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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 one even.
I was in foster care until I was seventeen.
When I turned seventeen, my adoptive parents kicked me out because they no longer got the check they were getting for taking care of me.
They were getting paid to take care of me, and when that stopped, they didn't want me anymore.
They called me selfish, said I was using them and that if I really appreciated them for taking care of me, I would get a job to help pay the bills.
I was seventeen and had no skills, but I wasn't giving up.
I worked multiple jobs until I saved enough to get my own place.
It wasn't easy, and it took time, but I did it.
I never gave up, no matter how hard things got.
My life was hard, but I never gave up on myself or my dreams.
My girlfriend left me for another guy.
She said I wasn't stable enough for her.
That I couldn't provide for her the way she wanted.
She deserved better than me, and she got better when she left me for a richer guy.
I sit at my desk in my cramped studio apartment, the flickering light above casting shadows on the pile of unpaid bills.
My laptop is open, and I've got a stack of job applications and community college brochures next to me.
I start researching certification programs in IT - something practical that could lead to a steady job.
My phone buzzes with a text from Penelope, but I delete it without reading it.
I don't need her gloating about her new life with another guy.
Instead, I pull up the community college website and start filling out an enrollment application.
My hands shake slightly as I type in my personal information, but I force myself to complete each section.
"Hey, Alex," a voice calls from the doorway, startling me.
I turn to see my neighbor, Mr. Thompson, standing there with a concerned look.
"You know, I used to be in IT before I retired; if you need any help or advice, I'm just next door."
"Come on in," I invite, clearing a stack of takeout containers from the coffee table to make room for him.
He settles into my worn secondhand chair, and I offer him a cup of coffee.
I brew it in my dented pot, the only one I own.
As the coffee drips, he tells me stories about his thirty years as a systems administrator - from mainframes to cloud computing.
I take notes on a wrinkled notepad, asking questions about certifications and career paths.
He tells me about the different types of jobs and potential starting salaries.
I do the math in my head, calculating how many months it would take to afford a better apartment with a steady income.
The coffee grows cold as we talk, until a text notification from Penelope interrupts us.
"Is everything alright?" Mr. Thompson asks, noticing my tense expression.
"It's just Penelope," I reply, trying to sound nonchalant. "She wants to meet up and talk."
"Do you think it's worth it?" he inquires gently, leaning forward with genuine concern.
Forcing a smile, I set my phone face-down on the coffee table and grab my notepad.
Mr. Thompson leans back in my creaky desk chair, and we redirect our conversation to international contract work.
He tells me about remote positions in Singapore and Dubai, describing the challenges and opportunities that come with working abroad.
I scribble notes furiously, my hand trembling slightly as I try to keep up with his stories.
The phone buzzes again, the screen lighting up with Penelope's name.
Mr. Thompson pauses mid-sentence, glancing at the notification.
I quickly flip the phone over, accidentally knocking my coffee mug in the process.
Hot liquid spills across my certification paperwork, soaking through the pages.
"Oh no," I exclaim, jumping up to grab paper towels from the kitchenette.
As I frantically blot the spill, Mr. Thompson pulls out his tablet and starts typing.
"I'll send you some job listings," he says, "and a few contacts in my network."
After he finishes typing, I pull out my old phone with the cracked screen.
The bright glow illuminates the dingy apartment walls as I carefully type in each contact and company name, double-checking the spelling.
My hands shake slightly when another text from Penelope comes through, but I keep my focus on the task at hand.
Mr. Thompson waits patiently, sipping the last of his cold coffee while pointing out which recruiters to contact first.
As I save the final entry, my phone's battery warning flashes red.
I search through the cluttered desk drawer for my phone charger, finally finding it tangled in a mess of cords.
Mr. Thompson gathers his tablet and empty coffee mug while I untangle the charger.
The cord is frayed, and I have to stretch it to its full length just to reach the outlet behind my secondhand futon.
I have to sit awkwardly close to the wall, but at least my phone won't die before I can plug it in.
As soon as I plug in the charger, three more texts from Penelope light up the screen.
I quickly silence the notifications, not wanting Mr. Thompson to notice.
He stands by my door, pausing before he leaves.
His kind eyes scan the room, taking in my worn furniture and the stacks of paperwork on the floor.
Then they settle on me, noticing the tension in my shoulders as I stare at my phone. "Thank you for coming," I say, standing up and extending my hand.
Mr. Thompson takes it with a firm handshake.
"It was no trouble," he replies, his voice gentle.
"I'll email you some more resources tomorrow. Good luck with your job search."
"Thank you again," I say sincerely as he turns to leave.
As the door closes behind him, I finally open Penelope's messages, bracing myself for whatever comes next.
I sit at my scratched desk, scrolling through job listings on my old laptop when a notification dings.
I open my email and find a message from Global Tech Solutions.
It's about the senior developer position I'd applied for back when things were better with Penelope.
My hands tremble as I click on the email, scanning the message.
They're inviting me for an interview.
The salary listed is triple my current income.
I click on the attached forms, but my ancient laptop freezes mid-download.
Cursing, I restart it and watch the loading bar crawl while more texts from Penelope light up my phone.
Finally, the forms open.
"Are you going to tell her about the interview?" my roommate, Alex, asks from the kitchen doorway.
I hesitate, staring at the forms. "I don't know if it's the right time," I admit, my voice barely above a whisper.
"She deserves to know," Alex insists, crossing his arms.
I sit at my scratched desk, watching the cursor blink on my laptop screen as more texts from Penelope light up my phone.
The Global Tech Solutions forms are still loading after the restart.
My fingers hover over the phone, trembling slightly as each new message appears.
Alex stands in my doorway, arms crossed, waiting for my response about telling Penelope.
Instead of answering him, I grab my phone, open the message thread, and hit delete without reading any of them.
The satisfying whoosh of messages disappearing gives me clarity.
I watch Alex walk over to my desk, his eyes fixed on the laptop screen.
He's worked in IT for years, and it shows in how he moves with purpose.
He pulls up a chair beside me and examines the screen.
The loading bar is still stuck.
Alex leans closer, his eyes scanning the screen.
"Your RAM is maxed out," he says, his voice calm and confident.
"You've got too many background programs running."
He takes the laptop from me and starts closing unnecessary programs.
The fan whirs loudly as he works.
After a few minutes, he hands it back to me, and I watch as the forms finally load properly.
Alex glances at the screen, his eyes widening when he sees the salary figure.
He whistles low under his breath.
Then he starts walking me through each section of the forms, pointing out where I should highlight my relevant experience.
As I fill out the forms, they start auto-saving every few minutes.
"Are you really going to delete all her messages without even reading them?" Alex asks, his voice tinged with disbelief.
I nod, feeling the weight of my decision settle in. "I need to focus on this opportunity; it's too important to let anything distract me."
Alex raises an eyebrow, a hint of skepticism in his tone. "Just make sure you're not running from something you should be facing."
I lean forward in my chair, carefully typing my employment history into the application.
Alex hovers nearby, pointing out sections where I should elaborate on my coding projects.
The laptop fan whirs loudly, struggling to keep up as I attach my portfolio files.
When I reach the salary expectations field, my fingers pause over the keyboard.
The amount seems surreal - more than I've ever dreamed of earning.
Alex nudges my shoulder, his voice a gentle reminder.
"Don't sell yourself short."
I hover my cursor over the salary field, watching it blink in the empty space.
Alex leans in closer, pulling out his phone to show me industry statistics on average compensation for similar positions.
I take a deep breath, my mind racing with the possibilities.
With trembling fingers, I type in a number - 20% above the original offer.
It's more than I've ever dared to ask for before.
The laptop fan hums even louder as I complete the remaining sections.
When I'm done, Alex peers at the screen, his eyes widening at the salary figure I've entered.
"Are you sure about that?" he asks, his voice filled with concern.
I nod firmly, my heart pounding in my chest.
Without second-guessing myself, I click the "submit" button.
The confirmation email arrives instantly, sealing my resolve.
I lean back in my squeaky desk chair, muscles tight from hunching over the laptop for hours.
Alex pats my shoulder and heads to the kitchen, leaving me alone with my thoughts.
The apartment feels different now - smaller yet less suffocating.
My phone buzzes again, but this time it's an automated confirmation from Global Tech Solutions.
I pick up the stack of certification papers Mr. Thompson left, smoothing out the coffee-stained edges.
The wrinkled pages remind me of how much has changed in just one day.
I hear Alex's footsteps approaching before he bursts through my bedroom door, balancing two mismatched coffee mugs filled with amber liquid.
The cheap whiskey from his cabinet glows in the dim light.
His grin is contagious as he hands me a mug, some liquid sloshing onto my desk.
"To asking for what you deserve," he says, raising his drink.
The whiskey burns my throat, but I welcome the warmth spreading through my chest.
My laptop screen still shows the application confirmation, the salary number no longer looking as intimidating.
I spread the remaining certification papers across my desk, careful to avoid the whiskey drops.
My head feels lighter from the drink, but my focus sharpens as I sort through Mr. Thompson's detailed notes on network security protocols.
The coffee stains on some pages make the text harder to read, so I transcribe the important points into my worn notebook.
When my phone buzzes again, I don't even glance at it.
Instead, I highlight the most critical certification requirements, mapping out a clear path forward.
I sit at my desk, the stack of certification papers neatly organized beside my laptop.
The screen glows with the application confirmation from Global Tech Solutions, but I've shifted my focus to the requirements listed on the wrinkled pages.
My phone buzzes again, and I reach for it instinctively.
The screen shows a notification from my email app - a new message from Global Tech Solutions' HR department.
My hands tremble slightly as I open the email, the words blurring together before my eyes adjust.
It's an offer letter, and my heart races as I scan the contents.
The salary they're offering is even higher than what I boldly requested in my application.
I have to count the digits twice to make sure I'm reading it correctly - six figures, more than I've ever imagined earning in a single year.
I grab my phone to text Alex, but then I remember Penelope's unread messages.
Instead, I click on the print option for the offer letter, wanting to hold the tangible proof in my hands.
My old printer whirs to life, spitting out the paper with a jerky motion.
But halfway through, it jams, leaving a crumpled mess of ink-stained pages. I carefully extract the paper from the printer's grip, smoothing out the creases.
I grip my phone tightly while dialing the HR number listed at the bottom of the offer letter.
The crumpled printout sits on my desk, the salary numbers partially smeared but still legible.
My finger hovers over the call button as I rehearse my acceptance speech in my head.
The office background noise through the phone makes my cramped apartment feel even smaller.
When the HR representative answers, my voice cracks on the first word.
I steady myself, glancing at the certification papers from Mr. Thompson, and clearly state my acceptance of their generous offer.
I slump back in my squeaky desk chair after ending the call, my hands still trembling from accepting the offer.
The crumpled salary printout catches my eye, and I smooth it out again, tracing the numbers with my finger to make sure they're real.
My phone lights up with another text from Penelope, but I barely notice it now.
Instead, I grab a marker from my desk drawer and circle the start date on the wall calendar - two weeks from today.
Standing up, I walk to my tiny window and look out at the city skyline, imagining my new office somewhere among those buildings.
I sit at my desk, the paperwork from Global Tech Solutions still spread out in front of me.
My phone buzzes again, and I glance at the screen - an unknown number.
Assuming it's HR calling back with more forms to fill out, I answer in my most professional voice.
"Hello?"
The voice on the other end is formal and unfamiliar.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Weber. My name is James Morton from Morton & Associates Law Firm. Am I speaking with Shane Weber?"
I furrow my brow, wondering if this is some kind of scam.
"Yes, that's me. Can I help you with something?"
The man clears his throat.
"I've been trying to reach you regarding your grandfather's estate."
My heart skips a beat.
"Grandfather?"
"Yes, ma'am. We've been searching for you to discuss the inheritance paperwork. It's a matter of some urgency."
My hands start trembling as I grab a pen and an old receipt from the desk drawer.
"Urgency? What do you mean?"
The lawyer's voice remains calm and detached.
"There are several documents that require your immediate attention. I'd like to schedule a meeting for you to come into our offices and review everything."
I scribble down the address he gives me on the crumpled receipt, my mind racing with questions.
"What kind of documents?"
I ask, trying to keep my voice steady. "Your grandfather left behind a sizeable estate," he explains patiently.
"It includes properties, investments, and other assets that need to be distributed according to his will."
I drop the pen, and it rolls off my desk onto the floor.
The crumpled receipt with the address slips out of my hand, landing on top of the smeared job offer letter.
The lawyer's words echo in my head - "sizeable estate."
"What size?"
I manage to ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
"Several quintillion dollars," he replies matter-of-factly.
"Plus various real estate holdings and other investments."
My mouth goes dry as I stare at the crumpled papers on my desk.
I grip the fallen receipt with trembling fingers, struggling to hold my pen steady enough to write.
The lawyer waits patiently on the other end of the line while I fumble through my phone's calendar app.
My screen shows three missed calls from Penelope, but I swipe them away without answering.
"Would tomorrow at 9 AM work for you?" he asks.
I manage to scribble down the time and his firm's downtown address on the crumpled receipt.
The ink smears as my sweaty hand moves across the paper.
"Please bring a valid form of identification and any family documents you may have," he adds before hanging up.
I glance at the small box in my closet, containing the paperwork from the orphanage where I grew up.
I sit at my desk organizing the orphanage paperwork when James Morton calls again.
His voice sounds different this time - excited.
While shuffling through the yellowed documents, I listen as he explains discovering another inheritance from my great-aunt Elizabeth Weber.
She left extensive property holdings in Europe that weren't included in the initial count.
My hands shake so badly I can barely write down the details of these new assets.
The estimated value makes my heart skip a beat - another hundred billion dollars.
I take a deep breath, trying to process the information.
"Mr. Morton, are you sure this isn't some kind of mistake?" I ask, my voice quivering.
He chuckles softly, "I assure you, Mr. Weber, our firm has verified everything thoroughly. Your great-aunt was quite the investor."
I sit at my worn desk, late into the night, methodically organizing the paperwork from my past.
My birth certificate and adoption records go into a manila folder, followed by school transcripts and my old orphanage ID card.
Each document feels heavy with new meaning as I slide them into my secondhand messenger bag.
When I find a faded photo of my grandfather tucked in the records, I pause, studying his stern face.
The image trembles in my hands before I carefully place it in the front pocket.
I step into James Morton's plush corner office, the scent of old leather and polished mahogany enveloping me.
The lawyer greets me with a firm handshake and motions for me to take a seat in one of the rich leather chairs opposite his massive desk.
I clutch my messenger bag tightly, its worn fabric a stark contrast to the opulence surrounding me.
My secondhand clothes feel even shabbier in this setting.
Morton spreads out two stacks of documents on his desk - one for my grandfather's inheritance and another for my great-aunt's.
He points to mind-numbing figures - properties in Monaco, tech companies in Silicon Valley, and Swiss bank accounts.
I listen intently, trying to grasp the enormity of it all.
"Mr. Weber, you're now the sole heir to both estates," he explains, his voice filled with a mix of excitement and formality.
I nod, my hands trembling slightly as I sign the preliminary paperwork.
The pen feels foreign against the expensive stationery.
When Morton mentions that Penelope has been calling his office repeatedly, I grip the armrest tighter, leaving small impressions in the leather.
I lean forward in the chair, my fingers still digging into the armrest.
"What exactly did Penelope say when she called?" my voice remains steady despite the tension in my chest.
Morton shuffles through some notes on his desk, then reads from a yellow legal pad.
"She called multiple times, claiming to be your fiancée and demanding information about the inheritance," he says, his expression professional but with a hint of curiosity.
"She insisted that we should inform you of her interest in reconnecting."
I clench my jaw, remembering how quickly she left when I couldn't afford her lifestyle.
Now she wants back in.
I lean back in the leather chair, forcing my grip on the armrest to relax.
"Please ignore any contact from Penelope," I say, keeping my voice steady despite the anger churning inside.
"She has no claim to this inheritance."
Morton nods and makes a note on his legal pad while I pull out my grandfather's photo from my bag and set it on his mahogany desk.
I point to the documents that need immediate attention.
The leather creaks as I shift forward in the chair, determined to handle this massive wealth transfer properly.
I lean forward in Morton's leather chair as he pulls out another document, his expression turning serious.
"There's a clause your grandfather added," he explains, his voice taking on a more formal tone.
"If you complete the inheritance claim by tomorrow morning, the entire estate doubles in value."
My hands grip the armrests tightly as Morton explains that we would need to process an extensive amount of paperwork overnight to meet the deadline.
He calls his assistant to cancel his evening plans and orders dinner to be delivered.
I watch as he spreads out the documents across his mahogany desk, my heart racing at the thought of making such a monumental decision right now.
I lean forward in the leather chair as Morton's phone rings, breaking the tension in the room.
He answers, and his expression shifts from stress to surprise.
His legal assistant is on the other end, speaking rapidly about an obscure inheritance clause they've just discovered.
Morton puts the call on speaker, and we listen as the assistant explains how my grandfather's military service creates an automatic fast-track provision for estate transfers.
My hands stop shaking as I realize we won't need to work through the night.
Morton circles a paragraph in the will with his pen, then reaches for his notary stamp.
I lean forward in the leather chair as Morton arranges the papers into precise stacks across his mahogany desk.
He hands me a gold pen, its weight substantial in my hand, and begins explaining each document: property deeds, bank transfers, company shares.
My grandfather's photo watches from the corner of his desk as I sign my name again and again, the scratching sound filling the quiet office.
When Morton points to the final signature line that will seal my claim to the doubled fortune, I pause for a moment before pressing the pen to paper with steady determination.
"Wait," Morton says, his voice suddenly hesitant.
"What is it?" I ask, feeling a knot form in my stomach.
"There's a letter from your grandfather, addressed to you, that I found tucked inside the will."
I hold the letter in my trembling hands as Morton waits patiently behind his desk.
The aged paper feels delicate between my fingers as I unfold it, revealing neat handwriting in blue ink.
My grandfather's words spill onto the page, speaking of his secret surveillance of my life.
He writes about how he watched me struggle through poverty, testing my character by hiding his wealth.
He describes witnessing me working multiple jobs, seeing me get kicked out of my apartment and refusing to let bitterness consume me.
I hold the letter tightly, scanning each line of his elegant script.
His words reveal how he arranged anonymous gifts throughout my childhood: the winter coat that appeared when I was freezing, the used laptop that helped me study, the grocery gift cards that kept me fed.
My throat tightens as I recognize these moments.
When I reach the part about him attending my high school graduation in disguise, my hands start trembling.
"Why didn't he ever tell me?" I whisper, my voice barely audible.
Morton clears his throat, choosing his words carefully.
"He believed you needed to find your own strength first, before knowing the truth."
I lean forward in the leather chair, placing the letter on Morton's desk.
The revelation that I've been secretly monitored all these years stirs a mix of emotions within me.
Gratitude for the kindness he showed, but also resentment for the hardships he let me endure.
I look directly at Morton, my eyes searching for answers.
"Did you know about all this?" I ask him, my voice steady.
Morton shifts uncomfortably in his seat, adjusting his tie before speaking.
"I served as your grandfather's eyes and ears for many years," he admits.
"It was I who arranged the delivery of the winter coat, the used laptop, and the grocery gift cards. I followed his instructions to ensure your well-being without revealing our connection."
I clench my hands tightly, trying to process everything.
"Why did you let me suffer through eviction and homelessness if you were watching?"
I demand, my voice filled with a mix of anger and confusion.
Morton reaches for a thick folder on his desk, its cover labeled "Shane Weber Observations."
He opens it, revealing a lifetime of moments captured in meticulous detail.
I lean back in the leather chair, letting my clenched fists slowly relax.
Looking at my grandfather's photo on the desk, I remember the warmth of that mysterious winter coat, how the anonymous laptop helped me apply for jobs, and those grocery cards that arrived when I was hungriest.
Morton waits silently as I flip through years of detailed reports, seeing my struggles through my grandfather's eyes.
The anger drains from me as I understand the careful testing behind their actions.
Morton finally breaks the silence, his voice softening.
"He wanted to ensure you could stand on your own, even when life seemed most unforgiving."
I nod slowly, absorbing the weight of his words.
I place the surveillance folder back on Morton's desk, my fingers lingering on its worn edges.
It's a thick stack of reports, each page telling a story of my life's struggles and small victories.
Morton reaches into his desk drawer and pulls out a sealed envelope.
He slides it across the polished wood to me.
"Final Instructions," it reads, written in elegant script on heavy cream paper.
I recognize my grandfather's handwriting immediately.
Before opening it, I pick up the framed photo one last time.
This time, I see his stern expression differently.
Morton clears his throat, breaking the silence.
"I'll leave you to read this in private," he says, standing up.
"If you need me, I'll be in my outer office."
He exits quietly, leaving me alone in the room.
I hold the cream envelope in my hands, my fingers tracing the edges of my grandfather's elegant script.
The weight of the surveillance folder in my lap is a reminder of everything he saw and all that he let me endure.
My hands tremble as I break the seal carefully, not wanting to tear the expensive paper.
The office feels too quiet and too formal for this intimate moment.
I pull out a single sheet of matching cream paper and unfold it.
It's written in the same blue ink as his first letter to me.
Morton's chair creaks softly as he shifts, but he doesn't look at me.
I unfold the letter in his silent office, my fingers brushing against the thick, cream paper.
The first few lines are written in the same elegant script as the envelope.
As I read, my trembling fingers hold the paper steady.
"Dear Shane,
I have left you with a legacy that requires more than just wealth.
It demands knowledge and strategy.
To truly claim your place, you must follow the path I have laid out for you.
First, acquire 51% of the shares in Morton & Co., then 25% of each of these companies: Global Tech Solutions, Green Earth Developments, and Smith & Sons Construction.
Next, develop the properties I have left you with the help of Green Earth and Smith & Sons.
Finally, forge a strategic partnership with Global Tech to integrate their innovations into your developments.
These steps will secure your future and position you for success.
Each company has its strengths and weaknesses, but together, they will make you unstoppable.
I have studied you closely, Shane, and I know that you can do this. I turn the page and continue reading.
The instructions are detailed and specific, each step carefully planned to ensure my success.
I recognize some of the company names from my recent job search - they were among the few that offered me positions despite my lack of experience.
The offer from Global Tech Solutions suddenly makes sense; my grandfather had been positioning pieces long before his death.
I stare at the letter, my mind processing the strategy he has laid out for me.
The phone on Morton's desk rings, shrill in the silence of his office.
I glance at it, and my heart races when I see the number - Global Tech Solutions.
My hands tremble as I pick up the phone, remembering the job offer I accepted just days ago.
"Hello?"
My voice is steady, but my heart pounds in my chest.
"Shane, this is the CEO of Global Tech Solutions. I hope I'm not interrupting anything important."
His voice is smooth and confident.
"No, sir. Not at all."
I grip the receiver tightly, trying to keep my voice steady.
"I've been meaning to call you since you accepted our offer. I wanted to extend a personal invitation to join our team."
He pauses, and I can almost hear him smile over the phone.
"I believe you have a lot of potential, and we would be honored to have you on board."
I swallow hard, trying to process his words.
"Thank you, sir. I'm honored by your offer."
He chuckles softly, and I can hear the warmth in his voice.
"I'm not just offering you a job, Shane. I'm offering you a full partnership position. You'll own 30% of the company." My breath catches in my throat as his words sink in.
"Sir...I...I don't know what to say," I stammer.
He laughs again, his voice filled with amusement.
"Say yes, Shane. Say yes and join our team."
His voice takes on a serious tone as he continues.
"I knew your grandfather years ago. He was a good man and a shrewd businessman. He would want you to have this opportunity."
I grip Morton's expensive pen tightly as his words sink in.
This is exactly what my grandfather's letter had instructed - acquiring 25% shares in Global Tech Solutions.
It's as if he had planned this moment years ago.
The CEO's voice brings me back to reality.
"So what do you say, Shane? Will you join us?"
I look down at my grandfather's photo on Morton's desk before answering.
"Yes," I say finally, my voice firm and resolute.
"Yes, sir. I'll join you."
I sit at Morton's mahogany desk, using his office phone to dial the number of Green Earth Developments.
My grandfather's letter had mentioned them as one of the key investments, with specific instructions to acquire 15% ownership.
While waiting through the dial tone, I glance at the company profile Morton had prepared for me.
Green Earth Developments is a leader in sustainable architecture and green building solutions, with projects spanning across Europe.
Their innovative designs have earned them numerous awards and recognition in the industry.
The phone rings several times before a woman's voice answers.
"Green Earth Developments, how may I direct your call?"
"Hello," I say, using my full name for the first time since my grandfather's death.
"My name is Shane Weber. I would like to speak with your CEO."
There's a momentary pause on the other end of the line, and I can sense a sudden change in her tone.
"Mr. Weber, please hold for just a moment."
The line goes on hold, and I listen to soft instrumental music playing in the background.
It doesn't take long before another voice comes on the line.
"Mr. Weber, thank you for holding. I'm the CEO of Green Earth Developments."
The classical hold music plays through the phone speaker in Morton's office.
The leather chair creaks as I shift, glancing at the portfolio of Green Earth Developments spread across the mahogany desk.
Their sustainable skyscrapers and eco-friendly housing developments fill glossy pages.
My hands remain steady as I practice introducing myself, my voice echoing softly in the silent room.
I can feel my heart racing beneath my tailored suit, but I'm determined to sound confident.
The music stops abruptly, and I take a deep breath, sitting up straighter in anticipation.
"Hello?"
"Mr. Weber, this is the CEO of Green Earth Developments. How may I assist you?" His voice catches me off guard - he addresses me by my first name, mentioning he knew my grandfather well.
"I'd like to discuss a potential partnership," I reply, my voice unwavering.
"I'd be delighted to meet with you, Shane. Perhaps in London?"
His eagerness is palpable, and I realize my grandfather's influence extends far beyond my expectations.
I hang up the phone, my hands trembling as I write down the meeting details in my old planner.
Morton returns with the new passport forms, explaining that we need to expedite the process for international travel.
As I fill out the paperwork, I notice my grandfather's photo has fallen from his surveillance folder.
I hold it under Morton's office lamp, studying the image of my grandfather.
He looks stern, his face a reflection of the strict man who raised me.
But I know there was more to him - a man who secretly supported my dreams, who believed in me when no one else did.
The photo is printed on thick paper, and as I run my fingers over it, I notice the smooth texture.
I turn it over, examining it closely.
Something catches my eye - a small logo on his suit lapel.
It's the emblem of Green Earth Developments.
I glance at his desk in the photo and recognize the design of their building.
It's one of their earliest projects, completed decades ago.
My hands tremble as I realize my grandfather wasn't just an investor; he helped shape their early sustainable architecture projects.
I open the surveillance folder and find newspaper clippings from years ago - articles about my grandfather's environmental initiatives.
I pack the photo and surveillance folder into my new leather briefcase.
"I'm ready to head out, Morton," I say, standing up from the chair.
Morton insists on driving me to the headquarters of Green Earth Developments in his Mercedes.
He explains that now that my inheritance is public, I need to follow strict security protocols.
During the ride, I review newspaper clippings about my grandfather's environmental projects.
Morton points out various buildings he helped design during his career as an architect.
As we approach the gleaming glass tower of Green Earth Developments, I notice my grandfather's name etched above the entrance.
Security guards rush to open the doors as Morton announces my arrival.
I follow the CEO through the sleek lobby, my new leather shoes clicking against the marble floors.
He points out a massive wall display showcasing my grandfather's first sustainable building designs from the 1980s.
My throat tightens as I recognize some of the sketches from the surveillance folder.
The CEO leads me to a private elevator, explaining that my grandfather revolutionized green architecture while keeping his wealth hidden from the public eye.
As we ascend to the project floor, he pulls out original blueprints bearing my grandfather's signature.
I lean over the glass conference table, carefully studying the blueprints.
The CEO points out innovative features - solar panels disguised in Art Deco elements, hidden rainwater collection systems, and wind turbines incorporated into decorative spires.
My fingers trace the precise pencil lines and detailed notations in the margins.
The handwriting is neat, just like my grandfather's letters.
"These designs were decades ahead of their time," the CEO says, his voice filled with admiration.
I glance at the signature on the blueprints and notice it matches the one on my inheritance papers.
"Why didn't he ever tell me about this?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
"He wanted you to find your own path first," Morton replies, his eyes softening with understanding.
"But now it's time for you to continue his legacy," the CEO adds, nodding towards the blueprints.
I lean forward, and the CEO spreads out more of my grandfather's designs.
He points to one that catches my eye - an unfinished eco-city in Dubai.
My hands steady as I examine the intricate details.
"Your grandfather was working on this revolutionary project when he passed away," the CEO explains, his voice filled with regret.
"It was meant to be a beacon for sustainable living in the Middle East."
I study the sketches of towering solar spires and advanced water recycling systems.
There are notes in the margins about future technologies my grandfather wanted to integrate.
I pull out my phone and start scheduling meetings with the Dubai development team.
"We'll complete this project," I say, determination in my voice.
I sit at the glass conference table, phone pressed to my ear as the Dubai project director answers.
His accent is thick but clear as he talks about helicopter tours of the construction site.
While he speaks, I spread out my grandfather's original eco-city sketches and compare them to current progress photos on my laptop.
The CEO and Morton exchange approving glances when I firmly schedule the visit for next week.
My hands steady as I write down the meeting details.
The legacy my grandfather began will finally see the light of day.
I lean over the architectural plans in the conference room, the CEO explaining the latest sustainable materials they've incorporated into the Dubai eco-city.
Suddenly, the Dubai project director bursts in, looking frantic.
"Excuse me, sir," he says, his voice urgent.
"I have some news that can't wait."
I nod for him to continue.
He pulls out a sealed envelope from his pocket and hands it to me.
His hands are shaking slightly as he speaks.
"We've discovered something incredible. A dedicated account, hidden away for years. It's meant for the completion of this eco-city."
My eyes widen as I take the envelope.
I open it carefully, finding a stack of documents inside.
The first page is a detailed breakdown of funding allocations, written in my grandfather's familiar handwriting.
There are also security codes and account numbers listed.
I look up at the director, who nods towards his tablet on the table.
He opens it, revealing live satellite images of the construction site.
"We've been working on this project for years," he explains, "but with this hidden fund, we can accelerate the timeline significantly."
I study the documents further, noticing that my grandfather had planned for every contingency.
"This changes everything," I say, my voice filled with awe.
"Your grandfather was always three steps ahead," the CEO remarks, a hint of admiration in his tone.
"We need to move quickly," Morton interjects, urgency lacing his words.
I lean over the conference table, carefully reviewing each document from the envelope.
The project director points to specific account numbers, explaining the transfer process on his tablet.
My hand trembles slightly as I sign the authorization forms, knowing this will release billions into the Dubai project.
Morton stands behind me, checking each signature, while the CEO makes urgent calls to their construction teams.
I sit at the glass conference table, carefully reviewing each transfer document Morton places before me.
My pen hovers over the signature line as he explains the complex process of moving billions into the Dubai project accounts.
The project director paces nearby, making rapid calls to his construction teams.
When Morton presents the final authorization form, I sign with steady determination, knowing this will fast-track my grandfather's vision.
The director immediately starts typing on his tablet, confirming the first wave of funds is moving.
"There's something else you should know," the project director says, hesitating slightly.
I glance up from the documents, sensing the weight of his words.
"We've also uncovered a hidden blueprint—it's an expansion plan your grandfather never mentioned."
I lean forward as he pulls a weathered tube from his briefcase.
His hands tremble slightly as he unseals it, carefully unrolling the large architectural drawings.
The title is marked in my grandfather's precise handwriting: "Phase 2 - Classified."
As the blueprints spread across the table, the CEO gasps softly.
Morton quickly takes photos of each page with his phone, while I study the detailed schematics.
The drawings reveal an underground research facility beneath the eco-city, designed to develop next-generation sustainable technologies.
Notes in the margins speak of experimental energy systems and advanced water purification methods that could revolutionize environmental science.
"This changes the entire scope of the project," I say, my voice barely concealing my astonishment.
"Your grandfather was a visionary," Morton replies, his eyes scanning the intricate designs.
"But why keep this a secret?" the CEO asks, his brow furrowed with curiosity.
