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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 to use it for revenge and selfempowerment.
Penelope
She is Shane's exgirlfriend who left him for another man due to financial reasons. She is selfish, shallow, and dismissive. Penelope initially dated Shane because of his potential wealth, discarding him as soon as she found someone richer. Her breakup letter was harsh, labeling Shane as "unfulfilling" and "poor." Despite her claims of love, she chose wealth over Shane, highlighting her materialistic nature and lack of genuine emotional connection.
Unnamed Adoptive Parents
They are Shane's adoptive parents who kicked him out when financial difficulties arose. They are cruel, heartless, and selfcentered. The parents adopted Shane to gain a son, discarding their previous life choices by treating him poorly once they faced financial challenges. Their decision to abandon him reveals their true nature as they prioritize their own comfort over Shane’s wellbeing, displaying heartless indifference and lack of empathy.
I was an orphan, a poor one.
My life was hard, but I never gave up.
I always thought that when I grew up, things would get better.
That I would have a good life.
That I wouldn’t be in poverty anymore.
But life had other plans for me.
Before I turned 18, my girlfriend left me for another guy.
A richer one.
I was heartbroken, but I didn’t give up.
Little did I know, something was about to happen, something that would change my life forever.
Something that would make all my dreams come true.
But people’s opinions and words can be harsh and hurtful.
They judged me and called me names.
They made me feel unworthy and like a failure.
But I didn’t let that stop me or bring me down.
Instead, I used it as fuel to keep moving forward and proving them wrong.
And in the end, I succeeded, and they bowed at my feet.
"You’re not good enough for me. You’re poor and have no future. I need someone who can provide for me, not a damn beggar," Penelope said to me as she broke up with me via a letter.
It was her birthday the day she broke up with me, so she wanted to celebrate it with her new boyfriend.
She had been dating me for two years, but she threw everything we had away just because of some money.
Standing in my dingy apartment, I stared at the crumpled breakup letter in my trembling hand.
The cheap fluorescent light flickered above, casting harsh shadows on the water-stained walls.
I walked to the metal trash bin, my footsteps echoing in the empty room.
The letter felt heavy, like all my failures condensed into one piece of paper.
Penelope's cruel words blurred before my eyes as I read them one last time.
With deliberate slowness, I balled up the paper, feeling it compress between my fingers.
The sound of crinkling paper filled the silence.
I sat at my rickety desk, staring at the stack of job application rejection emails.
My phone vibrated on the desk, breaking the silence.
The screen lit up, displaying an unknown international number.
I almost ignored it, but something compelled me to open the message.
My hands started shaking as I read the formal text from Wellington University's admission office.
They were offering me a full scholarship, including living expenses and study materials.
The message cited my excellent test scores and compelling personal essay.
I checked the sender details three times, convinced it must be spam.
But each verification confirmed it was real.
With shaking fingers, I punched in the university's number from their website, double-checking each digit.
The international dial tone buzzed three times before a crisp British accent answered.
"Wellington University Admissions."
I cleared my throat, trying to sound confident despite my racing heart.
"This is Shane Weber. I received a scholarship offer today."
I gave them my application number, waiting as keyboard clicks echoed through the line.
The administrator confirmed every detail - full tuition, housing, meal plan, even a stipend.
"Mr. Weber," the voice said after a moment, "we are pleased to inform you that your scholarship has been approved. We believe your academic achievements and personal story make you an excellent fit for our institution."
"Thank you," I managed to say, my voice barely above a whisper.
"Do you accept our offer?"
"Yes, absolutely," I replied, my voice gaining strength with each word.
"Wonderful," the administrator said warmly. "We'll send you the official documents to finalize everything; welcome to Wellington University."
As I hung up, a sense of disbelief mingled with overwhelming relief washed over me.
After confirming the scholarship, I decided to clean out my apartment.
I needed to pack up everything to move to Wellington.
I opened the closet, revealing a cluttered mess of boxes and old documents.
As I sorted through them, an unopened letter slipped from behind some boxes.
The envelope looked official, with a law firm's letterhead.
I opened it carefully, noticing it was postmarked three weeks ago.
The letter explained that my biological grandfather had passed away.
According to the document, I needed to attend a meeting at Morrison & Associates law firm to discuss a significant inheritance.
My hands shook as I read the details.
I called my best friend, Alex, needing to share the news with someone I trusted.
"Alex, you won't believe this," I said, trying to keep my voice steady.
"Shane, what's going on? You sound like you've seen a ghost."
"I just got a letter from a law firm," I explained, my voice trembling.
"They say my biological grandfather passed away and left me an inheritance. I need to go to their office to discuss the details."
Alex's voice filled with concern.
"Shane, are you sure this isn't some kind of scam? You've never even met your biological family."
I took a deep breath, trying to calm myself.
"I know it sounds crazy, but the letter looks legitimate. And I have to try; this could be life-changing."
Alex sighed, his voice softening.
"Okay, Shane. If you think this is real, then you should go. Just be careful, okay?"
I nodded, even though he couldn't see me.
"Thanks, Alex. I'll keep you updated."
I hung up the phone and looked at the letter again.
The address was downtown, in one of the city's most expensive areas.
I glanced at my beat-up Honda parked outside.
It was going to stick out like a sore thumb in that part of town.
But I had to try; this could be my chance at a better life. I drove my beat-up Honda downtown, the engine sputtering as I pulled into the parking lot of Morrison & Associates.
The building was sleek and modern, with gleaming glass walls that reflected the city skyline.
I parked next to a row of expensive-looking cars and stepped out onto the pavement.
The security guard eyed me suspiciously as I walked towards the entrance.
"Can I help you?" he asked gruffly.
"I'm here for a meeting," I replied, holding up the letter from the law firm.
He glanced at it briefly before nodding and stepping aside to let me pass.
The lobby was just as impressive as the exterior, with polished marble floors and a high ceiling that made me feel small in comparison.
I rode the elevator up to the 23rd floor, where the law firm's offices were located.
As I stepped out into the reception area, I was greeted by a woman with perfectly styled hair and a designer suit that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe put together. "Can I help you?" she asked politely, her eyes flicking over my worn jeans and faded t-shirt.
"I'm here for a meeting," I repeated, holding up the letter again.
She glanced at it briefly before nodding and picking up her phone.
I sank into the expensive leather chair, feeling out of place in my threadbare jeans and faded t-shirt.
The reception area had glass walls that gave a dizzying view of the city below.
Other clients came and went, casting me sideways glances as they walked past.
They were all dressed in business suits, their hair styled perfectly and their shoes polished to a shine.
I stuck out like a sore thumb, and I knew it.
I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, my worn sneakers scuffing against the polished floor.
The receptionist frowned at me over her computer screen, her lips pursed in distaste.
I fidgeted with the letter, re-reading it for the hundredth time.
My phone buzzed with a text from Alex, but I ignored it and kept staring at the words on the page.
Fifteen minutes passed before a door opened and a man in an impeccable suit came out.
"Mr. Weber?" he called across the silent lobby.
I stood up, my heart pounding, ready to face whatever awaited me beyond those doors.
I trail behind the lawyer through polished hallways, my worn sneakers squeaking against marble floors.
The letter crumples in my grip as we pass rows of mahogany doors with golden nameplates.
Inside his corner office, floor-to-ceiling windows reveal the city skyline.
He gestures to a leather chair across from his massive desk.
As I sink into it, the leather creaks loudly in the silence.
The lawyer, Mr. Morrison himself according to his nameplate, studies my face intently while pulling out a thick folder.
His expression shifts from skepticism to recognition as he compares my features to something in the documents.
"Welcome to your new reality, Mr. Weber," he said, sliding the folder across the desk.
I lean forward, my mouth going dry as he opens another folder filled with spreadsheets and columns of numbers.
He begins listing assets - private islands in the Caribbean, a fleet of mega yachts, penthouses in major cities worldwide.
The numbers keep growing as he talks about liquid assets, investment portfolios, and shares in cutting-edge technology.
My hands shake as I grip the armrests.
Then he pulls out a sleek blue card with a platinum W embossed on it.
"This," he explains, his voice low and serious, "is a special Citibank card. There's no spending limit, no interest rate. It's reserved for the world's wealthiest individuals."
I stare at the card, my mind reeling.
"Is this some kind of joke?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
Mr. Morrison shakes his head, a small smile playing on his lips.
"No joke, Mr. Weber. Your grandfather was a very wealthy man, and he wanted you to have it all."
I stare at the platinum W card, its metallic surface catching the afternoon light streaming through Mr. Morrison's office windows.
My fingers brush against its cool surface, hesitating before grasping it fully.
The card feels heavier than expected, solid and real in a way that makes my heart race.
Mr. Morrison watches intently as I turn it over, examining my name embossed in raised letters: SHANE WEBER.
The same name that Penelope had mocked in her breakup letter.
I carefully tuck the platinum card into the worn leather wallet that's accompanied me through years of poverty.
The contrast between the pristine metal and the frayed edges of my wallet makes me pause.
Mr. Morrison clears his throat and slides another document across his mahogany desk.
"This is a confidentiality agreement regarding your inheritance," he explains, his voice low and serious.
My hands are steadier now as I reach for the pen.
I scan the pages, my mind racing with possibilities.
Before signing, I look up at him with a question in my eyes.
"Is there immediate access to these funds?" "Yes, Mr. Weber," he replies, his expression professional but with a hint of a smile.
"The card is already active."
I sign my name, sealing a future I never imagined.
I walk through the marble hallways of the law firm, my old sneakers squeaking against the polished floor.
The receptionist who judged me earlier now stands and smiles, offering to call me a car service.
I decline with a slight smirk, patting my wallet where the platinum card rests against the worn leather.
Other lawyers and assistants who ignored me before now try to catch my eye, but I keep walking.
At the elevator, I press the down button and watch my reflection in the brass doors - same shabby clothes, but standing taller.
I lean against the wall of the elevator, pulling out my phone.
The screen flickers to life, and I open a browser to search for luxury car dealerships in the area.
The platinum card feels heavy in my pocket as I scroll through pictures of Lamborghinis.
I remember Penelope's new boyfriend drove a BMW, but that wouldn't be enough to make a statement.
A Ferrari would be better.
I find a dealership twenty minutes away and call them.
The sales manager's voice is dismissive at first, but his tone changes when I mention paying in full.
As the elevator reaches the lobby, I schedule a viewing for their latest model.
I step out into the bustling street, dialing a familiar number.
"Shane?" Penelope's voice is cautious on the other end.
"I hope you and your BMW are ready for some competition," I say, unable to hide the grin in my voice.
I drive my beat-up Honda to the Porsche dealership.
The contrast between my current car and what I'm about to buy makes me smile.
As I step out, a valet eyes my vehicle with disdain.
I ignore him, walking into the showroom with my head held high.
The salespeople glance at me, their expressions mirroring the valet's.
My worn jeans and faded t-shirt don't scream "luxury car buyer."
A young salesman finally approaches, his smile forced.
"Can I help you?" he asks, his tone laced with doubt.
I walk straight to the most expensive model on display - a gleaming black Porsche 911 GT3 RS.
"Tell me about this one," I say, tapping the hood.
He hesitates, glancing at my clothes again.
"We have more affordable options," he suggests.
I pull out my platinum card and hold it up.
Standing beside the sleek Porsche 911 GT3 RS, I watch the salesman's condescending smile falter.
He hesitates, glancing between my worn clothes and the platinum card in my hand.
His eyes dart toward the showroom's back corner, where a limited edition Porsche 918 Spyder sits under spotlights.
"Is this your most expensive model?"
I ask, gesturing to the GT3 RS.
He stammers, "Well, we have a limited edition..."
He trails off, his voice filled with uncertainty.
"Is that one more expensive?"
I press.
"Yes," he admits, his voice barely above a whisper.
"It costs three times as much."
I nod, tucking the card back into my wallet without waiting for him to offer a test drive.
I walk toward the limited edition Porsche 918 Spyder in the back corner.
The salesman follows, his demeanor shifting from skepticism to intrigue.
"Are you serious about purchasing it today?" he asks, trying to mask his disbelief.
I stop and turn to face him, my expression unwavering. "I'm not here to window shop."
I sit at the sales desk while the salesman processes my card.
His hands tremble slightly as he types in the seven-figure sum.
The showroom's fluorescent lights reflect off the Spyder's gleaming paint behind us.
Other salespeople gather nearby, pretending to work while stealing glances at the transaction.
The card reader beeps its approval.
The salesman's face shifts from disbelief to forced enthusiasm as he slides the paperwork toward me.
I sign each document deliberately, savoring how my signature now carries real power.
I stand, pocket the keys, and walk out without a backward glance.
I grip the leather steering wheel, feeling its smoothness beneath my palms.
The car's interior is a blend of luxury and cutting-edge technology.
I adjust the mirrors and seat, taking a moment to familiarize myself with the controls.
The engine purrs to life, its power barely contained.
It's a stark contrast to the rattling of my old Honda.
I ease the car forward, navigating through the glass doors of the dealership.
Salespeople cluster at the windows, watching me.
I deliberately accelerate slowly past them, relishing their stunned expressions.
At the exit, I pause briefly, then press the accelerator.
The car surges forward with explosive force, pinning me against the seat.
I pull into the cracked parking lot of my apartment complex, the exotic car looking absurdly out of place among the rusty sedans.
Taking out my phone, I dial Alex's number.
My fingers still tingle from gripping the steering wheel.
When he answers, I tell him to come outside.
Through my tinted windows, I watch him emerge from his ground-floor unit, still wearing his work uniform from the grocery store.
His jaw drops as I rev the engine, the Porsche's growl echoing off the concrete walls.
I wave him over, enjoying his stunned expression as he approaches the car cautiously.
He circles the car twice, running his fingers along the sleek metallic paint.
"Is this really yours?" he asks, his voice laced with disbelief.
I nod and unlock the passenger door.
He slides into the leather seat, immediately touching every button and screen within reach.
I can't help but chuckle at his enthusiasm.
It's like we're kids again, playing with our toy cars in the sandpit.
"So, how did you get it?" he asks, not taking his eyes off the dashboard.
"I inherited it," I reply, adjusting the rearview mirror to get a better look at him.
He shakes his head.
"No way, man. You're lying."
"I'm not lying," I say, turning to face him.
His eyes widen as he takes in my expression.
"You're serious?"
I nod again and start the engine.
I sit in my parked Porsche, the engine humming softly.
Alex stares at me intently, his eyes wide with curiosity.
I pull out the thick folder of inheritance documents Mr. Morrison gave me.
It's filled with legal text and lists of assets that I've barely had a chance to comprehend.
Alex watches as I flip through the pages, his eyes scanning each one.
My finger stops at a figure on one of the pages - the total net worth of my inheritance.
The number stretches across the page in an impossibly long string of zeros.
350 googol dollars.
Alex grabs the paper from my hand, his fingers shaking slightly as he counts the digits repeatedly under his breath.
I remember my economics class explaining that this amount exceeds Earth's total wealth by magnitudes.
"How is this even possible?" Alex whispers, his voice barely audible over the engine's purr.
"I don't know," I admit, feeling the weight of the paper in my hands.
"But it means someone's been hiding something big from me all these years."
I pull back slightly as his touch lingers on my hand.
The leather seat creaks beneath me as I shift away, pretending to adjust the car's digital display.
Through the windshield, I watch a neighbor's cat slink past the Porsche, its tail twitching as it disappears behind a dumpster.
Alex's suggestion to celebrate hangs in the air between us, making the car's spacious interior feel suddenly cramped.
His eyes stay fixed on me, waiting for a response, while my fingers drum against the steering wheel.
The inheritance documents lie scattered across the center console, forgotten in this awkward moment.
"There's something else," I say, breaking the silence.
Alex leans closer, his curiosity piqued.
"What could be bigger than this?" he asks, gesturing to the papers.
I shift in the leather seat, putting more distance between us while keeping my tone casual.
The dashboard clock reads 7:30 PM.
"Let's meet at Le Bernardin," I suggest, mentioning the city's most exclusive restaurant.
Alex's eyes light up at the invitation, but I keep my expression neutral.
I remember how he ignored me during my poorest days.
Through the windshield, I watch the cat reappear from behind the dumpster as it scurries across the street.
"Separate cars," I specify.
"Separate arrivals."
I need to know who I can trust.
I pull out of the apartment complex in my Porsche, leaving Alex to take his own car.
Through the rearview mirror, I watch him standing there, still processing everything.
The engine's purr fills the silence as I navigate through familiar streets that suddenly feel different from behind this luxury steering wheel.
At each red light, I check the platinum card in my wallet, still adjusting to its presence.
I park my Porsche 918 Spyder in front of Le Bernardin, drawing stares from the valets and guests in their evening wear.
Through the tinted windows, I observe the restaurant's entrance, where well-dressed couples and business executives step out of their cars.
My worn jeans and t-shirt will stand out, but the platinum card in my wallet gives me confidence.
The head valet approaches hesitantly, eyeing my shabby clothes.
I hand him my keys, making sure he sees the Citibank W card as I pay in advance.
His eyes widen, and his dismissive expression transforms into practiced politeness.
"Welcome, sir," he says, opening the door for me.
I step into the elegant dining room of Le Bernardin, its high ceilings and chandeliers creating an atmosphere of sophistication.
The maître d' greets me with a smile, but his eyes narrow when he takes in my appearance.
"Good evening, sir. Do you have a reservation?"
I reach into my pocket and show him the platinum card.
He nods, his expression changing to one of deference.
"Right this way, sir."
He leads me through the dining room, weaving past tables of well-dressed diners.
The room is filled with the soft hum of conversation and the clinking of glasses.
Near the center of the room, I see Penelope's new boyfriend, Marcus, sitting at a table with a group of friends.
They're all laughing and chatting as they look over their menus.
Marcus catches my eye and waves me over.
I pause for a moment, considering whether or not to join them.
Marcus is dressed in a tailored suit and looks like he just stepped out of a fashion magazine.
His friends are all equally well-dressed, and they look like they're having a good time. I glance down at my own clothes and feel a twinge of self-consciousness.
My jeans are worn and faded, and my t-shirt is threadbare in places.
I look like I just rolled out of bed and stumbled into the restaurant.
But then I remember the platinum card in my pocket and the Porsche parked outside.
I straighten my shoulders and walk over to Marcus's table.
"Hey there," he says, standing up to greet me.
"I'm Marcus."
"I know who you are," I reply, extending my hand.
"I'm Shane."
Marcus shakes my hand firmly and gestures for me to take a seat next to him.
"Thanks for coming," he says as I sit down.
"I hope you don't mind that we already ordered. We were starving."
I glance at the table and see that they've already been served their appetizers.
There are plates of oysters, shrimp cocktail, and foie gras scattered across the table. "That's fine," I say, reaching for a plate of oysters.
"I'm not really hungry anyway."
Marcus looks at me curiously but doesn't say anything else.
We spend the next few minutes eating our appetizers and chatting about nothing in particular.
As we talk, I can't help but notice how smug Marcus looks.
I lean back in my chair, realizing that tonight isn't about fitting in but about reclaiming what was always mine.
I sit at Marcus's table, listening to him drone on about his BMW dealership and the latest car models.
I nod along politely, glancing at my phone for any important messages.
Just then, a text comes in from Lance.
Lance: Hey, what's up?
It's been a while.
How about we grab coffee sometime?
I stare at the message, surprised that he's reaching out after all this time.
We haven't spoken since he ghosted me last year when I needed help with rent.
I wonder if word has gotten out about my inheritance and he's looking to reconnect now that I have money.
Marcus glances over at my phone, curiosity in his eyes.
I type my response with deliberate slowness, watching Marcus try to read the screen from across the table.
The fancy restaurant's lighting reflects off the phone, making it harder for him to see.
Lance: How about we meet at that new café downtown tomorrow?
I add a few more details about the time and location before hitting send.
Marcus clears his throat, interrupting my thoughts.
"Is that a platinum case?" he asks, nodding towards my phone.
I glance down at the case, realizing he's trying to figure out if I have money.
"Yes," I reply, sliding my phone into my pocket to cut off his view.
I signal the waiter, who comes over to take our orders.
Marcus leans in, lowering his voice.
"So, what brings you to Le Bernardin tonight?" he asks, a hint of challenge in his tone.
I meet his gaze steadily. "Just wanted to see if the food lives up to the hype," I reply, keeping my expression neutral.
I scan the menu, feeling Marcus's eyes on me.
The waiter hovers nearby, pen poised expectantly.
I look up at him and smile.
"I'll have the $498 chef's tasting menu," I say casually.
Marcus chokes on his wine, sputtering as he tries to compose himself.
The waiter's professional mask slips for a moment, and I catch a glimpse of surprise in his eyes.
He glances at my worn t-shirt and jeans before returning his attention to his notepad.
"Would you like the $300 wine pairing with that?" he asks, his tone neutral.
"Yes," I reply without hesitation, reaching into my pocket to pull out my platinum card.
I hand it to him, watching as the heavy metal catches the light.
Marcus leans back, a smirk playing on his lips.
"Didn't peg you for a high roller," he says, eyeing me with newfound interest.
I shrug, meeting his gaze. "Sometimes it's worth reminding people what you're capable of."
I lift my wine glass, studying the deep red liquid as it catches the light.
The sommelier hovers nearby, having just poured a glass of 1982 Château Lafite Rothschild that costs more than my old monthly rent.
Marcus's friends fall silent, their appetizers forgotten as they wait to hear what I'll say.
My worn jacket sleeve pulls back, revealing the platinum watch case next to the crystal stem.
The contrast makes Marcus shift uncomfortably in his designer suit.
I lock eyes with him, remembering how he stole Penelope away from me.
I raise my glass higher, my voice carrying across the hushed table.
"To new beginnings," I toast, savoring the moment.
I notice the sommelier hovering near our table, his demeanor different from the usual wine service.
When he presents the next vintage, he smoothly slides a folded paper beneath my napkin while pouring.
Marcus continues bragging about his BMW dealership, oblivious to the exchange.
Between sips of wine, I carefully unfold the note under the table, keeping my expression neutral.
The handwritten message reveals Marcus's dealership is failing, with massive debts to dangerous people.
He's been desperately searching for wealthy investors to save his business.
I lean back in my chair, studying Marcus as he continues his animated tale of meeting his sales targets.
The Rolex on his wrist glints under the chandelier as he waves his hands, but I notice something else now—a slight tremor in his movements, a sheen of sweat on his forehead.
The note burns in my pocket, a secret I hold over him.
When he mentions needing business partners to expand, I slowly swirl my wine, letting the platinum card case catch his eye again.
His gaze locks onto it immediately, and for a moment, the mask of confidence slips, revealing desperation.
I cut into the perfectly cooked Wagyu beef, watching Marcus's eyes track every movement of my platinum card lying next to my plate.
The meat melts on my tongue, each bite worth a hundred dollars, and I savor it deliberately, taking my time.
Around us, waiters hover, refilling my wine glass constantly.
Marcus's friends have grown quiet, abandoning their earlier bravado as they watch me eat with the casual confidence of someone who belongs here.
"Marcus," I say, setting my fork down with deliberate precision, "how's the dealership really doing these days?"
His smile falters, and he glances around nervously before leaning in, whispering, "It's complicated... but let's just say I'm open to new partnerships."
I nod slowly, letting the weight of his words hang between us, "Perhaps we should discuss how I can help with that."
I lean back in my chair, watching his eyes widen with hope.
"I have some investment capital I've been looking to diversify."
I set my wine glass down, the crystal clinking softly against the tablecloth.
"Let me check my schedule."
I pull out my phone, taking my time to scroll through the calendar dates.
Marcus fidgets with his tie, waiting anxiously while I deliberately take my time.
His friends exchange uncomfortable glances, sensing the shift in power at the table.
Finally, I look up, "How about next Tuesday at 2 PM? Would that work for you?"
Marcus nods quickly, relief washing over his face.
"Perfect. I'll meet you at your dealership then."
I input the appointment into my phone without looking up, letting him stew in the silence for a moment.
I stand, leaving Marcus with the weight of his own desperation.
I push back my chair and stand from the table, adjusting my worn jacket deliberately.
Marcus scrambles to his feet, extending his hand for a handshake that I ignore.
As I walk between the white-clothed tables toward the exit, the other diners' conversations fade behind me.
My old sneakers squeak against the polished floor while the maître d' rushes to open the door.
I hear Marcus calling after me about Tuesday's meeting, his voice carrying a desperate edge that makes me smile.
"Don't forget to bring the financials," I call back, not breaking my stride.
His voice wavers slightly, "Of course, I'll have everything ready."
I push through the door, the cool night air a welcome contrast to the stifling tension inside.
I drive my Porsche to the downtown café where Lance is waiting.
I park directly in front of the window so he can see my car.
Through the glass, I watch him fidget with his coffee cup, checking his phone for what must be the hundredth time.
He's dressed in designer clothes that look expensive but poorly fitted.
I remember when he ignored my calls, knowing I needed rent money.
Walking inside, I see his eyes widen as he takes in my shabby clothes and then dart to my car outside.
He stands to greet me with fake enthusiasm, extending a hand that I deliberately ignore.
"Lance," I say, sliding into the chair opposite him, "I see you've upgraded your wardrobe."
He laughs nervously, glancing at his ill-fitting jacket, "Yeah, well, appearances are everything in this business."
I lean forward, lowering my voice, "And how's business treating you these days?"
He launches into a rambling explanation of his marketing startup, gesturing with his hands.
The gold watch on his wrist catches the light, a stark contrast to the cheap suit he's wearing.
I let him talk, studying his face as he speaks.
When the waiter arrives, I order the most expensive coffee without looking at the menu.
Lance's eyes widen at my casual spending, just like they did when he saw my Porsche outside.
He continues talking, his voice growing more strained as he realizes I'm not paying attention to his words.
Each sentence he utters is like fuel for the fire growing inside me.
I lean forward in my café chair, cutting him off mid-sentence.
His fake smile falters, and his eyes widen as I pull out the old text messages from my pocket.
I spread the screenshots across the table between our coffee cups, watching his face pale as he reads them.
They're the messages he ignored when I was desperate for rent money.
He opens his mouth to say something, but I cut him off again by placing my platinum card next to the messages.
The contrast between his past cruelty and current desperation is clear in his eyes as he stares at the evidence of both his betrayal and my new wealth.
I hold my expensive coffee cup steady, watching him squirm in his seat.
His mouth opens and closes several times, but no words come out.
Sweat beads on his forehead despite the café's air conditioning.
When he finally speaks, his voice cracks as he tries to explain away his past actions.
I take another deliberate sip of my coffee, letting the awkward silence stretch between us.
The platinum card gleams on the table next to his cruel messages, a stark reminder of how our positions have reversed.
"I was too busy, you see. I couldn't possibly help you last year," he continues, his words tumbling out in a desperate monologue.
I grip my coffee cup tighter, watching him squirm as he tries to justify abandoning me.
The gold watch on his wrist catches the light with each frantic gesture.
I take slow, deliberate sips, savoring the discomfort on his face.
Finally, he runs out of excuses and falls silent.
I set my cup down with a sharp clink on the table.
The platinum card gleams between us as his eyes dart between it and my face.
His mouth opens and closes several times, waiting for my response.
I pull out my phone instead, checking the time.
"Time's up, Lance," I say, standing to leave.
As I stand to leave, Alex unexpectedly walks into the café.
He's still wearing his grocery store uniform and looks like he just finished his shift.
His eyes scan the room until they land on Lance, and he marches straight to our table.
His face hardens with recognition as he takes in Lance's presence.
Before Lance can react, Alex pulls out his phone and presses play on a recording.
The sound of Lance's drunken voice fills our corner of the café.
"I'll help her out, don't worry. I'll give her whatever she needs."
Lance's face drains of color as his own voice echoes through the room.
I remain standing, watching him shrink in his chair while Alex towers over him.
The café's other patrons turn to stare, but I keep my focus on Lance's face crumpling with each exposed lie.
His designer suit suddenly looks cheap, his gold watch tacky.
Without saying a word, I meet Alex's eyes and give him a slight nod.
The gesture feels powerful - acknowledging his loyalty while dismissing Lance completely.
I turn and walk toward the door, my footsteps steady and deliberate on the tile floor.
Alex follows me, leaving Lance alone with his shattered pride.
The evening air is heavy as we step outside, the sounds of the city mingling with the hum of the café behind us.
Alex walks beside me, his work uniform rustling with each step.
We reach my Porsche, and I unlock it, the interior lights flickering on.
I slide into the driver's seat while Alex gets in on the passenger side.
He sits closer than necessary, his presence filling the small space.
I shift toward the door, adjusting my seat belt as he settles in.
The leather seats creak softly under our movements.
Alex turns to face me, his expression serious in the dim light.
I grip the steering wheel tightly, keeping my eyes forward while he inches closer.
I start the engine, leaving the past behind us.
I navigate the winding coastal road, the headlights casting a beam on the dark asphalt.
The engine purrs smoothly as we climb the seaside cliffs.
Streetlights reflect off the hood, illuminating Alex's face occasionally.
He keeps shifting closer, his hand brushing mine on the gearshift.
I focus on driving, my fingers tightening around the steering wheel.
The view of the ocean is breathtaking, even in the darkness.
Streetlights line the road, casting a glow over the waves below.
Alex leans toward me again, his voice low and husky.
"Look at that view."
His breath sends shivers down my spine, but I keep my eyes on the road.
I can feel his gaze on me as I drive, but I remain focused on the path ahead.
Finally, we reach a clifftop overlook, and I pull into a parking space facing the ocean.
The waves crash against the rocks below us, sending mist into the moonlit air.
I shift into park and sit back in my seat, letting out a deep breath. Alex reaches for my hand again, his fingers brushing against mine.
This time, I don't pull away.
Instead, I let him intertwine our fingers as we stare out at the dark water below us.
The sound of the waves crashing is soothing, and for a moment, everything feels at peace.
I glance at Alex beside me, his profile illuminated by the streetlights outside.
He turns to meet my gaze, his eyes filled with something I can't quite decipher.
Before he can say anything, I release his hand and exit the car abruptly.
I step out, leaving him inside as I approach the edge of the cliff.
The gravel crunches under my worn sneakers with each careful step.
Twenty feet from the car, I stop and stare at the dark waves crashing against jagged rocks below.
The wind whips my jacket, carrying salt spray that stings my face.
Behind me, I hear Alex's door open and his footsteps following.
My body tenses as he gets closer.
I stand frozen at the cliff's edge as his footsteps crunch on the gravel.
The ocean roars below, but I barely hear it over my pounding heart.
His presence behind me grows more oppressive with each step.
I clench my fists, fighting the urge to step away.
When his arms suddenly encircle my waist, I feel trapped.
His whispered words about wanting this moment make my skin crawl.
I grip his wrists firmly, preparing to break free from his unwanted embrace.
"Alex, let go," I say, my voice steady despite the turmoil inside.
He hesitates, his grip loosening slightly as he whispers, "I thought you felt it too."
I turn to face him, eyes hard, and reply, "What I feel is my decision, not yours."
I step back from his embrace, putting distance between us on the cliff's edge.
The waves continue to crash below, a constant reminder of the precipice we're on.
I meet his gaze and tell him how he abandoned me last year when my adoptive parents kicked me out.
He offered empty words of support, never following through.
Now that he's seen my wealth, he suddenly finds me interesting again.
His face falls as I recount the moments he wasn't there for me.
When he tries to explain that he always cared, I cut him off by turning away.
I walk back to the car, leaving him behind with the crashing waves.
I grip the steering wheel tightly, watching his figure shrink in my rearview mirror as he stands alone on the cliff.
The engine roars as I accelerate down the winding coastal road, putting distance between us.
His betrayal from last year weighs heavily in my mind - how he promised help when my adoptive parents threw me out, but never showed up.
The leather seat feels cold against my back as I push the car faster.
At the highway entrance, I don't hesitate.
I park in a deserted beach lot and slump against the wheel.
The engine ticks as it cools, and through the windshield, I see only the dark waves.
My hands shake as I pull out my phone and scroll through old texts from him.
Each message cuts like a knife - "I'll always be there for you bro" and "You can count on me."
But when I needed him most, weeks went by without a word.
I sit there, scrolling through the old messages, when my phone buzzes.
It's an email from Morrison & Associates.
A junior lawyer named Sarah Chen has written to me.
My fingers hover over the screen as I read the words - another inheritance, this time from my maternal great-aunt Elizabeth Weber.
She's left me all her assets in Hong Kong.
I click on the photo attached to the email, and a picture of an elderly Asian woman fills my screen.
She's wearing expensive clothes and standing in front of a luxury car.
I study her features, searching for any resemblance to myself.
In her eyes, I see a glimmer of the strength I need to move forward.
I sit in my parked Porsche, staring at the photo.
My fingers hover over the number listed in the email.
After a moment's hesitation, I take a deep breath and press the call button.
The international ring tone echoes through my car's speakers.
My heart pounds as a woman answers with a crisp "Morrison & Associates Hong Kong."
