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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 multibillion dollar fortune. He is resilient, sarcastic, and determined. Shane faced immense poverty and hardship but never gave up. His life took a drastic turn when his adoptive parents kicked him out due to financial struggles. His exgirlfriend left him for someone richer. Despite criticism and judgment, Shane inherits the wealth, vowing revenge and social climb.
Grandfather
He is Shane’s wealthy grandfather who left him his entire estate. He is wise, secretive, and protective. Grandfather showed kindness to Shane by taking him in as a child and providing for his needs anonymously through gifts. Only revealing the extent of his generosity after his death, Grandfather’s actions ultimately changed Shane's fate from poverty to wealth, giving Shane the means to seek revenge on those who wronged him.
Penelope
She is Shane's exgirlfriend who left him for another man due to financial reasons. She is selfish, materialistic, and shallow. Penelope valued Shane only for his potential wealth, discarding him as soon as she found someone richer. Her relationship with Shane was marked by her constant criticism and desire for luxury, ultimately leading to their breakup and failure of their future plans.
I was an orphan, a poor boy with no one to care for me.
I was raised in foster care, moving home to home until I was sixteen.
At that point, I was placed with a family who said they wanted to adopt me.
They were rich, or so it seemed.
They had a large beautiful home, and they spoiled their two biological children with everything they could want.
But they didn’t spoil me.
They made it clear that I was only there to do the chores and help with the other kids.
They treated the other foster children poorly, but since I was the oldest, I got the brunt of it.
I did all of the household chores, cooked meals, and took care of the younger children.
I worked from five in the morning until eleven at night, every day of the week.
I also attended school during this time, but I was so exhausted, I could barely keep my eyes open.
I thought things would get better when I turned seventeen and was kicked out of the house.
I thought I would finally be free and have a chance to make a life for myself.
But things only got worse.
I had nowhere to go and no money to my name.
I sit across from Penelope at our usual booth in the diner.
She sits with her back to me, stirring her coffee with a spoon.
The coffee is black, just like her hair, and it’s untouched.
She won’t even look at me, instead focusing on the window where expensive cars drive by.
I can see her reflection in the glass, and she looks as beautiful as ever.
Her long black hair cascades down her back, and her bright blue eyes are fixed on something outside.
I can’t tell what she’s thinking, but I know it’s not good.
Finally, she speaks.
"I’m sorry," she says, her voice barely above a whisper.
"I didn’t want it to end like this."
I grip my coffee mug tightly, my knuckles white with tension.
"What do you mean?"
I ask, my voice shaking slightly.
She sighs and turns to face me.
"I’ve met someone else," she says, her voice firm but sad.
"He’s a hedge fund manager. He has a penthouse downtown and a yacht in the harbor. He takes me on trips to exotic places and buys me expensive gifts."
She pauses, taking a deep breath before continuing.
"He has a summer house in the Hamptons and a private jet. He’s everything you’re not." I feel like I’ve been punched in the gut.
I can’t believe what I’m hearing.
How could she do this to me?
We’ve been together for three years, and now she’s just going to leave me for some rich guy?
It doesn’t make any sense.
"I don’t understand," I say, my voice shaking with anger.
"Why are you doing this?"
She shrugs and slides out of the booth.
"I’m sorry," she says again, dropping a few dollars on the table for her coffee.
"I hope you understand."
And with that, she walks out of the diner, leaving me alone and confused.
As I sit there trying to process what just happened, I realize that I should have seen it coming.
Penelope has always been materialistic, and I’ve never been able to give her the things she wants. But still, I never thought she would leave me for someone else.
As I sit there nursing my cheap coffee, I hear the bell above the door chime as Penelope walks out onto the sidewalk.
A voice interrupts my thoughts, and I look up to see the waitress standing beside me.
"Rough day, huh?" she asks, her eyes filled with genuine concern.
I nod, managing a weak smile. "You could say that," I reply, trying to keep my voice steady.
She nods sympathetically and glances down at the table.
"Well, if you need anything else, just let me know," she says, her voice softening.
I nod again, still staring at the space where Penelope had been sitting just moments before.
The half-empty coffee cups sit between us, growing cold and untouched.
My hands shake as I reach into my wallet and pull out a few bills to add to the insufficient tip that Penelope had left behind.
The waitress notices my movement and steps back slightly, giving me some space.
"Take your time," she says gently.
"I’ll be back to check on you in a bit."
I nod once more, grateful for her understanding.
As she walks away, I take a deep breath and try to gather my thoughts.
Three years of memories, reduced to abandoned pancakes and cooling coffee.
I look down at the receipt on the table, the total staring back at me: $47.82 for a breakfast that neither of us had touched. I stand up slowly, grabbing my worn jacket from the hook beside the booth.
The chair scrapes against the floor as I push it back, nearly knocking over the neighboring chair in my haste to leave.
I lean against my beat-up Honda in the diner parking lot, hands still trembling as I pull out my phone.
My thumb hovers over Penelope’s contact, but I can’t bring myself to call her.
Instead, I scroll down and find Marcus’s number.
He’s been my best friend since we met at the foster home.
He’s the only one who stuck around through all of it.
The call connects on the third ring.
"Hey, man," Marcus answers, his familiar voice a welcome respite from the morning’s chaos.
"Everything okay?"
I take a deep breath and recount the breakfast disaster, leaving out no details.
Marcus listens quietly on the other end of the line, only interjecting with an occasional grunt or sympathetic murmur.
When I finally finish talking, he lets out a low whistle.
"Well, that sucks," he says bluntly.
"But honestly, you’re better off without her."
I can almost hear him shrug through the phone.
"She was always complaining about something. Your clothes weren’t nice enough, your apartment wasn’t fancy enough. She even gave you grief about your job."
He pauses for a moment before continuing.
"You deserve someone better than that." I nod silently, even though he can’t see me.
He’s right, of course.
Penelope had been critical of everything about me for months now.
But still, it hurts to hear it said out loud like that.
"Come over," Marcus says firmly.
"We’ll grab some beers and figure out your next move."
I glance down at my wallet, mentally calculating how much gas money I have left.
It should be just enough to make it across town to Marcus’s place.
"Okay," I reply finally, feeling a small sense of determination wash over me.
"See you soon."
I grip the steering wheel of my beat-up Honda, focusing on each turn to distract myself from the diner disaster.
The car’s familiar rattles and squeaks echo through the cabin as I navigate through the wealthy part of town.
A red Ferrari cuts me off at an intersection, and I slam on the brakes to avoid a collision.
The driver glares at me as he speeds past, clearly annoyed by my presence on his road.
I can’t help but think of Penelope’s new man and his fancy cars.
A string of angry honks erupts from behind me, and I realize I’ve been sitting at the stoplight for too long.
I take a deep breath and continue driving, turning onto the familiar route that leads to Marcus’s neighborhood.
The scenery changes quickly as I leave the mansions and manicured lawns behind.
Soon, I find myself surrounded by modest homes and apartment complexes.
My car sputters at a stoplight, the gas gauge hovering precariously close to empty.
I ease the car into Marcus’s cracked concrete driveway, the engine wheezing one final time before dying completely.
The gas gauge needle sits firmly below empty, and I silently thank whatever force got me here.
Through Marcus’s chain-link fence, I spot him standing on his small front porch.
He’s already holding two cold beers in his hands, ready for me.
He’s wearing his usual work clothes - faded jeans and a mechanic’s shirt with "Marcus" stitched above the pocket.
The sight of his concerned expression and those waiting beers makes my chest tighten.
I drag myself up the few steps to his front door, taking the cold beer he extends.
The condensation drips down the bottle as we settle into the weathered plastic chairs that line his small front porch.
Marcus’s house is a modest two-bedroom place, with oil stains in the driveway and a small garage where he tinkerers with cars.
He’s been a mechanic at the local garage since we were teenagers.
He never had any big ambitions like some of our classmates did.
He just liked working with his hands, and he was good at it.
I can still smell the faint scent of motor grease on him even though he’s changed clothes.
It’s comforting after spending the morning in Penelope’s sterile world.
We sit in silence for a moment, Marcus not pressing me to talk about what happened at the diner.
He just clinks his bottle against mine and takes a long drink, draining half of it before setting it down on the porch railing. I follow his lead, taking a swig of my own beer and letting its familiar taste wash over me.
The cool liquid helps loosen my tight muscles as I stare out at Marcus’s yard.
The grass needs to be mowed again, and there are weeds growing through the cracks in the sidewalk.
Penelope would have wrinkled her nose at places like this.
She always wanted more - more money, more status, more material possessions.
I tighten my grip around the beer bottle as I think about her walking away from me so easily.
I notice Marcus shifting on the worn porch steps, his calloused hand accidentally brushing against mine as he reaches for his second beer.
The contact makes me pause mid-sip, suddenly aware of the charged silence between us.
His dark eyes study my face intently, holding a question I’m not ready to answer.
The evening air grows thick with unspoken words as he maintains eye contact a moment too long.
I quickly stand up, pretending to stretch, and move to lean against the porch railing instead.
Marcus’s shoulders slump slightly at my retreat, but he doesn’t follow.
"Are you ever going to tell me what really happened with Penelope?" Marcus asks, his voice steady but probing.
I sigh, staring at the beer in my hand. "She found someone else, Marcus—someone with a Ferrari and a bank account that doesn't laugh at overdraft fees."
Marcus nods slowly, his eyes softening with understanding. "And you're sure that's all she wanted? Because I see something more in you than just what's in your wallet."
I lean against the porch railing, the beer bottle sweating in my hand as the evening sun casts long shadows across Marcus’s unkempt lawn.
The weight of Penelope’s rejection starts to lift, replaced by a different kind of tension.
Marcus waits patiently while I gather my thoughts, his work boots scuffing against the wooden steps.
I take a deep breath and let it all spill out - my secret ambitions, my dreams of starting my own business, buying a house in a better neighborhood, making something of myself beyond what others expect.
My voice grows stronger with each admission, though I leave out the burning desire for revenge that's been growing since the diner.
Marcus listens quietly, his expression shifting from surprise to something like pride.
"Why didn't you ever tell me any of this before?" he asks, leaning forward with genuine curiosity.
I shrug, feeling a mix of relief and vulnerability. "I guess I thought you'd think it was stupid, or that I was just dreaming too big."
I stare at Marcus's extended hand, noticing the engine grease permanently embedded in his knuckles.
The gesture feels too intimate after our earlier awkward moment, so I pretend to check my phone instead.
Marcus drops his hand but keeps his smile, pulling out a worn notepad from his back pocket.
He sits cross-legged on the porch, scribbling potential business ideas while I pace.
The familiar squeak of his screen door and distant sound of cars passing provide background noise as he sketches rough diagrams.
"Look," Marcus says, tapping the notepad with his pen, "I know a guy who could help us get started—he owes me a favor from way back."
I stop pacing, my interest piqued. "You mean someone who can actually make this happen?"
Marcus grins, nodding confidently. "Yeah, someone who believes in second chances and knows how to turn dreams into reality."
I shift uncomfortably under his intense stare, moving further along the porch railing.
The evening air grows heavy with unspoken tension, the distant chirping of crickets filling the silence.
When Marcus stands to approach me, I pretend to check my empty phone again, avoiding his eyes.
His work boots scrape against the wooden boards as he steps closer.
My heart races, not from attraction but from the fear of losing my only true friend.
The familiar comfort of his porch now feels like a trap.
I take a deep breath, finally meeting his gaze, and decide it's time to let him in.
I force a smile, my voice trembling slightly.
"I'll meet your contact," I say, though my mind races with doubts.
Marcus grabs a pen from his pocket and scribbles an address on the back of an old receipt.
It's some coffee shop downtown that I've never heard of.
The paper feels grimy in my hand, stained with motor oil from his fingers.
"You can borrow my car," he offers, noticing the worry on my face.
"No, it's fine. I'll take the bus," I reply quickly, not wanting to rely on him further.
Marcus's shoulders slump slightly at my rejection as I turn to leave.
I head down his creaky porch steps, the wooden boards groaning beneath my weight.
Just as I reach the bottom, Marcus calls out, "The meeting's tomorrow at 2 PM."
I nod, not turning back, and make my way down the path to the street.
The city bus rumbles past me as I walk, the smell of exhaust fumes filling the air.
My cramped apartment bedroom is dimly lit, with only a single flickering lamp illuminating the space.
I sit on my twin bed, staring at my phone screen.
Marcus's text reads: "You okay? You left kinda fast."
My bulletin board is covered in photos from our foster home days—Marcus teaching me how to fix cars, us celebrating birthdays together, and moments of stolen laughter amidst the chaos.
My hands shake as I type and delete multiple responses.
The memory of his touch on the porch keeps replaying in my mind, along with the hurt in his eyes when I pulled away.
After an hour of internal struggle, I finally send him a message: "Meet me at our old hangout spot by the river tomorrow. We need to talk."
I park my Honda at the riverside lot, the engine sputtering before finally dying.
Through the windshield, I see Marcus already at our usual spot, leaning against the massive oak where we used to hang out after leaving foster care.
He's still in his work clothes, grease stains visible even from here.
My hands grip the steering wheel tightly as I rehearse what to say about last night's awkward moment.
The afternoon sun casts long shadows across the grass, and a couple walking their dog passes between us.
I take a deep breath, grab the envelope containing the coffee shop details, and step out of my car.
Marcus looks up as I approach, his expression a mix of anticipation and concern.
"Did you change your mind about the meeting?" he asks, his voice steady but with an edge of vulnerability.
I shake my head, holding out the envelope. "No, but there's something else we need to discuss first."
I freeze as he takes a step toward me, his oil-stained fingers reaching out to brush a strand of hair from my face.
The couple with their dog passes behind him, the gravel path crunching under their footsteps.
My heart races as his rough fingertips graze against my temple, pushing the loose strand away.
The gesture feels wrong, breaking years of brotherly friendship.
I step backward, my heel catching on a tree root.
Marcus's hopeful expression crumbles as I steady myself against the oak's rough bark.
"I can't," I whisper, watching his hand drop to his side.
Marcus's voice is barely above a whisper, "Can't what? Trust me anymore?"
"It's not about trust," I reply, my voice cracking.
"Then what is it?" he asks, his eyes searching mine for answers.
I lean against the oak, my heart pounding in my chest.
The couple with their dog disappears around the river bend, leaving us alone.
Marcus steps closer, his familiar scent of motor oil and cheap soap filling my senses.
My mind races with memories of late nights fixing cars together, sharing cheap takeout, and celebrating small victories.
When Marcus reaches for my hand again, I don't pull away this time.
The rough calluses of his mechanic's hands feel different now.
My voice comes out barely above a whisper as I admit what I've been afraid to acknowledge.
"I don't know how to be just your friend anymore."
My heart pounds in my chest as his face hovers inches from mine, his breath ghosting across my skin.
The rough bark of the oak digs into my back while his oil-stained hands grip mine tighter.
Time seems to slow as he moves to close the final gap between us.
A sharp vibration makes me jolt.
It's my phone buzzing in my pocket, an unknown number flashing on the screen with a Manhattan area code.
Marcus pulls back slightly, his expression shifting from tender to concerned as I fumble to answer the call.
"Hello?"
My voice is breathless and uncertain.
The voice on the other end is crisp and formal.
"Is this Shane Weber?"
I glance at Marcus, whose eyes are fixed on me, filled with a mix of confusion and longing.
"Yes," I reply, turning away from him slightly.
"I'm calling from the office of Mr. Daniel Winters. He'd like to schedule a meeting with you."
"Mr. Winters?" "Yes, he believes you may have information relevant to a matter he's handling. Can you come to our office tomorrow afternoon?"
I hesitate, unsure of what this could be about.
But something about the formality of the call makes me feel like I can't ignore it.
"Okay, yes. What time?"
"Two o'clock. We're located on the 23rd floor of the Manhattan Tower."
"Alright, thank you."
My back presses against the rough bark of the oak tree as Marcus moves closer.
The late afternoon sun filters through the branches above us, casting dappled shadows across his face.
His work uniform still carries traces of motor oil, but I barely notice as his hands cup my face.
Time seems to slow while passing joggers and dog walkers fade into background noise.
My heart pounds against my ribs when Marcus's eyes meet mine, full of warmth and certainty.
He leans in slowly, giving me all the time in the world to pull away.
His breath tickles my cheek as he whispers those words I never expected to hear.
Marcus's lips meet mine with gentle hesitation.
His calloused hands are still cradling my face, his thumbs brushing against my cheeks.
The rough tree bark presses into my back through the thin fabric of my jacket.
His familiar scent of motor oil and cheap soap fills my senses as he deepens the kiss.
The footsteps of a passing jogger fade into the distant hum of the city, leaving only the sound of our breathing and the soft rustle of leaves above us.
My fingers find their way to the front of his work uniform, feeling the worn fabric and grease stains beneath my hands.
The kiss lingers, tender yet uncertain, as years of friendship transform into something new.
I lean in closer, feeling the rough tree bark press against my back.
His hands, calloused from years of mechanical work, still cup my face gently.
The late afternoon sun casts long shadows through the oak's branches as I gather my courage.
My voice comes out barely above a whisper, trembling slightly as I admit, "I've waited for this moment too."
Marcus's eyes widen at my confession, and he pulls me closer for another kiss.
This one is deeper, more certain than before.
The unknown number flashes in my mind, a reminder that tomorrow could change everything.
I follow Marcus along the riverside path, our fingers intertwined despite the oil stains on his hands.
The gravel crunches beneath our feet as we pass other couples and joggers.
Marcus walks slowly, deliberately, as if trying to make this moment last longer.
When we reach the old wooden bridge where we used to fish as teenagers, he stops and turns to face me.
His work uniform reflects orange in the setting sun.
I notice he's trembling slightly, despite his usual confidence.
I lean against the wooden bridge railing, and Marcus moves closer, his work boots scuffing the weathered planks.
The setting sun casts long shadows across his grease-stained uniform as he reaches for my hand.
His calloused fingers intertwine with mine, trembling slightly.
The familiar scent of motor oil mingles with the dampness of the river.
Other people pass by, but Marcus focuses only on me.
His eyes hold years of unspoken feelings as he leans in, his breath warm against my ear.
My heart pounds against my ribs, knowing what comes next.
I watch his trembling hands pull a small velvet box from his oil-stained uniform pocket.
My breath catches as he fumbles with the worn fabric, nearly dropping the box onto the bridge planks.
The setting sun glints off his greasy fingers while he steadies himself against the wooden railing.
Time seems to freeze as I stare at that tiny box, memories of our shared childhood in foster care flooding back.
Before he can open it or speak those life-changing words, I grab his wrist, stopping him.
We stand there, suspended between past and future, as the river flows silently beneath us.
I grip his wrist at the bridge, feeling his pulse race beneath my fingers.
The velvet box remains half-hidden in his uniform pocket as I move closer, my boots creaking on the wooden planks.
Other people's voices fade into background noise while I study his face - the familiar worry lines, grease smudges, and hopeful expression.
My throat tightens as I lean in, my lips nearly touching his ear.
"I've always loved you," I whisper, the words coming out before he can drop to one knee.
I watch his face light up at my confession as his trembling fingers finally open the velvet box.
The ring inside catches the sunset, a delicate silver band with a small diamond that must have cost him months of mechanic's wages.
His work-roughened hands steady as he holds it out, oil stains visible against the dark velvet.
The bridge creaks beneath us while other people pass by, but I focus only on how the diamond's sparkle matches the hope in his eyes.
He starts to speak, his voice catching with emotion, when my phone suddenly buzzes with another call from Manhattan Tower.
Marcus hesitates, glancing at the phone vibrating in my pocket.
"Is that them again?" he asks, his voice a mix of concern and understanding.
I nod, feeling the weight of the decision pressing down on us both.
I reach for Marcus's trembling hands, steadying them between my own.
The velvet box sits open between us, the modest diamond catching the last rays of sunset.
My phone continues vibrating in my pocket - Manhattan Tower's third call today.
I deliberately press the side button through my jeans, silencing it without looking away from Marcus's face.
His eyes widen with hope as I squeeze his rough, oil-stained fingers.
"Yes," I whisper, my voice barely audible over the river below.
The chapter ends with the world narrowing to just us, a promise sealed in silence.
I hold out my trembling left hand as Marcus fumbles with the small diamond ring.
His oil-stained fingers leave faint marks on the silver band, but I don't care.
The modest stone catches the orange sunlight, creating tiny rainbows on the weathered bridge planks.
Other couples walk past us, some smiling knowingly.
Marcus's hands shake so much he almost drops the ring between the wooden slats.
I steady his grip with my right hand, feeling the familiar calluses from his years of mechanical work.
I watch as he tries to slide the ring onto my finger.
The metal catches on my knuckle, making us both nervous.
A young couple stops at the other end of the bridge, watching our moment with a mix of curiosity and envy.
Marcus takes a deep breath, steadies his grip, and finally slips the ring into place.
The diamond sparkles in the fading sunlight, casting tiny rainbows onto his grease-marked uniform.
We share a laugh, both relieved and happy as we stand close together on the creaking wooden planks.
The world feels right as I lean in and kiss him, sealing our future with the warmth of his smile.
I lead Marcus off the bridge, our fingers intertwined.
The oil stains from his hands transfer to mine, but I don't mind.
The wooden planks creak beneath our feet as we follow the riverside path away from where he proposed.
Other couples pass by, some noticing my new ring catching the last rays of sunlight.
Marcus walks slower than usual, squeezing my hand every few steps as if confirming this is real.
When we reach the gravel section of the path, he pulls me closer to his side.
His work uniform brushes against my jacket while we take our time heading back to the parking lot.
As we reach the car, I know we've left behind more than just footprints on that bridge.
I pull out my vibrating phone from my jacket pocket while Marcus keeps his arm around me.
The lawyer's voice on the other end is crisp and professional.
"Ms. Williams, I hope you're doing well."
I nod, even though he can't see me.
"I'm fine, thank you."
Marcus glances at me, curiosity in his eyes.
I mouth "lawyer" to him, and he nods knowingly.
The lawyer continues, "I have some important information regarding your grandfather's estate."
I pause for a moment, confused.
"Grandfather?"
Marcus raises an eyebrow, clearly wondering who this is about.
"Yes, Ms. Williams," the lawyer responds.
"Your grandfather passed away recently, and I'm handling the distribution of his estate. You are his sole beneficiary."
My knees buckle slightly at the news.
Marcus steadies me with his arm around my waist as I lean against the car door for support.
"Beneficiary?"
I ask, still trying to process what's happening.
"Yes," the lawyer confirms.
"He has left you his entire estate. It's a substantial amount."
My mind reels as I try to understand what this means.
A substantial amount could mean anything.
"How much?"
I ask, my voice barely above a whisper. There's a pause on the other end of the line before the lawyer responds with a number that makes my breath catch in my throat.
I feel like I've been punched in the gut as I listen to him recite figures that sound like they belong in a fantasy novel.
Billions?
It can't be real.
Marcus looks at me with concern as I stand there frozen, my phone pressed tightly against my ear.
The lawyer continues talking, but I can't focus on what he's saying anymore.
All I hear are those numbers echoing in my mind.
When he finally finishes speaking, I manage to say something about needing time to process everything before hanging up the call.
As soon as I end the conversation, Marcus turns to me with a mix of confusion and concern etched on his face.
"What was that all about?" he asks gently, placing a hand on my shoulder to steady me further.
I take a deep breath and try to gather my thoughts before explaining what just happened. "It seems I have an inheritance from a grandfather I never knew existed," I say slowly, still trying to wrap my head around it all.
"And it's...a lot."
Marcus furrows his brow in confusion.
"A lot?"
He repeats skeptically.