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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.
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 Shane's emancipation from their toxic connection.
Unnamed Adoptive Parents
They are Shane's adoptive parents who kicked him out when he was fifteen due to financial difficulties. They are heartless, selfcentered, and cruel. The father despised Shane from the start, calling him a "mistake." The mother showed no emotional support, instead focusing on her own desires. Their treatment of Shane was brutal, contributing significantly to his struggles and eventual independence after inheriting the fortune.
I was an orphan, a poor one to be exact.
My life was hard and my future looked bleak.
But all of that changed when I found out who my real family was.
I was the grandson of a multibillionaire, the only one in the world who had that amount of money to his name.
My life took a drastic turn, and soon everyone that ever doubted me would be bowing down at my feet.
I, Shane Weber, was not a failure like everyone made me out to be.
I was going to rise above all of them and show them what I was truly capable of.
The sun was setting as I walked down the street, looking miserable as ever.
My life was just one big mess.
First, my girlfriend left me for someone who had more money than me.
Then my adoptive parents also kicked me out of the house because they couldn't afford to keep me anymore.
I was on the streets now, all alone with no direction to go.
"Shane! Hey, Shane!"
I pause on the sidewalk, my worn sneakers scuffing against the concrete.
The voice sounds familiar, but I can't quite place it.
"Shane!"
It comes again, this time closer.
I turn, and my eyes land on a woman running toward me.
She's waving a thick manila envelope in her hand, her practical flats clicking against the pavement.
Her usually neat bob is disheveled, wisps of gray hair escaping her bun.
"Lisa?"
I question as she finally reaches me, breathing heavily.
Lisa is my social worker from the foster system.
I've known her for years, but I haven't seen her since I turned eighteen and aged out of the system.
"What are you doing here?"
I ask, eyeing the envelope in her hand.
"I've been looking everywhere for you," she pants, thrusting the envelope at my chest. I take it hesitantly, not sure what to expect.
The envelope feels heavy with official documents inside.
My name is printed in bold letters across the front: Shane Weber.
"You're a hard man to find," Lisa says, still catching her breath.
"I've been trying to track you down for weeks."
I frown at her, not understanding why she would go through so much trouble to find me.
"What's going on?"
I ask, tucking the envelope under my arm.
Lisa glances around nervously before leaning in close.
"Your grandfather's lawyers have been looking everywhere for you," she whispers urgently.
"They need to speak with you about your inheritance."
I stare at her, unsure if I heard her correctly.
"My grandfather?"
I repeat, my mind racing with questions.
"I don't have a grandfather."
Lisa nods frantically, her eyes darting around as if she's afraid someone might be listening in.
"Yes, you do," she says quietly.
"He's been looking for you, and he needs you to come home."
With trembling hands, I tear open the envelope.
The papers inside are crisp and fresh, bearing the expensive letterhead of a lawyer's office.
I pull them out, my eyes scanning the elegant script.
It's a formal request for my presence at Wellington & Associates tomorrow morning at 9 AM sharp.
The address is a downtown location I've only ever seen in magazines.
The letter goes on to explain that I have substantial holdings awaiting my review and that my presence is required to finalize the transfer of assets.
I read through the details multiple times, trying to absorb every word.
My mind races with possibilities, but I can't quite wrap my head around it all.
For the first time in my life, hope mingles with thoughts of revenge.
I stuff the papers back inside the envelope and glance at my watch - an old, worn thing that barely keeps time.
It reads 6:47 PM.
Fourteen hours until the meeting.
I walk back to my tiny rented room above the convenience store.
The cracked sidewalk is dotted with puddles from the last rain, and I carefully avoid them as I go.
The neon signs from the liquor store and fast food joints cast an eerie glow over the deserted street.
I climb the creaky stairs, my hand gripping the railing for support.
The air smells of stale cigarettes and cheap perfume.
I unlock my door and step inside, flicking on the dim overhead light.
The room is small, barely enough space for a single bed and a rickety dresser.
My belongings are few - a handful of thrift store clothes, some worn-out shoes, and a few books that I've salvaged from the library's discard pile.
I lay out my only decent clothes on the bed - a wrinkled white shirt and navy slacks that I found at a thrift store months ago.
I polish my scuffed shoes with an old t-shirt, trying to make them look presentable.
Finally, I set three alarms on my phone, just in case one fails to wake me up.
I lie down on the thin mattress, staring up at the water-stained ceiling.
Sleep feels like an impossible task tonight.
Tossing in my narrow bed, fragments of dreams flash through my mind - marble hallways stretching endlessly, stacks of gold bars glinting in vault lights, my ex-girlfriend Penelope begging for forgiveness.
The springs creak as I shift positions, trying to get comfortable on the lumpy mattress.
Through the thin walls, I hear the convenience store's neon sign buzzing, casting intermittent red light across my room.
My phone reads 3:27 AM.
I grab one of my library books, an old business magazine, and flip through profiles of wealthy CEOs until exhaustion finally overtakes me.
The alarm blares, jolting me awake, and I fumble to silence it.
I sit up, rubbing my eyes, and glance at the clock: 7:15 AM.
"Shane, you awake?" calls a voice from outside my door—it's my neighbor, Mrs. Thompson, always checking in on me.
I shower quickly in the shared bathroom down the hall, trying to ignore the dripping faucet and peeling wallpaper.
Back in my room, I dress in the thrift store outfit I laid out last night and check my reflection in the cracked mirror.
The dark circles under my eyes betray my sleepless night.
I stuff a few important documents into my worn backpack: birth certificate, social security card, and the letter from Wellington & Associates.
As I pass Mrs. Thompson's door, she offers me a piece of toast through the gap, but I'm too nervous to eat.
At exactly 8:15 AM, I lock my room for what I hope is the last time and head down the creaky stairs, stepping over the broken third step.
"Shane, wait up!" Mrs. Thompson calls after me, her voice tinged with concern.
I pause at the bottom of the stairs, turning to face her. "Is everything okay, Mrs. Thompson?"
She hesitates for a moment, then leans in closer. "Just be careful today, dear. Not everything that glitters is gold."
I pause on the cracked sidewalk outside my building, watching the morning traffic rush past.
Business people in pressed suits hurry toward gleaming office towers while I adjust my threadbare shirt collar.
A sleek black Mercedes cuts through traffic, reminding me of Penelope's new boyfriend.
Checking my phone - 8:22 AM - I have time to walk the fifteen blocks to Wellington & Associates.
Each step takes me closer to my destiny, past the coffee shops and boutiques I could never afford.
The downtown buildings grow taller and more imposing as I approach the lawyers' office.
I pause outside the gleaming glass doors of Wellington & Associates, my reflection barely recognizable in the polished surface.
Through the windows, I see marble floors and leather furniture that cost more than my yearly rent.
The security guard eyes my thrift store clothes suspiciously as I pull open the heavy door.
Inside, cool air hits my face while classical music plays softly overhead.
Other visitors in designer suits give me sideways glances as I cross the lobby, my worn shoes squeaking against the floor.
The receptionist's desk towers before me, a massive curved structure of mahogany and steel.
The receptionist, a polished woman in her forties with manicured nails and a crisp suit, looks up from her computer screen.
Her expression is practiced indifference as she takes in my appearance.
"Can I help you?" she asks, her voice smooth but skeptical.
"Shane Weber," I state, maintaining eye contact despite her once-over of my wrinkled clothes.
"I have an appointment at 9:00 AM."
She taps at her keyboard, her eyebrows rising slightly as she reads something on her screen.
Her demeanor shifts instantly - back straightening, smile widening.
She stands, gesturing toward the elevator bank.
"Of course, Mr. Weber. Please follow me."
As we walk, I notice other employees stopping their conversations to watch us pass.
The receptionist presses the button for the top floor with perfectly manicured fingers, stealing glances at my shabby appearance.
The elevator arrives, its doors sliding open with a soft whoosh.
We step inside, and the doors close behind us.
The elevator rises smoothly, its mirrored walls reflecting my wrinkled shirt and scuffed shoes from every angle.
A faint scent of the receptionist's expensive perfume fills the small space as we ascend in awkward silence.
Floor numbers tick by on the digital display: 12, 13, 14.
My stomach lurches at the rapid climb, or maybe it's nerves.
The receptionist maintains her plastic smile, phone clutched to her chest, as we pass floor 20.
The elevator doors slide apart, revealing a vast corner office bathed in morning sunlight.
Floor-to-ceiling windows cover two sides, offering a breathtaking view of the city sprawling below.
My stomach lurches as I take in the dizzying height.
A massive mahogany desk sits at the room's center, flanked by leather chairs that probably cost more than my yearly rent.
Behind it, a wall lined with bookshelves and awards stretches toward the high ceiling.
The receptionist gestures me forward, her heels clicking on the polished floor.
As I step into the office, my shoes sink into plush carpeting that feels like heaven against my tired feet.
Behind the desk, an elderly man rises from his chair, his eyes narrowing as he studies me.
His suit is impeccable - tailored to perfection, every crease sharp and precise.
His piercing blue eyes hold mine for a long moment before he speaks in a voice that commands respect.
"Mr. Weber," he says, his tone firm but polite.
"Thank you for coming."
I sink into the deep leather chair, its softness a stark contrast to the lumpy mattress I sleep on at home.
The elderly lawyer - Mr. Wellington himself, according to the nameplate on his desk - pulls out a thick folder marked with my name.
His manicured hands spread several documents across the polished surface while the receptionist quietly exits, closing the heavy door behind her.
The morning sun streams through the windows, casting a warm glow over everything and highlighting the dust particles dancing in the air between us.
My hands grip the armrests of the chair as Mr. Wellington adjusts his wire-rimmed glasses and clears his throat.
"Mr. Weber, I'm sure you're aware of your uncle's recent passing," Mr. Wellington begins, his voice steady yet gentle.
I nod, my throat tightening as I recall the man who had been more of a mystery than a relative.
"Well," he continues, sliding a document toward me, "he left you something rather unexpected in his will."
I grip the leather armrests tighter as he slides the document closer, his manicured finger pointing to specific paragraphs.
The paper's expensive letterhead catches the morning sunlight streaming through the windows.
My eyes dart across lines of legal jargon, catching fragments about "substantial holdings" and "primary beneficiary."
The text blurs as I try to focus, my heart pounding against my ribs.
Mr. Wellington clears his throat and begins explaining the details, but I can't tear my gaze away from a single number near the bottom of the page - a figure so large my mind can't process all the zeros.
"Is this... is this number correct?" I stammer, my voice barely above a whisper.
Mr. Wellington nods, a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
"Indeed, Mr. Weber," he replies, "your uncle was quite the savvy investor."
I lean forward, my palms growing sweaty against the cool leather.
The morning sun casts long shadows across his desk as I force myself to meet Mr. Wellington's steady gaze.
Clearing my throat, I manage to ask, "What do I need to do to claim this... this inheritance?"
Mr. Wellington pulls out another stack of documents, each one marked with red tabs for where I need to sign.
As he explains the transfer process, he reaches into his suit pocket and retrieves a pen.
The elegant writing instrument feels heavy in my trembling hand as he guides me through the papers, pointing out each place I need to sign my name.
"Before you sign, Mr. Weber," Mr. Wellington says, pausing with a serious expression, "there's something else you should know."
I glance up, my curiosity piqued despite the overwhelming situation.
"Your uncle left a condition," he continues, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper: " You must go to college and get a degree in your specialty to keep the inheritance."
I sit in the study of my new luxury apartment, the walls lined with towering shelves filled with books I've yet to read.
The mahogany desk stretches out before me, its polished surface covered in a mess of college brochures and course catalogs.
My fingers drum against the leather chair's armrest, a stark contrast to the old wooden stool I used to sit on back in my small apartment.
I open my laptop, its screen glowing brightly as I start researching different majors and career paths.
My mind wanders back to my days working at the local convenience store, where I would often fix the computers for the owner.
He always said I had a knack for technology, but I never thought much of it.
Now, with the weight of my inheritance hanging over me, I find myself drawn to the idea of pursuing a career in computer science.
I type "computer science" into the search bar and watch as a multitude of results flood the screen.
A notification pops up - another email from Mr. Wellington asking about my progress in choosing a college.
I click on one of the top results, a prestigious university known for its rigorous computer science program.
I sit back in my chair, dialing Mr. Wellington's number on my new phone.
The device feels sleek and expensive in my hand, a far cry from the old flip phone I used to own.
As the call connects, I hear Mr. Wellington's familiar voice on the other end.
"Mr. Weber, how are you?" he asks, his tone friendly and professional.
"I'm doing well, thank you," I reply, my voice steady despite the nervousness bubbling in my stomach.
"I've been looking into different colleges and majors."
"Excellent," Mr. Wellington says, his voice filled with approval.
"I trust you're making good progress?"
"Yes, sir," I answer, glancing down at the brochures scattered across my desk.
"I think I've found a few options that interest me."
"Good, good," Mr. Wellington says, his voice growing more serious.
"Remember, you need to make a decision soon. The application deadline is next week."
"Yes, sir," I reply, nodding even though he can't see me.
"I'll make sure to get everything submitted on time."
As we continue discussing the details of my college search, a notification pops up on my laptop screen - a new email has arrived in my inbox.
I click on it while still on the call with Mr. Wellington.
The email is from the National Merit Foundation, and as I read the subject line, my heart skips a beat - "Congratulations on Receiving Our Prestigious Full-Ride Scholarship." My hand freezes on the mouse as I read through the email, my eyes widening in disbelief.
The scholarship is for a full ride to any college of my choice, covering complete tuition for any major I decide to pursue.
I feel like I've been punched in the gut as I read through the details of the scholarship - it's everything I could have ever dreamed of and more.
"Mr. Weber? Are you still there?"
Mr. Wellington's voice snaps me out of my daze.
I clear my throat and try to compose myself.
"Yes, sorry about that," I say, trying to keep my voice steady.
"I just received an email from the National Merit Foundation."
"Ah yes," Mr. Wellington says knowingly.
"They're a prestigious organization. What does the email say?"
I take a deep breath before answering.
"They're offering me a full-ride scholarship to any college of my choice," I say slowly, trying to process the information myself.
"Congratulations, Mr. Weber," Mr. Wellington says, his voice filled with genuine excitement.
"That's a remarkable achievement. What do you need to do next?"
I glance back at the email, my eyes scanning the instructions.
"I need to respond to this email and formally accept the scholarship," I explain.
"Would you like me to help you draft a response?"
Mr. Wellington offers.
"Yes, please," I reply gratefully.
As I sit at my mahogany desk, fingers hovering over my laptop keyboard, I feel a sense of determination wash over me.
The floor-to-ceiling windows behind me reveal the city lights flickering on as evening approaches.
Mr. Wellington remains on speakerphone, offering suggestions about wording and protocol.
I carefully proofread each sentence, determined to make the perfect impression.
While finalizing the email, a notification pings on my laptop.
I click on it, and a new message from the National Merit Foundation appears in my inbox.
My cursor hovers over the email, trembling slightly as I open it.
The subject line reads, "Exclusive Tech Internship Opportunity at Silicon Dynamics."
I scan the content, my eyes widening in disbelief.
The email invites me to apply for an exclusive tech internship at Silicon Dynamics, one of the world's leading software companies.
The position includes mentorship from their top engineers and potential job placement after graduation.
I read through the details, my mind racing with excitement and nerves.
As I reach the end of the email, my eyes linger on the location of the internship - the same downtown district where Penelope's new boyfriend works.
"Penelope's new boyfriend?" Mr. Wellington asks, his voice tinged with curiosity.
"Yes," I reply, my voice barely above a whisper. "It's just... complicated."
"Complicated how?" he presses gently, sensing there's more to the story.