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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 struggled with poverty and was labeled a failure by those around him, including his abusive foster parents and their children. His life changes when he learns of his wealthy heritage, inheriting the Googlea family fortune. Despite facing criticism for his lack of formal education, he vows to use his newfound wealth and influence to reclaim his power.
Alex Googlea
He is one of Shane’s uncles and part of the Googlea family lineage. He is dismissive, skeptical, and confrontational. Initially hostile towards Shane upon learning of his inheritance, Alex shows animosity towards him due to past treatment as a relative living in poverty. His aggressive behavior towards Shane highlights tensions within the family and serves as a reminder of the challenges Shane faced in his past.
Julia Googlea
She is the current matriarch of the Googlea family and Robert’s widow. She is grieving, confused, and composed. Filling her late husband’s void, she navigates the surprise inheritance process alongside lawyers and family members. Julia shows unexpected support for Shane despite initial shock, recognizing him as the true heir to the Googlea fortune. Her demeanor reflects a mix of sadness and acceptance as she adjusts to life without her spouse.
I was an orphan, raised in poverty, and my life was about to get a whole lot poorer.
My girlfriend was leaving me for a richer guy.
I was used to being crapped on, but this time it was different.
This time it was personal.
Lana had been my girlfriend for three years.
We met in college, or rather, I met her in the library where I worked as a janitor.
She was studying for her exams, and I couldn’t help but notice her every night I cleaned up after the students.
I never thought I would have a chance with her.
I was Shane Weber, after all—poor, uneducated, and totally not her type.
But one night, while I was sweeping the floor, she smiled at me, and my heart skipped a beat.
From that moment on, I was smitten with her.
I didn’t care that she came from a wealthy family and drove a brand-new Mercedes-Benz while I rode the bus.
I didn’t care that she had the latest designer clothes and the newest phone on the market while I wore hand-me-downs and had a phone that was five years old.
All I cared about was that smile she gave me that night, and from that moment on, I knew I would do anything for her.
I asked her out a week later, and to my surprise, she said yes.
So there I stood in the library, watching her pack her designer bag with textbooks.
My hands gripped the handle of my mop so hard that my knuckles turned white.
She hadn’t noticed me yet, too busy texting on her new phone—probably messaging him.
The same phone I helped her pick out last month, spending three paychecks to surprise her.
The fluorescent lights flickered above, casting harsh shadows across the empty study tables.
I took one step forward, ready to confront her, but stopped.
The weight of my grandfather’s letter felt heavy in my back pocket.
Instead of speaking, I turned the mop handle slowly, deliberately quiet, and pushed my cleaning cart toward the exit.
I ducked into the empty study room where I spent most of my lunch breaks alone.
The walls were lined with dusty books, and the air smelled of stale coffee.
My hands shook as I pulled the crumpled envelope from my pocket.
The postmark was from the Weber estate in Los Angeles.
I had never heard of them, but something about the name seemed familiar.
The paper felt expensive, like nothing I’d ever held before.
Certainly not like the bills I received every month.
I unfolded it carefully, smoothing out the creases with my fingers.
The letterhead read "Weber Industries" in elegant script.
I scanned past the formal address and date to the first line: "Dear grandson."
My heart skipped a beat.
The words blurred together on the page—something about being sole heir to an empire and inheriting billions of trillions dollars—but one sentence stood out clear as day: "You are the last of the Weber line."
I checked the signature at the bottom: Robert Weber, my grandfather.
I slumped back in the worn leather chair, staring at the letter when a sharp knock interrupted my thoughts.
The door opened, and a man in an impeccable suit stepped inside.
He carried a leather briefcase that looked more expensive than anything I owned.
His eyes scanned the room before settling on me.
"Mr. Weber? I'm James Morton from Googlea Legal."
He closed the door behind him and walked over to the table.
Setting his briefcase down, he extracted a thick folder filled with documents.
"Mr. Robert Googlea has instructed us to inform you of your inheritance immediately."
My hands were still shaking as he spread out papers showing numbers I couldn’t even comprehend.
Bank accounts overflowing with trillions, property deeds for mansions and islands, company shares worth billions.
The lawyer's voice remained steady and professional, explaining the next steps: setting up security, accessing accounts, and arranging transportation to the Googlea estate in Los Angeles. My mind reeled as he spoke, trying to wrap my head around what was happening.
I gripped the edge of the table, my cleaning uniform suddenly feeling too tight.
The lawyer slid a black and gold credit card across the table toward me.
"This is for any expenses until we can get you settled," he said calmly.
I stared at the card, then back at him, my voice barely a whisper.
"Is this... is this real?"
James Morton nodded, his expression softening slightly. "Very real, Mr. Weber. Your grandfather wanted to ensure you had everything you needed."
I leaned back in the study room chair, the black and gold card feeling impossibly heavy between my fingers.
The lawyer adjusted his wire-frame glasses and pulled out a sleek tablet from his briefcase.
He tapped through several screens, showing me financial data and account balances.
The fluorescent lights above reflected off the metallic surface of the card as I turned it over in my hands.
The name "GOOGLEA" was embossed in bold letters.
My throat felt dry, and I couldn't find the words to speak.
Just hours ago, I was scrubbing floors and watching Lana walk away.
Now, I was being handed a fortune.
James Morton cleared his throat, drawing my attention back to him.
He turned the tablet screen toward me, pointing to a specific line of numbers. "This is your available balance for incidentals until we can complete the full transfer," he explained matter-of-factly.
My eyes widened as I took in the amount: fifty trillion dollars.
I gripped the armrest of the chair tightly, my knuckles turning white once more.
"This is just for now," Morton continued.
"We'll set up a more permanent arrangement once you're settled at the estate."
I nodded, still trying to process everything.
Morton handed me a small leather wallet with the Googlea crest embossed on it.
"Put the card in here. It's more secure."
I slid the card into the wallet, my fingers trembling slightly.
"Why now?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
Morton paused, meeting my gaze with a hint of sympathy. "Your grandfather wanted to ensure you were ready before revealing the truth."
He pulled out a sleek tablet and began tapping through various screens.
"First, we need to move you to a secure location immediately. The Beverly Hills compound is being prepared as we speak."
I listened intently as he explained the security protocols in place.
A team of bodyguards was being assembled, and armored vehicles were waiting outside.
I nodded, trying to absorb every detail.
Morton handed me a small device that looked like a smartwatch.
"This is your panic button. If you ever feel threatened, press it, and our team will respond immediately."
I took the device, feeling its weight in my palm.
He tapped on the tablet again, showing me photos of the security team members.
"They'll be with you at all times. You can trust them with your life."
I glanced at the images, memorizing their faces.
Morton continued, "We'll have a driver take you to the estate now. Your belongings will be packed and transported separately."
I hesitated, thinking of my small apartment and the few possessions I had there.
"I... I need to get some things," I said quietly.
Morton shook his head.
"Too risky now that word might spread."
He tapped away on his tablet again before handing me a new phone.
"Here's your new phone. All security contacts are pre-programmed."
I took the phone, feeling overwhelmed by everything happening so fast. Morton made one final call, his voice low and urgent as he spoke into the receiver.
I watched him intently, trying to make sense of it all.
After he hung up, he looked at me with a serious expression.
"The helicopter will be here in five minutes. Let's go."
I stood up, my legs trembling slightly as I followed Morton out of the study room.
The hallway seemed to stretch longer than before as we walked toward the library exit.
Outside, I heard the distant whirring of helicopter blades.
As we stepped into the open air, the world I once knew faded into a distant memory.
I follow Morton across the back parking lot of the library, where a sleek black helicopter awaits.
The rotors are already spinning lazily, creating a whirlwind that ruffles my janitor's uniform.
Two men in dark suits stand guard next to the aircraft, their eyes scanning the surroundings with practiced efficiency.
Morton gestures for me to duck as we approach the chopper, and I crouch low, clutching my grandfather's letter and the new wallet tightly in my hands.
The wind from the blades whips around my legs, threatening to pull me off balance.
I take a deep breath and climb aboard, sinking into the plush leather seat.
As the helicopter lifted off, leaving the library and my old life behind, I realized there was no turning back.
Through the tinted windows, I watch as my old neighborhood transforms into a patchwork of gray buildings and streets.
The library where I mopped floors for three years becomes a tiny dot in the distance.
My apartment complex, with its broken elevator and rusty fire escape, disappears among the sea of identical concrete blocks.
The security guard sitting beside me speaks into his earpiece, confirming our flight path to Los Angeles.
I press my forehead against the cool glass, feeling the weight of my janitor name tag still pinned to my chest.
Morton hands me a tablet, showing me images of the Googlea estate - my new home.
I lean back in the seat, my fingers tracing the edges of the tablet.
The screen displays a detailed map of the estate - a sprawling 200-acre property with multiple buildings, gardens, and security checkpoints.
Morton points to the main mansion, explaining that a wing has been prepared for my arrival.
I glance down at my janitor uniform, feeling out of place in the helicopter's polished interior.
Morton mentions that a new wardrobe is waiting for me at the estate.
I reach up to touch my name tag one last time before unpinning it.
Morton notices my hesitation and leans closer, his voice barely audible over the hum of the helicopter.
"You'll be safe there, and you'll have everything you need," he assures me.
I nod slowly, still grappling with the enormity of it all, and whisper, "But why me? Why now?"
Morton pulls out a thick manila folder from his briefcase, its edges worn and creased.
He opens it, revealing a stack of photographs and documents.
As the helicopter flies over the city, he begins to spread the contents across the leather seat between us.
"These are just a few of the many files your grandfather kept on you," he explains, his voice filled with a mixture of curiosity and admiration.
"Robert Googlea hired private investigators to track your life from the moment you were born. He wanted to know everything about you."
I lean closer, scanning the images and notes scattered before me.
There are photos of me as a child, taken in various foster homes.
Some show me playing with other kids in a park, while others capture me sitting alone on a couch, looking lost.
There are pictures of me as a teenager, working minimum wage jobs at fast-food restaurants and retail stores.
And then there are more recent images - me studying late at night in my small apartment, walking alone in the city streets, and even mopping floors at the library last week. Alongside each photo are detailed notes about my behavior, my attitude, and my resilience.
The investigators documented every aspect of my life - my strengths and weaknesses, my relationships and conflicts, my dreams and fears.
It's both fascinating and unsettling to see my life laid bare in black and white.
I pick up one of the photos, taken when I was about ten years old.
I'm standing outside an ice cream truck with a group of kids from my foster home.
We're all smiling and laughing, our faces smeared with colorful treats.
The note attached to the photo reads: "Subject shows ability to adapt to new environments and form connections with others despite difficult circumstances."
I set the photo down and look at Morton, who watches me intently.
"Why did he wait so long?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
Morton leans back in his seat, his expression thoughtful.
"Your mother was Robert's estranged daughter," he explains gently.
"She left home when she was young, determined to make her own way in the world. She never told him she was pregnant."
He pauses for a moment before continuing. "When she died in childbirth, Robert was devastated. He had lost his only child without ever knowing her. But then he discovered that she had left behind something precious - you." I swallow hard, trying to process this revelation.
"So why didn't he reach out sooner?"
Morton sighs softly.
"He wanted to, but he feared disrupting your life," Morton replies, his gaze steady.
"He believed that watching over you from a distance was the best way to protect you until you were ready."
I shake my head, trying to understand. "Ready for what?"
While Morton explains the legalities of my grandfather's will, my fingers brush against a strange thickness in the edge of the manila folder.
It feels like a small bulge, almost imperceptible, but it catches my attention.
I press gently on the spot, and to my surprise, a concealed flap opens, revealing a hidden compartment.
Inside is a yellowed envelope, its surface worn and creased.
It stands out starkly against the crisp, newly printed documents that fill the rest of the folder.
The envelope bears no address or indication of who sent it, but it is clearly old - as if it had been handled many times by my grandfather before being tucked away in this secret place.
Morton's eyes widen as he notices what I've found.
He hadn't known about this hidden compartment, and his expression reveals a mixture of surprise and curiosity. I carefully pull the envelope out of its hiding place and hold it between my fingers.
The paper feels fragile and delicate, as if it might tear at any moment.
I turn it over in my hands, searching for any clue as to its origin or contents.
As I do so, the helicopter hits a patch of turbulence, causing the overhead light to flicker ominously above us.
The security guard glances up nervously before returning his gaze to me.
I look down at the envelope again, noticing something I hadn't seen before - a single word written in shaky cursive on one corner: "Shane."
My heart skips a beat as I realize that this must be addressed to me.
But who could have written it?
And why had my grandfather kept it hidden away all these years?
Before I can open the envelope or ask Morton any questions about it, the helicopter lurches violently again.
This time, the overhead light dims even further, casting long shadows across our faces. The security guard grabs onto his armrest tightly, his knuckles turning white with tension.
Morton looks up at me with concern etched across his features.
"Hold on," he says firmly, his voice carrying above the roar of the engines.
"The pilot is trying to stabilize our altitude."
I clutch the envelope tightly against my chest, afraid that it might slip from my grasp and fall to the floor during this turbulent flight.
As the helicopter steadies, I make a silent vow to uncover the secrets hidden within.
In the dimly lit helicopter cabin, I brace against another wave of turbulence while carefully sliding my finger under the envelope's seal.
The paper is brittle, threatening to tear at each movement.
The security guard steadies my arm as the helicopter lurches again.
I extract a single sheet of aged paper, its edges worn and yellow.
My grandfather's distinctive cursive flows across the page in faded blue ink.
The first line catches my eye: "My dearest Shane, if you're reading this, you've finally come home."
Morton leans closer, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Your grandfather knew this day would come," he says, his eyes searching mine.
"But there's more to your inheritance than just the estate; there's a legacy he believed only you could fulfill."
I steady the letter against the helicopter's vibrations as the security guard leans closer, his weathered face filled with curiosity.
His eyes scan the page, and then he looks at me, recognition dawning.
"You have his eyes," he says quietly, his voice filled with a mixture of awe and reverence.
Reaching into his jacket pocket, he pulls out an aged photo.
It shows him standing beside my grandfather at what looks like a private airfield.
The guard's expression softens as he hands me the photo.
"Fifteen years ago, Robert Googlea personally selected me for this job," he explains, his voice tinged with pride.
"He wanted someone to watch over you from a distance, always ready for this day. I've been waiting."
Morton appears surprised by this revelation, quickly checking the files on his tablet for any mention of the guard's role.
The guard reaches into his vest and pulls out a small key, its surface engraved with the Googlea crest.
"I also found this," he says, his voice filled with a mix of excitement and reverence.
I notice a small note tucked inside the letter, its corner peeking out.
The handwriting is the same shaky cursive as my grandfather's, but it's on a piece of paper that looks newer.
The security guard leans forward, his eyes widening as he recognizes the paper.
I wait until the helicopter steadies before unfolding it carefully.
The note contains a series of numbers and an address in downtown Los Angeles.
I glance at Morton, who seems just as perplexed as I am.
"What does this mean?"
I ask him, handing him the note.
Morton studies it for a moment before looking up at me.
"These coordinates lead to your grandfather's private vault," he explains, his voice filled with a mix of awe and curiosity.
"It's where he kept his most treasured possessions and important documents."
The security guard nods in agreement, his expression serious.
"Your grandfather wanted you to find something there personally. Something he couldn't entrust to anyone else."
Morton quickly types on his phone, sending a message to someone about the discovery of the vault location.
His fingers move swiftly over the screen, and I notice a flicker of concern in his eyes when he reads the response. As he finishes typing, I slip the note into my pocket and glance at Morton once more.
He seems unsettled by this revelation, but he quickly regains his composure and turns back to me with a reassuring smile.
"The vault is located in an old bank building," he explains, his voice steady now.
"It's been there for decades, hidden away from prying eyes. Your grandfather was very particular about keeping certain things private."
I nod, intrigued by this new development.
The security guard leans back in his seat, his eyes fixed on me with an intensity that makes me feel like I'm being sized up all over again.
As Morton begins to explain more about the vault and its contents, I can't help but wonder what secrets lie within its walls.
While holding my grandfather's letter, I pull out the new secure phone Morton gave me.
I hesitate for a moment before opening the messaging app and typing out a message.
"Hey Landon, Lance, and Marcus. I'm in a bit of a situation and I need to see you guys as soon as possible. Can we meet up in LA?"
I pause, wondering how much to reveal.
"I've got a lot to tell you, but for now, let's just say I've come into some unexpected luck."
I glance at Morton, who's watching me with curiosity.
I know he wants me to keep my new status private for now, but these three friends have stuck by me through thick and thin.
They were there when I had no money for food and shared their last bag of ramen with me.
They helped cover my rent when I couldn't afford it.
They're loyal and trustworthy, and I don't want to cut them out of my life now that things are changing. Morton looks at the message on my screen, his expression thoughtful.
"Do you think that's wise?" he asks quietly.
"Your grandfather's legacy is a lot to handle on your own. You can't trust just anyone."
I understand his concern, but these guys aren't just anyone.
They've been my rock through all the hard times.
"I trust them," I say firmly.
"And they deserve to know what's going on."
Morton nods slowly, seeming to accept my decision.
"Just be careful," he warns.
"The world is full of people looking for an angle."
I nod, taking a deep breath as I finish typing out the message.
Morton leans back, his gaze still fixed on me.
"Just remember, Shane," he says, his voice low and earnest, "once you open that vault, there's no going back."
The security guard nods in agreement, adding, "Your grandfather always said the truth can be a heavy burden, but it's one you were meant to carry."
The helicopter lands on a private helipad atop a sleek, modern building in the heart of downtown LA.
Following Morton down a short set of stairs, I clutch the coordinates to my grandfather's vault tightly in my hand.
Two security guards flank us as we step into the building.
The interior is sleek and modern, with polished marble floors that reflect the light of the chandeliers above.
We make our way to a mirrored elevator, and Morton presses a button for the basement level.
The doors slide open, revealing a dimly lit corridor with a single sign that reads "Private Banking."
The guard leads us down the corridor, stopping in front of a heavy steel door.
He pulls out a key and unlocks it, revealing rows of identical vault entrances.
I take a deep breath, my hands shaking as I match the coordinates to vault number 2749.
Morton hands me a small biometric scanner.
"This was programmed by your grandfather," he explains quietly.
"It will only recognize your DNA." I place my palm against the cold metal surface of the vault door.
The scanner beeps, and the door swings open to reveal a world I never expected.
I step inside, following Morton into the dimly lit vault.
Our footsteps echo off the steel floor as we make our way deeper into the room.
The security guard flips a switch, and overhead lights flicker to life one by one, illuminating rows of metal shelving that stretch far into the darkness.
As the lights brighten, my breath catches in my throat.
The shelves are stacked with gold bars, each one perfectly aligned and gleaming under the fluorescent lights.
Between the gold, display cases hold ancient-looking items - ornate daggers, jeweled crowns, and artifacts I can't even begin to identify.
Morton whistles softly beside me as he checks something on his tablet.
"Welcome to your inheritance," he says, his voice barely above a whisper.
I move deeper into the vault, my footsteps echoing off the metal shelves.
The security guard's flashlight beam catches the edges of the gold bars, making them seem to glow in the dim light.
Each bar bears the crest of Googlea, a symbol I've seen only in history books.
The display cases are filled with an assortment of treasures - diamonds scattered across silver platters, ancient coins bearing the marks of long-lost civilizations, and artifacts that look like they belong in a museum.
Morton points to a serial number etched into the side of one of the gold bars.
"Each bar is worth millions," he explains quietly.
"And there are hundreds of them here."
I run my hand over the cool surface of one of the bars, feeling its weight beneath my fingertips.
It's hard to believe that this is all mine now - a fortune beyond anything I could have ever imagined. As I turn to examine more of the vault's contents, my hand brushes against something on a nearby shelf.
I pull out a dusty leather-bound ledger and blow off the fine layer of dust that coats its cover.
As I open it, something metallic clatters to the floor.
I step further into the vault, my eyes widening as I take in the sight of even more gold and diamonds stacked on shelves.
Each item glitters under the harsh light, reflecting my stunned expression.
As I move past the treasures, my gaze falls on a worn leather journal tucked away in a corner.
I carefully pull it out, feeling the weight of history in my hands.
Opening the journal, I start reading the handwritten notes of my grandfather Robert Googlea.
Each page reveals his thoughts and plans, drawing me deeper into his world.
"Shane, there's something you need to know," Morton says, his voice steady but urgent.
I look up from the journal, sensing the gravity in his tone.
"Your grandfather wasn't just a collector; he was part of a secret society that still operates today."
Morton leads me to a hidden alcove in the vault, and with a click of a button, a projector screen descends from the ceiling.
He inserts a small device into the projector, and grainy footage flickers to life on the screen.
The video shows my grandfather standing in a dimly lit room, surrounded by hooded figures seated around an ornate table.
Robert Googlea speaks passionately about using wealth to help others his words echoing through the vault.
I recognize symbols embroidered on their robes - the same strange markings I found in my grandfather's journal.
Morton pauses the video, his voice low as he explains, "This society has been helping people for centuries. They've been hidden in plain sight, and your grandfather was their leader."
The projector clicks off, plunging us into darkness.
I sweep my flashlight beam across the vault's shadowy corners, searching for any sign of the society.
Behind a row of gold bars, I notice a slight discrepancy in the metal wall.
My fingers trace the edge until I find a small indent.
Pressing it, the wall slides open, revealing a hidden compartment.
Inside, stacks of leather-bound folders fill the space.
Each one bears the symbol from my grandfather's robes.
I pull out a folder and begin to flip through its contents.
The pages are filled with details of various projects - orphanages built, medical research funded, corrupt officials exposed.
As I pull out another folder, something metallic falls to the floor with a clatter.
Morton bends down to retrieve it, but I'm quicker.
I hold the object up to the light, revealing a key engraved with my grandfather's initials.
I hold the key in my palm, studying the intricate engravings.
Morton's voice breaks my concentration.
"Shane, we need to go. It's time for you to meet your new family."
He leads me out of the vault, and we make our way to his car.
As we drive through the winding streets of Beverly Hills, I keep the key hidden in my pocket.
The mansion looms before us, its grandeur taking my breath away.
I step out of the car and follow Morton through the massive iron gates.
The sound of them closing behind us echoes through the stillness.
We enter through a set of double doors that lead into a spacious foyer with a sweeping staircase curving up to the left.
The walls are adorned with oil paintings depicting landscapes and portraits.
Morton gestures for me to follow him, and we walk down a long hallway lined with marble floors.
We pass by a library filled with books and a formal dining room that could easily seat twenty people.
Eventually, we reach a door at the end of the hall that leads outside to a sprawling garden.
The air is filled with the sweet scent of blooming flowers as we make our way across the manicured lawn.
We approach a large stone fountain, and Morton stops in front of it. "This is where your grandfather used to sit," he says, his voice filled with nostalgia.
"He would spend hours here, contemplating life."
I look around at the beauty surrounding us, trying to imagine what it must have been like for him.
Suddenly, I hear footsteps approaching from behind us.
I turn around and see a woman walking towards us with grace and poise.
She's dressed in an elegant gown that flows behind her like silk.
As she gets closer, I can see that she's stunningly beautiful with piercing green eyes and long blonde hair that cascades down her back.
She reaches out her hand and takes mine in hers, giving it a gentle squeeze.
"Welcome to your new home," she says softly.
"I'm so glad you're here."
I feel a surge of excitement course through my veins as I realize who this woman must be - my grandmother. We spend the next hour walking around the estate with my grandmother showing me all its secrets and hidden gems.
Eventually, Morton leads me upstairs to what will be my new quarters - a spacious bedroom with an en-suite bathroom and a private balcony overlooking the garden below.
I stand in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, adjusting the cufflinks on my tailored suit.
The security cameras flicker to life, showing three familiar figures walking up the long driveway towards the mansion.
Landon, Lance, and Marcus look completely out of place as they climb the marble steps to the front door.
They're still wearing the same worn jeans and t-shirts they had on when we last saw each other.
The same clothes I used to wear just days ago.
Security guards flank them, checking their IDs against the list of approved visitors I sent over earlier.
My hand instinctively goes to the key in my pocket - the key that could unlock a secret society my grandfather was a part of.
I wonder if I should tell them about it.
They're the only people who stood by me when I had nothing, and now they're here to visit me in my new mansion. I watch as they're led through the foyer and into a private study where they wait for me.
There's a knock on my bedroom door, and Morton's voice calls out from the other side.
"Shane, your friends are here."
I descend the staircase, my new Italian leather shoes clicking against each step.
The chandelier light catches my reflection in the polished banister - a stranger in an expensive suit where my janitor uniform used to be.
I glance through the arched doorway into the foyer, where Landon, Lance, and Marcus stand awkwardly on the Persian rug.
Marcus is whistling at the frescos painted on the ceiling while Lance fidgets with his phone.
Their sneakers and faded jeans look out of place against the mansion's grandeur.
Landon is the first to see me, his eyes widening as he takes in my transformation.
"Shane, is that really you?" Landon asks, disbelief mingling with a hint of admiration in his voice.
"Yeah, it's me," I reply, trying to sound casual despite the weight of the moment. "There's something I need to show you guys."
Lance steps forward, curiosity piqued. "What is it? You look like you've got a secret worth a million bucks."
I lead them into the study, a room lined with mahogany panels and shelves filled with leather-bound books.
Morton has arranged the inheritance paperwork across the large desk.
Landon whistles at the sight of the opulent room, while Lance runs his hand along the spines of the books.
Marcus remains quiet, his eyes studying my face intently.
"Here," I say, pulling out the main inheritance document and spreading it across the desk.
"It's everything my grandfather left me. Googlea Industries, all of it."
My hands still shake as I lay out the papers.
The document lists fifty trillion in liquid funds, controlling shares in various companies, and properties all over the world.
Marcus picks up one of the documents and scans it quickly.
"This is insane," he says, looking up at me with wide eyes.
"How much are we talking?"
I sit down behind the desk, watching their faces as they process the numbers.
"Enough to change our lives," I reply, my voice barely above a whisper.
Marcus reaches over to the side table and picks up the crystal decanter, pouring amber liquid into four glasses.
"This calls for a celebration," he says, distributing them among us.
Landon leans forward, his eyes shining with an idea.
"We could start something together," he suggests.
"Help people like us who struggled."
I finger the key in my pocket, thinking of my grandfather's hidden philanthropic work.
Lance grabs a notepad and begins sketching plans for community centers and job training programs.
Marcus raises his glass in a toast. "To new beginnings and changing the world."
I take the glass Marcus offers me, remembering nights we shared cheap beer in my old apartment.
We sit in a quiet corner of the study, away from the others.
Landon and Lance are by the window, excitedly discussing their plans.
Marcus's eyes lock onto mine with an intensity I've never seen before.
He slides closer on the leather couch, his knee touching mine.
His voice is low, hushed as he speaks.
"Shane, we can do this. We can manage all this wealth together."
I glance at him, taking a sip of whiskey.
The warmth spreads through me, but I'm wary of his sudden closeness.
"Marcus, I appreciate your enthusiasm, but—"
He cuts me off, his fingers brushing against my hand that holds the glass.
"We've been friends for so long," he says, his voice filled with a strange urgency.
"We can make a difference."
I shift slightly away from him, noticing his other hand slipping towards my jacket pocket where the key rests.
His touch feels calculated, not friendly.
"Marcus, what are you doing?" I ask, my voice steady but firm.
He pauses, his eyes searching mine for a moment before he speaks again. "I'm just saying, with that key, we could unlock more than just doors."
I pull back slightly, keeping my gaze on him.
"Marcus, I appreciate your interest, but I think we should focus on the bigger picture."
He leans back, a smile playing on his lips.
"Of course, Shane. I'm here for you."
I lean back in my grandfather's leather chair, watching my friends' reactions as I pull up the scholarship proposal on the study's projector screen.
The plan would provide full rides to top universities for a thousand kids from poverty backgrounds like mine.
Marcus's earlier suspicious behavior has me being careful with details, so I only share the basic funding structure - fifty million per year.
Landon's eyes light up at the education focus, while Lance starts listing potential schools.
I click through slides showing student selection criteria, keeping one hand protectively near my jacket pocket where the society key rests.
The room falls silent as the final slide reveals the name of the scholarship: "The Legacy Initiative."