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MidReal Story
The Billionaire's Secret Son
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
determined, and sarcastic. Shane faced a tumultuous childhood after being kicked out of the elite boarding school his foster family afforded him. His exgirlfriend left him for someone richer. Despite criticism and judgment from others, Shane inherits the wealth from his deceased grandfather. He struggles with family dynamics but ultimately finds acceptance and purpose.
Grandfather
and protective. Grandfather hid his involvement in raising Shane due to societal stigma against single fathers and orphan children. His ultimate sacrifice of leaving Shane a vast inheritance compels Shane to embrace his heritage and purpose despite the obstacles he faced.
Morgan
and optimistic. Morgan was adopted by Shane's foster family, along with her brother Scott. She relies on Shane for support and companionship. Despite her challenges due to her condition, Morgan is happy and brings joy to Shane's life. Her relationship with Shane is deeply loving and pivotal in his transformation from feeling isolated to finding family acceptance.
I was an orphan, and my girlfriend left me for a richer guy.
I was poor, very poor.
I had nothing, absolutely nothing.
No family, no friends, and worst of all, I had been kicked out of the only home I had ever known.
But little did they all know, I was about to become one of the richest guys in the world.
My life was a mess, and things were only going to get worse before they got better.
But when they did, watch out, because I was going to make sure that everyone who had ever labeled me as a failure, a loser, or just plain insignificant bowed down at my feet.
The day my life changed forever began like any other.
I woke up early, got dressed in the only clothes I owned, and headed to the kitchen.
Morgan was already up and at the table, eating her breakfast.
"Good morning," I said as I sat down across from her.
"Good morning," she replied with a smile on her face.
Morgan was my adoptive sister, or at least she was the sister of my foster family.
She and her brother Scott had been adopted by them a few years after I was taken in.
I paused at the kitchen table, staring at the cream-colored envelope among the scattered bills and junk mail.
Morgan continued eating her cereal, oblivious to my fixation on the letter.
The handwriting caught my eye - flowing cursive letters spelling out my name with precise strokes, nothing like the messy scrawl of bill collectors.
I reached for it slowly, half-expecting it to disappear like a mirage.
The paper felt expensive, thick and textured under my fingers.
As I turned it over, I noticed a wax seal bearing an intricate crest I'd never seen before.
Inside was an invitation to a world I never knew existed.
With trembling fingers, I broke the seal and unfolded the thick papers inside.
Morgan looked up, her eyes wide with curiosity.
The first document was an inheritance - my grandfather's primary estate.
Billions in assets, properties across continents, and controlling shares in major corporations.
I flipped through the pages, my heart pounding in my chest.
And then, a second inheritance document fell out, detailing a separate trust fund worth even more than the first.
My mind reeled as I read the words, barely comprehending their meaning.
But there was more - a third envelope tucked inside the second, this one yellowed with age.
I opened it carefully, revealing a handwritten will from a great-aunt I never knew existed.
Morgan gasped as I pulled out a faded photograph showing three massive estates side by side.
"Are you telling me all of this is yours now?" Morgan whispered, her voice a mix of disbelief and awe.
"It seems so," I replied, still trying to process the enormity of it all.
"But why didn't anyone ever tell you about this family before?" she asked, her brow furrowed in confusion.
I stared at the business card attached to the inheritance papers, my fingers hovering over my phone's keypad.
The name "Harrison & Associates" was embossed in gold lettering, with a direct line to Senior Partner James Harrison listed below.
Morgan squeezed my hand as I punched in the numbers, my heart pounding.
The phone rang three times before a crisp female voice answered.
"Harrison & Associates, how may I direct your call?"
I cleared my throat, glancing at the reference number on the documents.
"This is Shane Weber. I'm calling about inheritance case number 47291."
There was a pause, followed by shuffling papers.
"Classical piano music filled my ears as I was put on hold.
My fingers drummed anxiously on the kitchen table, while Morgan squeezed my hand tighter, her eyes fixed on my face.
The cheap plastic phone felt slick against my sweating palm.
I checked the inheritance papers again, verifying the case number for the tenth time.
A click interrupted the music, followed by a deep, authoritative voice.
"Mr. Weber, this is James Harrison. I've been expecting your call."
I cleared my throat, trying to sound more confident than I felt.
"Yes, sir. I received the documents about my grandfather's estate this morning."
There was a pause, and I heard papers shuffling in the background.
"Very well, Mr. Weber," Harrison said.
"I'll be in town tomorrow morning. I'd like to meet with you in person to discuss the details of your inheritance."
My mind raced as I scribbled down the address he gave me.
"Tomorrow morning? That's kind of short notice."
Harrison's voice turned slightly cold.
"I'm afraid it's unavoidable. My schedule is quite busy, and I have a window of only a few hours before I must return to New York."
I hesitated, unsure of what to say.
"I see," I finally replied, my voice barely above a whisper.
"Very well, Mr. Harrison. I'll be there tomorrow morning."
The line went dead, and I hung up the phone slowly, my mind reeling with questions.
Morgan squeezed my hand again, her eyes wide with concern.
"What did he say?" she asked softly.
"He wants to meet me tomorrow morning," I replied, my voice still shaking.
"But... Shane, we can't afford a plane ticket on such short notice."
I sighed, rubbing my temples with one hand.
"I know," I said quietly.
"But I have to go. This is the most important meeting of my life." Morgan looked at me, her eyes filled with worry.
"But what about your job? You can't just leave without giving them any notice."
I shrugged, feeling a sense of hopelessness wash over me.
"I don't have much choice," I said flatly.
"This is something I have to do."
Morgan nodded slowly, her expression softening.
"I understand," she said gently.
"But what about clothes? You don't have anything suitable for a meeting with a high-powered attorney like that."
I glanced down at my worn jeans and faded t-shirt, feeling a twinge of embarrassment.
"You're right," I admitted.
"I don't have anything suitable for a meeting like this."
Morgan frowned thoughtfully for a moment before speaking up again.
"Why don't you borrow something from Scott?" she suggested.
"He's always dressed nicely for work. Maybe he has something you could wear."
I hesitated for a moment before shaking my head regretfully.
"Scott's shorter than me," I pointed out gently.
"None of his clothes would fit me properly." Morgan nodded understandingly, her expression sympathetic.
"Well, what about buying something new?" she suggested tentatively.
I shook my head, glancing at the dwindling balance in my bank account.
"There's no way I can afford that right now," I admitted, frustration creeping into my voice.
Morgan bit her lip, then brightened with an idea. "What if we check out that thrift store downtown? You never know what treasures we might find there."
After exhausting all other options, Morgan and I decided to pack a small backpack with the inheritance papers, a change of clothes, and the last of our food.
Morgan helped me make a cardboard sign reading "NYC" in bold black letters, her eyes welling up with tears as she handed it to me.
At dawn the next morning, I hugged her tightly before setting off towards the interstate entrance.
My threadbare dress shoes were already pinching my feet as I walked along the side of the road, my thumb held out in hopes of catching a ride.
The morning traffic whizzed past me, expensive cars filled with people rushing to get to work.
I sighed, feeling a sense of frustration wash over me.
Just when I was starting to lose hope, a rusty pickup truck slowed down beside me.
I gripped my backpack tighter, my heart pounding as I debated whether or not to accept the ride.
The truck's rusty door creaked as it swung open, revealing a weathered man in his sixties with a plaid shirt and trucker cap.
"Where you headed, sonny?" he asked gruffly, eyeing me with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion.
"New York," I replied, my voice shaking slightly.
"Got a meeting I can't miss."
The old man nodded thoughtfully, then gestured for me to climb in.
"Hop in. I'm headed that way myself."
I slid onto the torn vinyl seat beside him, my backpack clutched tightly on my lap.
The cab smelled of cigarettes and stale coffee, but I was grateful for the ride.
The old man shifted into gear and pulled back onto the highway, his eyes fixed on the road ahead.
"My name's Earl," he said gruffly after a few minutes of silence.
"What's yours?"
"Shane," I replied quietly, watching as the mile markers ticked by outside the window.
Earl nodded thoughtfully, his expression softening slightly.
"So what's this meeting of yours about?" he asked curiously.
I hesitated for a moment before answering, unsure how much to reveal to this stranger.
"It's... personal," I said finally, hoping he wouldn't press for more information. Earl nodded understandingly, his expression sympathetic.
"I get it," he said gently.
"Just be careful out there. New York can be a tough place."
I nodded silently, my eyes fixed on the passing landscape outside the window.
The miles flew by in a blur as we merged onto the highway, the rhythmic hum of the engine lulling me into a state of semi-consciousness.
Earl chatted idly about his long-haul trucking days, sharing stories of late-night stops at roadside diners and encounters with eccentric characters along the way.
I listened intently, grateful for the distraction from my own worries.
As we approached the outskirts of Manhattan, my stomach began to twist with nervousness once again.
Earl glanced at me with a knowing look and said, "Remember, sometimes the hardest roads lead to the best destinations."
I stand on the bustling sidewalk outside Earl's truck, clutching my worn backpack against my chest.
The towering glass buildings of Manhattan loom overhead, their reflective surfaces catching the morning sun.
My thrift store suit feels tight and scratchy against my skin as I check the crumpled business card one last time - Harrison & Associates, 42nd floor.
Taking a deep breath, I join the crowds of well-dressed professionals rushing to and fro.
Their designer clothes and confident strides make me feel out of place in my secondhand attire.
My dress shoes, already giving me blisters, click awkwardly on the pavement as I try to keep pace.
At the entrance to the building, a doorman gives my shabby appearance a suspicious glance.
I pause before the gleaming glass doors, catching a glimpse of my reflection.
My borrowed tie hangs crookedly, and the suit jacket bunches awkwardly at the shoulders.
A group of executives brushes past me, their tailored suits and polished leather briefcases a stark contrast to my worn backpack and scuffed shoes.
I think of Morgan's encouraging smile this morning, take a deep breath, and adjust my tie with trembling fingers.
The doorman's skeptical gaze follows me as I grip my inheritance papers tighter and push through the revolving door.
I enter the gleaming elevator alone, my reflection distorted in the polished brass panels.
The button for floor 42 glows when I press it, and my stomach lurches as the car begins its smooth ascent.
Through the glass wall behind me, Manhattan's skyline shrinks away.
My backpack feels heavier with each floor we pass, and I count them silently - 15, 16, 17.
At floor 20, a sharp-suited executive steps in, giving my worn outfit a dismissive glance before positioning himself in front of me.
I grip the inheritance papers tighter, watching the numbers climb toward my destination.
I shift my weight from one aching foot to the other, trying to ignore the executive's judgmental glances at my scuffed shoes.
The elevator's soft hum fills the tense silence between us.
When he adjusts his Rolex watch, the gold catches the overhead light, making me even more aware of my plastic drugstore timepiece.
Floor numbers continue climbing: 35, 36, 37.
My inheritance papers feel damp in my sweating hands, and I carefully adjust them to prevent wrinkles.
The executive exits on floor 40, leaving behind a cloud of expensive cologne.
I exit the elevator into a hushed marble hallway, my cheap shoes squeaking against the polished floor.
The Harrison & Associates sign gleams in gold letters at the end of the corridor.
Two security guards flank the glass entrance doors, their eyes following my approach.
I pause at the reception desk where an elegant woman in a tailored suit looks up from her computer.
When I state my name, her professional smile falters slightly as she takes in my ill-fitting clothes.
She picks up her phone, murmuring quietly into the receiver while I shift my weight, conscious of the sweat stains forming under my arms.
The receptionist finishes her hushed phone call and eyes me with barely concealed disdain.
I clear my throat, trying to steady my voice as I ask for directions to Mr. Harrison's office.
She points down the marble hallway with manicured fingers, describing a series of turns past expensive artwork and mahogany doors.
My backpack feels heavier with each step as I follow her instructions, passing conference rooms where executives in tailored suits stare through glass walls at my worn clothing.
I pause outside the heavy mahogany door, staring at the brass nameplate reading "James Harrison, Senior Partner."
My knuckles hover inches from the wood as I adjust my thrift store tie one last time.
The morning sun through nearby windows highlights every scuff on my borrowed shoes.
Down the hall, two associates whisper and glance my way, their designer suits making my outfit look even shabbier.
My inheritance documents stick to my sweaty palms as I take a deep breath.
The hallway feels too quiet, too pristine.
I finally knock, and a deep voice from inside calls, "Come in."
As I enter, Mr. Harrison looks up from his desk, raising an eyebrow at my appearance.
"You're here about the inheritance, aren't you?" he asks, a hint of surprise in his voice.
I step into Harrison's plush office, my cheap shoes sinking into the thick carpet.
Behind a massive mahogany desk, he studies me with piercing eyes, his silver hair perfectly styled.
The morning sun streams through floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating leather-bound law books and oil paintings.
My voice comes out steadier than expected as I confirm my identity.
I place the wrinkled inheritance documents on his desk, watching his manicured hands reach for them.
The leather chair creaks as I sit down, my ill-fitting jacket bunching awkwardly.
I lean forward anxiously as his fingers sort through my papers, pausing at each document to make small sounds of confirmation.
I grip the leather armrests tightly, the morning sun through his windows feeling hot on the back of my neck.
Sweat trickles down my back inside the ill-fitting jacket.
When he reaches the final page, he removes his reading glasses and fixes me with a steady gaze.
My throat goes dry as he pulls out a thick folder from his desk drawer and places it between us.
"There's something you need to know," he says, tapping the folder with a finger.
I swallow hard, nodding for him to continue, my heart pounding in my chest.
"This inheritance comes with conditions—ones that might change everything you thought you knew about your family."
I lean forward as he opens the thick folder, revealing a family tree diagram.
Most names are crossed out in red ink, leaving only a few scattered branches.
His finger traces down the intricate lines, explaining how my grandfather had spent decades tracking every potential heir.
Each crossed-out name represents someone who died or was legally disqualified.
When his finger stops at my name—the only one not crossed out—I grip the leather armrests tighter.
He pulls out another document, showing DNA test results from when I was a child.
The proof of my direct lineage is irrefutable.
The weight of being the last heir makes my borrowed suit feel even more suffocating.
"Why didn't anyone tell me about this before?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
Mr. Harrison leans back in his chair, eyes narrowing slightly. "Your grandfather believed secrecy was the best protection until the right moment."
"But why now?" I press, feeling a mix of confusion and urgency.
He opens his mouth to respond, but his phone suddenly rings, shrill in the silence.
He glances at the caller ID, frowning slightly.
"Excuse me," he says, answering with a curt "Harrison speaking."
As he listens, his eyes widen and dart to me repeatedly.
He grabs a pen and begins scribbling notes furiously on a pad.
My hands grip the armrests tighter as his voice rises with each response.
"Yes... yes... he's here right now actually."
There's a long pause, and then he sets the phone down, staring at me with a pale face.
"Mr. Weber," he says, shuffling the papers on his desk.
I watch as he pulls another thick folder from his desk drawer, his hands shaking slightly.
"Your great-aunt Victoria, your grandfather's sister, passed away last night in Switzerland."
He spreads out the folder, revealing documents and photographs.
"She left her entire fortune to the same heir as your grandfather... you."
The room feels colder as I look at the images of European estates, Swiss bank accounts, and priceless art collections.
He mentions another few billion dollars added to my inheritance.
"And then there's her private island in the Mediterranean," he adds, pointing to a photo of crystal-clear waters.
I grip the leather armrests harder, trying to process this second massive inheritance in one day.
Just then, his receptionist bursts in with an urgent look on her face, holding a stack of papers.
"Mr. Harrison, these just came in," she says, handing them to him.
I grip the leather chair for support as I rise, my thrift store suit damp with sweat.
Harrison spreads several documents across his mahogany desk, explaining the next steps in a rush.
A thick stack requires immediate signatures, another pile needs review by tomorrow, and a third set demands decisions about property management.
My head spins as he points to sticky tabs marking signature lines.
The receptionist returns with more papers, adding to the overwhelming collection.
I grip the heavy fountain pen he hands me, its gold nib glinting in the morning sunlight.
The first signature feels strange - my usual scrawl looks out of place on such important papers.
Harrison points to each marked section, explaining legal terms I barely understand.
My hand trembles slightly as I work through the stack, signing away my old life page by page.
The receptionist keeps bringing more documents, adding them to the towering pile.
When I reach the final inheritance form, I pause, remembering Morgan's supportive face.
My sweaty fingers leave marks on the thick paper as I grip the pen, its weight unfamiliar in my hand.
Harrison points to the final signature line on the last document, his manicured finger tapping impatiently.
The Manhattan skyline stretches behind him through floor-to-ceiling windows, a view that will soon be commonplace in my new life.
I think of Morgan waiting at home, probably worried sick about my hitchhiking journey.
The pen scratches across the paper as I sign my name one last time, the ink still wet and shining.
"Are you sure about this?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
Harrison looks at me, his eyes steady and calculating.
"You have no idea what kind of world you're stepping into," he replies, a hint of warning in his tone.
I stare at my signature drying on the final page, the heavy fountain pen still warm in my grip.
Harrison gathers the documents methodically, tapping them into alignment with a practiced motion.
Through the window behind him, sunlight catches on the neighboring skyscrapers, momentarily blinding me with its glare.
My borrowed suit feels damp with sweat as I watch him slide the papers into a leather portfolio.
The weight of what I've just done hits me when he extends his hand across the desk.
I stand up from the leather chair, my legs unsteady as I return his firm handshake.
The morning sun casts long shadows across his mahogany desk, now cleared of the inheritance papers that have transformed me from a penniless orphan into one of the world's wealthiest men.
My borrowed suit clings uncomfortably as Harrison releases my hand and walks to the wall behind his desk.
He presses a hidden button, revealing a small wall safe.
Opening it, he removes a single key and turns back to me.
"This key," he begins, his voice measured, "unlocks a private elevator in the building. It leads to the penthouse suite."
He pauses, studying me intently.
"It's your grandfather's secret Manhattan office. He wanted you to have it."
I sit back down at Harrison's desk, my hands trembling as I flip through the pages of the inheritance summary.
The number at the top of the page dances before my eyes: 550 googol dollars.
My mind struggles to comprehend the magnitude of such a sum.
The pages that follow detail an endless array of assets: private islands dotting the Pacific, a fleet of mega yachts, and real estate holdings spanning every continent.
Harrison slides a card across the desk to me.
It's metallic blue, with a platinum W embossed on its surface.
"This is a special Citibank card," he explains, his voice steady.
"It has unlimited credit. Citibank created this card specifically for your family's wealth."
I reach for it tentatively, my fingers leaving sweaty marks on its pristine surface.
I take the elevator key from Harrison's outstretched hand, stand up on shaky legs, and walk toward the door.
I stand alone in the private elevator, the key clutched tightly in my hand.
The polished brass doors close silently behind me, and I insert the key into a hidden panel beneath the regular floor buttons.
My sweaty fingers fumble as I turn it, and a new button marked "P" illuminates.
The elevator begins its smooth ascent, passing floor after floor of the Manhattan skyscraper.
Through the glass wall, I watch the city shrink below while clutching my backpack containing the inheritance papers.
My thrift store suit feels increasingly out of place as I rise toward my grandfather's secret domain.
The elevator doors slide open silently into a vast, dimly lit space.
I step out onto polished marble floors, my cheap shoes echoing in the emptiness.
Floor-to-ceiling windows reveal the sprawling expanse of Manhattan below, but what catches my eye is the massive mahogany desk dominating the room's center.
Family photos I've never seen line the walls - my parents, my grandfather, even baby pictures of me.
But behind the desk, a portrait of my grandfather watches over everything.
I move closer, noticing fresh flowers beneath it.
Someone's been here recently.
My fingers brush the surface of his desk, leaving marks in a thin layer of dust.
I approach the desk, running my fingers along the edge of the mahogany surface.
It's smooth, polished by years of use.
The top drawer opens with a slight stickiness, releasing a musty smell of old paper.
Inside, I find a neat stack of cream-colored envelopes, all addressed to me in my grandfather's distinctive handwriting.
The dates on the envelopes span years, starting from when I was a child.
My hands tremble as I lift out the first letter.
The paper feels delicate and expensive between my fingertips.
"Why didn't he ever send these to me?" I whisper, my voice barely audible in the vast room.
A soft voice answers from the shadows, "He wanted you to find them when you were ready."
I turn sharply, startled, as a woman steps into the light, her eyes mirroring the same deep blue as my grandfather's.
