a black clip.
"It includes all of his assets, investments, and holdings."
I nod, taking a deep breath as I sign my name at the bottom of the page.
The weight of my grandfather's legacy settles upon me like a heavy blanket.
Next comes a stack of bank transfer forms, detailing the movement of quintillions of dollars into various accounts in my name.
I feel a sense of awe wash over me as I sign each document, realizing just how vast my grandfather's wealth truly was. Finally comes the trust fund documents - pages upon pages outlining the terms and conditions of the massive sum left in my care.
I take a deep breath as I sign my name on each page, feeling the weight of responsibility settle upon me like a mantle. As I finish signing the last document, Morton hands me a small platinum card embossed with my name.
"This is your new credit card," he explains.
"It's linked directly to your trust fund account. You can use it for any purchases or expenses you may have."
I take the card from him, feeling its cool metal surface against my fingertips.
Morton watches me closely, a hint of concern in his eyes.
"Remember," he says softly, "this isn't just about wealth. It's about the responsibilities that come with it."
I nod, slipping the card into my wallet, feeling the weight of his words.
While signing the inheritance papers in Morton's office, my hand brushes against an unusual thickness in the leather folder.
Curious, I run my fingers along the spine, feeling a subtle seam hidden beneath the surface.
Morton watches me intently, his eyes narrowing slightly as I continue to examine the folder.
I press gently along the seam, and a small compartment opens, revealing a yellowed envelope sealed with my grandfather's distinctive wax stamp.
My fingers tremble as I carefully pry open the envelope, releasing a faint scent of aged paper into the air.
The room falls silent except for the gentle hum of the air conditioning overhead.
Morton leans forward, his eyes fixed on the envelope in my hands.
"What is it?"
He asks softly.
I glance up at him, my heart pounding in my chest.
"A letter," I reply, my voice barely above a whisper.
"From my grandfather."
Morton leans back in his chair, his expression a mix of curiosity and caution.
"Do you want to read it now?" he asks, his voice gentle yet probing.
I nod slowly, feeling the weight of the moment. "Yes, I think I need to."
I unfold the letter, the delicate paper crackling softly as I smooth it out on Morton's desk.
The elegant handwriting of my grandfather fills the page, each word carefully crafted and full of meaning.
My dearest Shane,
If you're reading this, you've discovered your true inheritance.
I'm sure you're still reeling from the news, but know that everything I've done has been to protect you and ensure your future.
As you grow older, you'll understand the weight of our family's legacy and the dangers that come with it.
I've watched you from afar, seen the way you've grown into a strong and determined young woman.
I couldn't be prouder of the person you've become.
But there are those who would seek to exploit our wealth and status for their own gain.
That's why I've kept my true identity hidden from you for so long.
I wanted to give you a chance at a normal life, free from the pressures and expectations that come with being a part of this family. But now that I'm gone, it's time for you to take your rightful place in the world.
The fortune I've left behind is yours to use as you see fit - to pursue your dreams and make a difference in the world.
Remember always that with great power comes great responsibility, and never let anyone take advantage of your kindness or generosity.
You are strong and capable, Shane, and I have no doubt that you will make me proud.
Always remember where you come from and never forget the sacrifices that have been made for you.
With all my love,
Grandfather
My hands tremble as I finish reading his words, feeling a mix of emotions swirling inside me - sadness, gratitude, and a sense of purpose.
I sit at Morton's mahogany desk, my fingers lingering on the worn edges of the letter.
The heavy paper feels significant in my hands, different from the cheap notebook paper Lara used for her breakup note.
Morton waits patiently, his eyes fixed on me as I fold the letter along its worn creases and tuck it back into the leather folder.
The small compartment clicks softly as I close it, sealing away my grandfather's final words to me.
I take a deep breath, meeting Morton's gaze once more.
"Thank you," I say softly, my voice filled with emotion.
"For everything."
Morton nods, a hint of a smile on his lips.
"You're welcome, Shane," he replies, his voice gentle and reassuring.
"Now, shall we discuss your plans for the Weber Institute training?"
I nod, pulling out the glossy brochure from my duffel bag and placing it on his desk.
The cover features a stunning image of the institute's campus - sprawling gardens and modern architecture set against a backdrop of rolling hills and crystal-clear lakes. "I've reviewed the information," I say, opening the brochure to reveal detailed descriptions of the various programs offered.
"I'm interested in enrolling in their advanced business management course."
Morton nods, scanning the pages with a discerning eye.
"That's an excellent choice," he says, his voice filled with approval.
"The Weber Institute is renowned for its rigorous curriculum and esteemed faculty. You'll be in good hands there."
I feel a surge of excitement mixed with nerves as I consider the path ahead.
Enrolling in the Weber Institute is a significant step towards fulfilling my grandfather's legacy and securing my own future.
It's a decision that will shape me into a leader worthy of our family's name.
Morton leans forward, his expression serious but encouraging.
"I'll assist you with the enrollment process," he says, pulling out a stack of paperwork from his desk drawer.
"Once you're settled into the program, I'll be here to guide you through any challenges that may arise."
I nod gratefully, feeling a sense of relief wash over me.
As I leave Morton's office, the weight of my grandfather's legacy becomes a catalyst for my own journey.
I stand at the corner of Fifth Avenue, staring up at the towering glass facade of the Weber Institute.
My duffel bag feels light in my hand, but the letter tucked away in my jacket pocket weighs heavily on my heart.
Students in expensive suits stream past me through the revolving doors, their confident strides a stark contrast to my own hesitant steps.
I'm still wearing my worn jeans and old leather jacket, a relic from a life I thought I knew.
The platinum card in my pocket presses against my chest, a constant reminder of the transformation awaiting me.
A doorman in a crisp uniform notices my lingering presence and approaches with a polite smile.
"Welcome to the Weber Institute, mister," he says, his voice smooth and inviting.
"May I assist you with anything?"
I pause, my reflection staring back at me from the polished marble floor.
The doorman holds the heavy glass door open, his white-gloved hand steady as more students rush past us.
I take a deep breath, shouldering my duffel bag and stepping forward.
My boots squeak against the pristine floor, a stark contrast to the designer heels clicking around me.
The doorman's gaze lingers on my worn shoes, but his smile remains unwavering.
"Please, right this way," he says, gesturing towards the security desk.
I follow his lead, my heart pounding in my chest and my palms growing sweaty.
But I grip my bag tighter and keep moving forward.
I approach the security desk, where a stern-faced officer in a crisp uniform sits behind a sleek counter.
Students pass by, their faces illuminated by the soft glow of the chandelier above.
I reach into my jacket pocket and pull out both the letter and my ID, my fingers trembling slightly as I place them on the counter.
My duffel bag slides off my shoulder, hitting the marble floor with a thud that echoes through the lobby.
The officer looks up at me, his expression unyielding.
His gaze travels from my worn jeans to my old leather jacket, lingering for a moment before meeting my eyes.
"Can I help you?" he asks, his voice firm and commanding.
I take a deep breath, trying to steady my nerves.
"I'm Shane Weber," I say, my voice firm and clear.
"I have a letter from my grandfather about enrollment."
The officer studies me for a moment, his eyes narrowing slightly as he takes in my appearance.
"Welcome to the Weber Institute, Mr. Weber," he finally says, stamping the letter with a decisive thud.
He hands it back to me, his expression softening ever so slightly.
"Please, proceed to the orientation hall on the third floor. You'll find the elevator to your right."
I nod my gratitude and take the letter, tucking it back into my pocket.
The platinum card presses against my chest, a constant reminder of the world I'm about to enter.
I turn towards the elevator, my boots echoing against the marble floor.
The doors slide open with a soft whoosh, revealing a dimly lit interior that smells of polished leather and fresh air.
I step inside, my duffel bag slung over my shoulder.
The doors close behind me, and I feel a rush of anticipation mixed with trepidation.
The elevator glides smoothly upwards, stopping on the third floor with a gentle jolt.
The doors open once more, revealing a long corridor lined with mahogany-paneled walls and crystal chandeliers that cast a warm glow over everything.
My boots echo against the polished wood floor as I make my way down the corridor, searching for the orientation hall.
The sound of murmured conversations grows louder with each step, until I finally come to a large set of double doors that swing open to reveal a grand auditorium filled with rows of leather seats. The room is packed with students dressed in designer suits and expensive dresses, their faces illuminated by the soft glow of overhead lights.
I scan the crowd for an empty seat, my heart pounding in my chest as I clutch my stamped enrollment letter tightly in my hand.
A sea of unfamiliar faces stretches out before me, their conversations mingling in a cacophony of sound that echoes off the high ceilings.
My worn jeans and old leather jacket feel woefully out of place among the designer suits and expensive dresses that fill the room.
My duffel bag suddenly feels heavier than ever before, weighing me down as I search for an empty seat in this sea of strangers.
I spot an empty seat in the back row and make my way towards it, weaving past students who barely glance up from their conversations to acknowledge my presence.
But just as I'm about to reach the seat, a tall figure steps into my path.
He's dressed in an expensive suit that looks tailored to perfection, his dark hair slicked back with gel and his eyes narrowed into a cold glare. "Excuse me," he says, his voice dripping with condescension as he looks down at me with disdain.
"This seat is taken."
I scan the crowded auditorium, my duffel bag heavy on my shoulder as students in expensive clothes whisper and stare.
Near the front, I spot an open seat next to a girl in a simple blazer who seems different from the others.
She catches my eye and gestures to the empty chair beside her, offering a genuine smile.
Though my worn boots squeak against the polished floor as I approach, drawing more judgmental looks, I keep my head high.
The platinum card in my pocket reminds me that I belong here, even if others don't see it yet.
I settle into the seat, my duffel bag tucked beneath the chair.
The girl turns to me, her eyes sparkling with friendliness.
"Hi, I'm Rachel Chen," she says, extending her hand.
I shake it firmly, feeling a sense of gratitude towards this stranger who has welcomed me.
"I'm Shane Weber. Nice to meet you."
Rachel nods, her smile widening.
"It's nice to meet you too, Shane. So, what brings you to the Weber Institute?"
I hesitate for a moment before answering.
"I'm here on scholarship," I say finally, unsure if I should reveal more about my grandfather's inheritance.
But something about Rachel's genuine smile puts me at ease.
"Me too," she replies, her voice filled with understanding.
"I'm from a low-income family. My parents work hard to make ends meet, but they couldn't afford to send me here without the scholarship."
As she speaks, I notice the simple blazer she wears among the designer outfits surrounding us.
I feel a pang of recognition and empathy towards her. The platinum card presses against my leg through my pocket, a constant reminder of the wealth that lies beyond my worn jeans and leather jacket.
A part of me wants to tell Rachel about my inheritance and how it has changed everything for me.
But something holds me back from sharing that information with her just yet.
Instead, I return her smile, grateful for this small connection in an auditorium filled with strangers.
"Thank you for saving me that seat," I say sincerely.
"You're welcome," Rachel replies, her eyes sparkling with warmth.
Rachel nods, her smile widening.
"No problem. It's nice to see someone else who isn't from a wealthy family."
The auditorium falls silent as a man in a tailored suit strides confidently to the stage.
He adjusts the microphone stand, surveying the room with an air of authority.
"Good morning, students. I am Professor Harrison, and I will be your instructor for this course. Please take note of any announcements or assignments I make today."
The professor clears his throat, his voice booming through the auditorium as he begins to speak.
"I trust that you have all read the syllabus and understand the expectations for this course. As you know, this is a rigorous program that requires dedication and hard work. I expect each and every one of you to put forth your best effort and maintain a high level of academic integrity."
He pauses, scanning the room with a stern expression.
"Now, let's move on to today's agenda. We have a lot to cover, so please take notes and ask questions if you need clarification on anything."
As the professor continues to speak, I notice that some students are already forming alliances and whispering among themselves.
It's clear that they are eager to get started on their group projects and establish their social hierarchies within the class.
But Rachel and I remain focused on the professor's words, determined to make a good impression on our first day. After what feels like an eternity, the professor finally concludes his lecture and dismisses us for a short break.
As we exit the auditorium, Rachel turns to me with a hopeful smile.
"Hey Shane, do you want to grab some coffee with me? I could use some company while we go over our notes."
I hesitate for a moment before answering.
"I'd love to," I say finally, feeling grateful for her friendly gesture.
As we walk out of the auditorium together, I notice that several students are staring at us curiously.
I wonder what they must think about me - a scholarship student from a low-income background - associating with someone like Rachel, who clearly comes from a more affluent family.
But I push those thoughts aside and focus on enjoying my time with Rachel.
After all, it's not every day that I get to spend time with someone as kind and genuine as she is. As we walk down the hallway towards the cafeteria, Rachel turns to me with an excited expression.
"Shane, have you heard about the group project that Professor Harrison assigned us? It's worth 40% of our grade!"
I nod, my mind racing with ideas.
"Yes, I heard about it. It sounds like a challenging but rewarding assignment."
Rachel smiles, her eyes sparkling with enthusiasm.
"I know, right? I've already started brainstorming some ideas for our project. We should work together on it!"
I raise an eyebrow, surprised by her suggestion.
"Really? You want to work with me?"
Rachel nods, her smile widening.
"Of course! We're both scholarship students, so we'll have a better understanding of each other's strengths and weaknesses. Plus, I think we could come up with some really innovative ideas together."
As we enter the cafeteria, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee and baked goods fills the air.
The room is bustling with students chatting and laughing over their meals.
We make our way to the counter and order our drinks before finding a table in the corner.
As we sit down, I notice that several students are staring at us curiously.
Some of them seem surprised to see me - the boy in worn clothes and scuffed boots - associating with someone like Rachel, who looks like she comes from a wealthy family.
But I ignore their stares and focus on enjoying my time with Rachel.
"So, what kind of project ideas do you have in mind?" she asks, her eyes shining with excitement. I take a sip of my coffee before answering.
"Well, I was thinking that we could do something related to social justice. Maybe create a campaign to raise awareness about an important issue or develop a program to support marginalized communities."
Rachel nods enthusiastically, jotting down some notes on her laptop.
"That sounds amazing! I love how passionate you are about making a difference in the world."
I smile, feeling grateful for her support and encouragement.
"Thank you," I say sincerely.
"It means a lot to me to have someone who believes in me and my abilities."
As we continue discussing our project ideas, I notice that several students are approaching our table curiously.
They seem interested in joining our group and contributing their own ideas to the project.
I glance at Rachel uncertainly, wondering if we should invite them to join us or keep our group small and exclusive.
But before I can say anything, one of the students steps forward and introduces himself confidently. "Hi there! My name is Ethan. We couldn't help but overhear your conversation about the group project. We're interested in joining forces with you guys if that's okay?"
I look at Rachel hesitantly, unsure of what to say.
Rachel meets my gaze, her expression thoughtful before she turns back to Ethan with a welcoming smile.
"Sure, Ethan, the more the merrier! We're all about collaboration and fresh perspectives."
Ethan grins, gesturing to his friends. "Great! This is Mia and Alex, and we all have some ideas that could really complement your social justice theme."
They pull up chairs to our table, forming a circle of discussion.
I sit there, trying to blend in despite my worn jacket and scuffed boots standing out among their designer clothes.
I force a smile, gesturing for them to join us.
Rachel dives into her ideas with enthusiasm, while I stay quiet, listening intently.
The platinum card presses against my leg through my pocket, a reminder of the world I now inhabit.
Ethan suggests meeting at his family's penthouse to work on the project.
I hesitate but agree, knowing I need to start building connections here.
We walk through the busy streets of Manhattan, the sounds of honking cars and chatter filling the air.
I try to blend in with the group, but I can't help feeling out of place.
My worn leather jacket stands out among their designer coats and expensive-looking handbags.
Rachel notices my hesitation and nudges me playfully.
"Come on, Shane. It'll be fun. We can work on our project while enjoying some drinks and great views."
I nod, forcing a smile.
"Yeah, sure. Sounds good."
As we approach the entrance to the rooftop lounge, I can feel my heart racing with anticipation.
I've never been to a place like this before, and I'm not sure what to expect.
The doorman looks at me suspiciously as we approach.
He's dressed in a crisp black suit, his expression stern.
"Sorry, folks," he says, blocking our path.
"This is a private club. Members only."
Ethan steps forward, flashing a charming smile.
"Hey there, buddy. We're here for a project meeting. Can you let us through?"
The doorman looks unconvinced, his eyes darting between us.
"I'm sorry," he says again.
"But I need to see your membership cards first." Ethan nods understandingly, reaching into his pocket to pull out a small card.
"Here you go," he says, handing it over to the doorman.
The doorman examines the card carefully before handing it back to Ethan with a nod.
"Alright, you're good to go," he says, stepping aside to let us pass.
As we make our way inside, I can't help but feel a little nervous.
I've never been in a place like this before, and I'm not sure what to expect.
But Rachel seems confident and at ease, leading the way up to the rooftop bar.
When we reach the top floor, we're greeted by a hostess who looks like she just stepped off the cover of a fashion magazine.
She's wearing a tight black dress that showcases her curves perfectly, and her long blonde hair cascades down her back in loose waves.
"Welcome to The View," she says with a bright smile as she leads us to our table by the window. As we take our seats and look out at the breathtaking view of Manhattan below us, I can't help but feel grateful for this opportunity.
It's not every day that you get to experience something like this with such an amazing group of people by your side!
As we settle in, Ethan leans forward with a conspiratorial grin.
"By the way, Shane, I heard something interesting about Professor Harrison," he says, lowering his voice.
Rachel raises an eyebrow, intrigued. "What is it?"
I sit up a little straighter, moving my chair closer to hear him better over the ambient music and the hum of conversation from other patrons.
The scent of expensive cocktails wafts through the air, mingling with Ethan's designer cologne.
Rachel leans forward too, her eyes widening with curiosity.
Ethan glances around cautiously before continuing in a hushed tone.
"I heard that Professor Harrison has a secret connection to The Broker," he says, his voice barely audible over the background noise.
My heart skips a beat at the mention of The Broker's name, but I keep my expression neutral, trying not to show any reaction.
Rachel looks at me uncertainly, her brow furrowed with confusion.
"The Broker? Who's that?"
Ethan leans back in his chair, taking a sip of his drink before answering.
"Only the most powerful person in the city," he says with a sly smile.
"No one knows their true identity, but they're rumored to be behind some of the biggest deals and scandals in town."
I feel my palms growing sweaty as I grip the sleeves of my worn leather jacket tightly.
The Broker is real, and they're connected to Professor Harrison?
How is that possible?
I thought The Broker was just an urban legend, a myth created to explain away the unexplained.
But if Ethan is telling the truth, then it means that The Broker is more than just a figment of our imagination. Rachel looks at me with concern etched on her face.
"Shane, are you okay? You look a little pale."
I force a smile, trying to reassure her that everything is fine.
"Yeah, I'm good," I say, taking a deep breath to calm myself down.
"I just didn't expect to hear about The Broker here."
Ethan nods sympathetically, placing a reassuring hand on my shoulder.
"I know how you feel," he says gently.
"It can be overwhelming to learn about something like this for the first time."
He pauses for a moment before continuing in a softer tone.
"But trust me, Shane. The Broker is real. And they're more powerful than you could ever imagine."
I swallow hard, trying to process everything that Ethan has just told me.
If what he says is true, then it means that The Broker has connections everywhere - even within the walls of Weber Institute.
I sit back in my chair, taking a sip of my drink as I try to gather my thoughts.
Ethan leans forward again, his eyes locked on mine intently.
"I saw Professor Harrison meeting with someone last week," he says in a low voice.
"A man in a black suit with a black onyx ring on his finger."
My heart skips a beat as I remember the same ring from the coffee shop earlier today.
The one that The Broker's henchman wore when he threatened me.
"Did you see anything else?" she asks, her voice barely above a whisper.
Ethan nods, taking another sip of his drink before continuing.
"They exchanged documents," he says, his voice filled with excitement.
"It looked like some kind of contract or agreement."
Rachel looks at me uncertainly, her brow furrowed with concern.
"Do you think it has anything to do with us?" she asks softly.
I shake my head, trying to reassure her that everything will be okay.
"No, I don't think so," I say, forcing a smile.
"It's probably just some business deal or something."
But deep down, I know that it's more than that.
The Broker is involved somehow, and I need to find out how. As we continue discussing our project and sipping our drinks, I can't help but feel like there's something more going on beneath the surface.
Ethan seems genuinely concerned about Professor Harrison's connection to The Broker, but I'm not sure if I can trust him completely yet.
After all, I barely know these people and have no idea what their true motives are.
As the conversation continues, Rachel suddenly pulls out her phone and glances at the screen.
"Oh, sorry guys," she says apologetically.
"I need to take this call real quick."
She gets up from her seat and walks away towards the edge of the rooftop lounge, leaving Ethan and me alone at the table.
Ethan turns to me with a curious expression on his face.
"So Shane, tell me more about yourself," he says, leaning forward in his chair.
"What brings you to Weber Institute?"
I hesitate for a moment before answering, unsure of how much to reveal about my past or my true identity as an undercover agent working for The Agency. But then I remember that Ethan already knows about The Broker and seems willing to talk openly about it too - maybe he'll understand where I'm coming from if I open up to him a little bit more. "Well," I begin slowly, choosing my words carefully.