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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 was Shane’s wealthy grandfather who left him his entire estate upon passing. He is empathetic, wise, and supportive. Grandfather secretly took Shane under his wing when he was a young boy, leaving him small gifts and encouraging notes. This hidden support shaped Shane into the person he is today. Grandfather’s unexpected bequeathment of his entire estate changes Shane's life forever, giving him the tools to challenge 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's wealth over their relationship, ultimately choosing someone with more resources. Her breakup was painful for Shane, but it also propelled him toward selfreliance. Although she does not play a significant role anymore, her actions serve as a catalyst for Shane's transformation and quest for power.
I was an orphan.
I didn't know my parents, and I had been raised in foster care.
That was until I was sixteen and a family took me in.
It was great at first, but then things turned sour.
They adopted me because they wanted cheap labor, and they treated me like it.
They were harsh and unkind, making sure I knew my place and that I was forever in their debt.
I endured it because I had nowhere else to go and I thought that one day things would get better.
They didn't.
When I turned seventeen, they kicked me out.
It was because of a mistake I had made.
I had been working at the local supermarket, and it was my fault that a large shipment of goods had been stolen.
The owner had been furious and blamed my adoptive parents for letting me work for such an irresponsible kid.
In his anger, he reduced the family's grocery allowance significantly, making it impossible for them to afford to keep me.
My adoptive father blamed me for his loss of income and told me that I were a failure.
He said that if I were his real son, he would have disowned me years ago.
My adoptive mother called me ungrateful and said that after all they had done for me, this was the thanks they got?
I stood in my cramped bedroom, methodically folding my worn t-shirts and jeans into my old backpack.
The springs of the thin mattress creaked as I reached underneath, retrieving a shoebox that contained the only treasures I had managed to accumulate over the years.
Inside were a few photos of me as a child, some birthday cards from my foster parents, and the small gifts my grandfather had left for me before he passed away.
I never knew him, but he had left me a note saying that he loved me and that he was sorry for not being there for me.
I didn't know why he wasn't there for me, but I knew that he must have loved me because he left me all of his money.
Through the thin walls of our small house, I could hear my adoptive parents arguing in the kitchen.
Their voices were raised, and they were accusing each other of spending too much money.
I knew that they were going to blame me for their financial problems, just like they always did. My hands shook as I zipped up my backpack and slung it over my shoulder.
I tried to be quiet as I walked out of the room, but the floorboards creaked beneath my feet.
I held my breath, hoping that they wouldn't hear me, but they were too caught up in their argument to notice.
I grabbed the shoebox and hesitated at the doorway of my bedroom, taking one last look around.
The room was bare except for the secondhand furniture and the worn curtains that hung crookedly on the window.
There was nothing else to take with me, nothing that held any sentimental value.
Downstairs, my adoptive parents' voices grew louder, their argument escalating into a full-blown fight.
I could hear them shouting at each other, blaming each other for their financial problems.
I knew that they would soon turn their anger on me, and I didn't want to be there when they did.
I moved silently down the hallway, careful not to make any noise as I approached the stairs.
The floorboard near the stairs creaked loudly when you stepped on it, and I knew that if I made a sound, they would hear me and come running. As I reached the top of the stairs, I could hear them clearly.
They were accusing each other of stealing money from each other, and they were both getting angrier by the minute.
I knew that it wouldn't be long before they started blaming me for their problems.
I took a deep breath and began to make my way down the stairs, trying to be as quiet as possible.
But just as I reached the bottom step, my adoptive mother's voice rang out from the kitchen.
"Where is she?" she shouted.
"I know she's still here. She's probably hiding in her room."
My heart raced as I heard her footsteps coming towards me.
I knew that I had to get out of there fast if I wanted to avoid another argument.
I quickly turned towards the front door and grabbed the doorknob, pulling it open just as my adoptive mother came into view. "Where do you think you're going?" she shouted at me, her face twisted with anger.
"You're not going anywhere until we settle this."
But I didn't wait to hear what she had to say.
I pushed past her and ran out of the house, slamming the door shut behind me.
As I walked away from the house, I could hear them shouting at each other through the open windows.
They were still arguing about money, and they were both blaming each other for their financial problems.
I knew that they would never take responsibility for their own actions, and that they would always find someone else to blame for their mistakes. As I walked away from the house, I pulled out my grandfather's last note from the shoebox and read it one more time.
I clutch the shoebox tightly against my chest as I walk down the dimly lit suburban streets.
The evening air feels cold against my face, and my thin jacket offers little protection from the chill.
I check street signs as I go, trying to find my way to the bus terminal.
The houses around me are dark and quiet, their occupants long since retired for the night.
The only sound is the distant hum of traffic and the occasional splash of a car driving through a puddle on the road.
As I walk, I notice that the puddles are becoming more frequent, and I have to step onto the muddy grass at the side of the road to avoid getting wet.
After twenty minutes of walking, I see the illuminated sign of the bus station in the distance.
It's a small, dingy building with a few benches and a ticket counter inside.
I count out the crumpled bills from my pocket, hoping that I have enough money for a one-way ticket to anywhere but here. The bored ticket agent barely looks up as he takes my money and hands me a pass to the next town over.
"Bus leaves in fifteen minutes," he mumbles, his voice sounding tired and disinterested.
I settle myself onto one of the hard plastic benches, placing the shoebox carefully on my lap.
The bus station is dimly lit, with only a few flickering fluorescent lights overhead.
The air smells stale and musty, and there's a faint scent of cigarette smoke hanging in the air.
I glance around at the other passengers waiting for their buses.
There's an older man sitting on one of the benches, his head slumped forward as he sleeps.
A young couple sits together on another bench, their arms wrapped around each other as they whisper quietly to each other.
A woman with a kind face sits down next to me, glancing at the shoebox in my lap.
"Running away?" she asks softly, her eyes filled with understanding.
I nod, surprised by her perceptiveness, and she continues, "Sometimes leaving is the only way to find where you truly belong."
I step onto the grimy bus, gripping the shoebox tightly against my chest.
The driver barely glances at my ticket before waving me through.
I choose a seat near the back, away from the handful of other passengers.
The worn fabric of the seat scratches against my legs as I settle in, placing the shoebox carefully on my lap.
Through the smudged window, I watch as the familiar landmarks of my hometown scroll past - the supermarket where I lost my job, the park where Penelope dumped me, the church where my adoptive parents first saw me.
The bus engine's vibrations travel through my body as I lean back in the worn seat.
My shoebox rests securely in my lap, one hand gripping it tight while the other traces the worn edges.
The flickering overhead light casts shifting shadows across my closed eyelids.
A baby cries somewhere up front, then quiets to soft whimpers.
The bus heater kicks on with a rattling wheeze, blowing stale warm air that smells faintly of exhaust.
My muscles slowly unclench as exhaustion takes over, though my fingers maintain their protective hold on the box.
The woman with the kind face from the station sits down beside me again, her voice gentle yet probing.
"What's in the box?" she asks, nodding towards it with genuine curiosity.
I hesitate for a moment before replying, "It's the only thing my grandfather left me—a note that might lead me to my real family."
The bus lurches to a halt at an empty intersection, throwing me forward in my seat.
My shoebox tumbles but I catch it before it hits the floor.
The other passengers grumble and shift around, adjusting their positions.
The driver stands up from his seat, his uniform surprisingly crisp despite the late hour.
He turns and walks down the aisle, his boots clicking against the metal floor.
His eyes lock onto mine with a strange sense of recognition.
The kind woman beside me tenses as he approaches.
"Shane Weber," he says firmly, "I've been looking for you for days. Your grandfather sent me to find you before he died."
I stare at him, my mind racing to make sense of his words.
"Why would he send you?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
The driver glances around before leaning in closer, "Because what's in that box is more important than you realize."
I grip my shoebox tightly as I stand up, legs shaky from the long bus ride.
The kind woman touches my arm, whispering a warning to be careful, but I pull away.
Following the driver down the narrow aisle, I dodge other passengers' knees and bags.
The fluorescent lights overhead cast harsh shadows on everyone's faces.
We reach the front of the bus and he opens the door, letting in a blast of cold air.
The street is empty except for a black car idling nearby, its exhaust creating clouds in the darkness.
I step off the bus, shoebox in hand, and walk towards the car, knowing there's no turning back.
I step into the car's leather backseat, my shoebox balanced on my knees.
The driver slides in behind the wheel and reaches into his jacket pocket, producing a thick cream-colored envelope.
My hands shake as I take it, recognizing my grandfather's elegant handwriting.
The car's dome light flickers on, illuminating the letter as I break the wax seal.
Inside, yellowed pages contain a detailed account of our family's hidden wealth and my true heritage.
A small key falls into my lap.
The driver turns to me, his eyes serious, "Now you know why he trusted you."
I stare at the leather seats and polished wood trim, still processing his words.
My fingers trace the ornate brass key in my pocket, its weight against my leg a constant reminder.
The driver explains we're heading to my grandfather's estate, where a hidden vault contains documents proving my identity.
Through the tinted windows, I watch the familiar poverty of my old neighborhood give way to tree-lined streets with mansions.
The shoebox shifts in my lap as we turn onto a private road.
"Why didn't he tell me any of this before?" I ask, my voice tinged with disbelief.
The driver glances at me in the rearview mirror, "He wanted to protect you until you were ready."
I nod slowly, understanding dawning as the grand iron gates of the estate come into view.
Under the dim vault lighting, I spread the documents across a polished mahogany table.
The driver stands guard, his presence both reassuring and intimidating.
My hands still shake as I scan the inheritance papers - figures with endless zeros detailing my new wealth.
A detailed inventory lists private islands in the Pacific, a fleet of mega yachts, and global real estate holdings.
Between the pages, a sleek blue card catches my eye.
The platinum W catches the light as I turn it over.
"What's this?"
I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
The driver steps closer, his voice low, "A special Citibank card. Unlimited funds. Created exclusively for the Weber family."
I look up at him, my mind racing, "So, I'm supposed to just... take over everything?"
He nods, his expression unwavering, "Your grandfather believed you were the only one who could handle the responsibility."
I swallow hard, feeling the weight of the world settling on my shoulders, "And if I can't?"
I gather the scattered papers, methodically organizing them into neat stacks.
The vault's overhead light casts harsh shadows on my face as I sort through property deeds, bank statements, and trust documents.
My fingers brush against the cool metal of the platinum card in my pocket, its weight a constant reminder of my newfound power.
The driver stands silently by the vault door, watching as I file each document into a leather portfolio he provides.
When everything is secured, I close the portfolio with a decisive snap and meet his patient gaze.
"There's no room for doubt," he says firmly, his eyes locked onto mine.
I take a deep breath, trying to steady my nerves, "But what if I make the wrong decisions?"
He leans in slightly, his voice softening, "Your grandfather believed in you for a reason; trust yourself as he did."
I sit in the vault's leather chair, staring at my phone's contact list while fidgeting with the platinum card.
Three names stand out: Isaac, Jeff, and Lance.
My only true friends from before.
They were there for me when everyone else turned their backs.
They shared their lunches when I was hungry, let me sleep on their couches when I was homeless, and never judged me for being poor.
The driver notices my hesitation and clears his throat, "Who are you thinking about?"
I glance up at him, "Friends. They stuck by me when no one else would. If anyone deserves to share in this good fortune, it's them."
He nods in understanding, "Then make the call."
I hesitate, staring at the screen, "What if they don't believe me?"
The driver smiles slightly, "True friends will see past the disbelief and trust your word."
I nod, feeling a surge of determination, "You're right. It's time to let them in on this new chapter."
I lean back against the vault's cold metal wall, platinum card in one hand and phone in the other.
The fluorescent lights hum above as I scroll through my contacts.
Finding Isaac's name, I remember how he shared his apartment couch with me for weeks after I was kicked out.
The driver stands quietly by the door as I press the call button.
One ring echoes in my ear, then another.
My palms grow sweaty around the phone while I rehearse how to explain this unbelievable situation.
The third ring cuts off mid-sound.
"Hello?"
I grip the phone tighter, his warm voice washing over me.
"Isaac?"
"Yeah, who's this?"
"It's me."
There's a brief pause, "Wait, what? Is that really you?"
I can almost hear his smile through the line.
"Yeah, it's me. Listen, I need to meet with you. Tonight."
The vault's fluorescent lights hum above us as I speak.
"Okay, but what's going on?"
"I can't explain over the phone. Let's meet at our old spot."
"You mean the diner?"
"Yeah, the one where you used to buy me coffee when I couldn't afford it."
"Alright, I'll be there in an hour," he says.
The driver nods in approval when I mention the location.
After hanging up, I tuck my phone away and gather the inheritance papers into the leather portfolio.
The driver watches as my hands tremble while I organize them.
I need to show Isaac this isn't a joke.
Before leaving the vault, I tuck my grandfather's platinum card securely in my wallet.
After hanging up with Isaac, I pull out my phone again.
My fingers hover over Jeff's number first.
He was the one who gave me his old winter coat when I was freezing on the streets last year.
The driver stands quietly by the door as I press dial.
The phone rings once, twice, and then Jeff answers, his voice groggy from working the night shift at the factory.
"Hello?"
"Jeff?"
"Yeah?"
"It's me. Can you meet me at the diner? Tonight?"
He yawns, "It's kinda late. Can't it wait till morning?"
"Please, Jeff. This is important."
"Okay, fine. I'll be there in an hour."
I hang up and glance at the driver.
"One more to go."
Next, I call Lance.
He shared his food stamps with me for months when I had nothing.
The phone rings five times before going to voicemail.
I take a deep breath and try again, hoping he picks up this time.
On the second attempt, Lance answers, sounding out of breath, "Hey, sorry, I was in the middle of something."
"Lance, it's me. Can you meet at the diner tonight?"
He hesitates for a moment, "Is everything okay?"
"Yeah, but I need to talk to you in person. It's really important."
"Alright, I'll be there as soon as I can," he replies, concern lacing his voice.
I follow the driver through the vault's heavy steel door, my leather portfolio tucked securely under my arm.
The hallway's marble floors echo our footsteps as we make our way toward the garage.
He leads me to a sleek black Rolls-Royce, opening the rear door with practiced smoothness.
I slide into the plush leather seat, feeling foreign against my worn jeans.
The driver closes the door behind me and takes his place in the front.
As we pull out of the garage, I check my phone for the time - forty minutes until I meet my friends.
The city lights blur past the tinted windows as we merge onto the highway.
I feel nervous about facing them, not knowing how they'll react to this sudden change in my life.
I grip my phone tightly in the back of the Rolls-Royce, staring at the sent messages to Jeff and Lance.
My thumbs hover over the screen, wanting to say more but unsure how.
The leather seat feels foreign against my worn clothes.
Through the window, I watch familiar run-down buildings pass by - the laundromat where Jeff works nights, the convenience store where Lance and I would pool our coins for food.
The driver catches my eye in the rearview mirror and nods reassuringly.
"Do you think they'll understand?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
The driver glances at me again, his eyes softening. "If they're true friends, they'll see beyond the money."
I nod, hoping he's right, as the cityscape continues to blur by.
I check my phone again when it vibrates in the backseat of the Rolls-Royce.
Lance's message pops up on the screen: "Hey, you sound stressed. I can meet you 20 mins early if you need someone to talk to."
My throat tightens at his concern.
Typical Lance, always putting others first despite his own struggles.
The driver notices my expression and asks if everything's okay.
I show him Lance's text and explain how Lance once shared his last cup of ramen with me during a particularly rough week.
After a moment's consideration, I text back accepting his offer.
As the car speeds toward the diner, I realize it's time to share the truth and trust in our bond.
I sit in the idling Rolls-Royce outside the diner, staring at my phone screen.
Lance's message glows back at me: "Hey, you sound stressed. I can meet you 20 mins early if you need someone to talk to."
My heart clenches at his kindness.
I remember all the times he held me through my darkest moments - after Penelope left, when I lost my job, the nights I had nowhere else to go and ended up on his couch.
The driver clears his throat from the front seat, reminding me we have ten minutes until Jeff and Lance arrive.
I take a deep breath and let my fingers hover over the keyboard.
The wealth, the inheritance, none of it matters compared to what Lance means to me.
With trembling hands, I type out the message that could change everything: "Lance, there's something important I need to tell you. Something that might change everything between us."
I hit send and watch the message disappear, my heart pounding in my chest.
Moments later, Lance replies: "Whatever it is, we'll face it together. You know that, right?"
Tears prick at my eyes as I read his words, a wave of relief washing over me.
I sit across from Lance in the empty diner, our usual booth feeling different under the harsh fluorescent lights.
The vinyl seat squeaks as I shift nervously, watching him stir his coffee.
Through the window, I see my driver waiting in the Rolls-Royce, a reminder of my new reality.
Lance looks tired from his night shift, dark circles under his eyes, but he still showed up early just for me.
My heart races as I remember all the times he took care of me - sharing his food, offering his couch, listening without judgment.
The weight of my feelings and my new fortune makes my voice catch.
I lean forward across the table, my elbows resting on the sticky surface.
Lance mirrors my movement, his eyes locked on mine.
The fluorescent lights cast harsh shadows across his face, making him look older than he is.
His coffee cup sits forgotten between us, steam rising in thin wisps.
Through the window, I see my driver standing beside the Rolls-Royce, a silent presence in the night.
Lance's familiar scent of laundry detergent and coffee grounds fills the space between us.
His calloused hand reaches across the table, almost touching mine.
He waits for me to explain why I called him here so early.
I stare at his face, my heart pounding against my ribs.
The fluorescent lights cast harsh shadows across his features, but his eyes hold the same warmth they did when he shared his last meal with me months ago.
My throat tightens as I realize my feelings go beyond friendship.
The inheritance papers in my jacket suddenly feel insignificant compared to this moment.
I reach forward, my fingers trembling, and place my hand over his.
"Lance, I need you to know that the inheritance changes nothing about how I feel," I say, my voice barely above a whisper.
He looks at me, his eyes searching mine, and replies softly, "Are you saying what I think you're saying?"
I nod, feeling both terrified and relieved as I admit, "I'm in love with you, Lance."
My heart pounds as his words sink in.
The fluorescent lights cast a soft glow on his face while he squeezes my hand tighter.
Other customers chat and silverware clinks, but I focus only on Lance's warm brown eyes and gentle smile.
He tells me how he wanted to confess his feelings during those nights I stayed on his couch, but feared taking advantage of my vulnerable situation.
I start to share details about my inheritance, pulling out my grandfather's platinum card, when Jeff enters the diner.
Lance's grip on my hand tightens as he glances at Jeff, then back at me.
"Is he the one who's been handling all your affairs?" Lance asks, his voice laced with concern.
I nod, whispering, "Yes, but I need you to know that you're the only one I trust completely."
I lean back in the booth, my heart pounding as his words sink in.
The fluorescent lights cast shadows across his tired face while other customers' conversations fade into background noise.
His calloused fingers intertwine with mine on the sticky tabletop, and the platinum card in my pocket suddenly feels insignificant.
Our coffee grows cold as Lance tells me how he wanted to confess during those nights I slept on his couch but feared I'd think he was exploiting my situation.
Lance's eyes flicker to Jeff, then back to me, his brow furrowed.
"Does he know about us?" Lance asks, his voice barely concealing his anxiety.
I shake my head, whispering, "No, and I want to keep it that way until we're ready."
I spread the inheritance papers across the sticky diner table, and Jeff leans in, his eyes wide.
Lance keeps his hand on my knee under the table, a subtle gesture of support.
The fluorescent lights cast harsh shadows on the documents, revealing my vast wealth.
Just as I point out the property deeds and platinum card to Jeff, the diner's bell chimes.
Isaac walks in, his work uniform still covered in grease.
He freezes mid-step when he sees the papers, his usual easygoing smile fading into confusion.
Isaac approaches cautiously, his eyes darting between us and the documents.
"What's all this?" he asks, his voice tinged with suspicion.
I glance at Lance, then back at Isaac, and reply, "It's my inheritance, but there's more to it than just money."
Isaac's eyes widen as he takes in the information, and Jeff leans back, processing the news.
Lance clears his throat, breaking the awkward silence.
"We could use some of this wealth to help others who struggled like we did," he suggests, his voice filled with a mix of hope and trepidation.
Isaac's eyes light up, and he leans forward, intrigued.
"What do you mean?" he asks, his voice filled with curiosity.
Lance explains his idea of converting abandoned buildings into homeless shelters and job training centers.
Jeff's eyes widen as Lance mentions hiring local workers, including Jeff's unemployed brother.
Isaac nods enthusiastically, adding ideas about implementing food programs for those in need.
I watch their excitement grow, reminded why these three were my only real friends.
I lean back in the booth, letting their ideas sink in.
Lance's warm hand remains steady in mine under the table.
Jeff and Isaac continue discussing potential shelter locations, their voices fading into background noise as I focus on Lance's quiet presence beside me.
His thumb traces small circles on my palm, sending shivers through me.
When Isaac asks about funding details, Lance squeezes my hand gently.
"I'm proud of you," he whispers, his eyes locking with mine.
The fluorescent lights illuminate his sincere expression, making my heart race.
Isaac leans back, a thoughtful look on his face.
"So, you're really going to do this?" he asks, glancing between us.
Lance nods firmly, his voice steady. "We have to; it's the right thing to do."
I lean forward, pulling out my phone while still holding Lance's hand under the table.
The harsh fluorescent lights illuminate the inheritance papers spread before us.
I start typing, searching for local charity contacts.
Jeff mentions his cousin works at Second Chance Housing, a reputable organization.
Isaac suggests Downtown Food Bank, where he volunteers on weekends.
Lance releases my hand to grab a napkin and scribble down names and numbers from his shelter outreach work.
As I reach for my grandfather's platinum card to show our funding capacity, Lance stops me.
"We should approach them as equals, not as rich saviors," he says, his wisdom reminding me why I trust him most.
I pull out my phone as Jeff's cousin from Second Chance Housing calls.
The diner's fluorescent lights flicker while Jeff puts the call on speaker.
His cousin Sarah's voice fills our booth, explaining she has three vacant buildings ready for renovation into shelters.
Lance leans closer to hear the details about permits and zoning already being approved.
When Sarah mentions needing immediate funding to secure the properties, I reach for my grandfather's platinum card.
Jeff's eyes widen as Sarah lists the exact amount - far more than he expected.