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MidReal Story
The Misunderstood Trillionaire
Scenario:Shane Weber has led a hard broke 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 one of the three Trillionaire families in the world. He endures constant criticism and judgement from those around him. He vowed that those who had labelled him a failure would eventually bow at his feet. Now, 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 treated him badly. Will he succeed?
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Shane Weber
He is the adopted son of the Trillionaire,Edgar Weber's son. He is resilient,misunderstood,and determined. Shane grew up in an orphanage after being abandoned by his mother who wanted a wealthy partner. His adoptive parents treated him poorly,and his girlfriend left him for someone wealthier. Despite these challenges,Shane's life changed when he inherited his grandfather's vast fortune,becoming one of the youngest Trillionaires worldwide. He vowed to use his wealth to help others and exact revenge on those who wronged him.
Edgar Weber
He is a Trillionaire and Shane’s adoptive father. He is wealthy,critical,and demanding. Edgar struggled with accepting Shane as his son due to the boy's appearance not matching his expectations. He often treated Shane harshly,viewing him as a burden. Upon Shane’s inheritance,Edgar is shocked and resentful,feeling threatened by his adopted son’s sudden wealth and influence. His relationship with Shane is marked by disdain,creating a toxic familial dynamic.
Lana
She is Shane’s former girlfriend. She is materialistic,unfaithful,and superficial. Lana left Shane for someone wealthier,demonstrating her prioritizing of material comfort over relationships. Her betrayal deeply affected Shane,leading to his decision to pursue a different path after inheriting his grandfather’s fortune. Lana represents the societal expectations and superficial values that Shane detests and seeks to overcome with his newfound wealth and influence.
I was an orphan, a poor one.
My mother abandoned me because she wanted a better life, a wealthier partner.
I grew up in the orphanage and got adopted by Edgar Weber's son and wife.
They were rich, but they treated me poorly.
They never wanted me to be a part of their family.
I was just adopted for the sake of it.
My adoptive brother got everything, and I was left with nothing.
Even my girlfriend left me for someone who had a better life, someone who could provide her with the material things she wanted.
"Shane, I'm sorry. I have to leave you for Raul. He has a better life than you do."
"Lana, what are you saying?"
I asked her, confused.
"You know I love you, but I want a better life. I want to be happy."
"Happy? What do you mean?"
I asked her again.
"I want to live in big houses, drive expensive cars, wear designer clothes. Raul can give me all of that, but you can't."
"Raul? You're talking about Raul?"
I asked her again.
"Yes, Raul. He is richer than you are."
She laughed at me and said after that, "Goodbye Shane. I'm sorry again."
She stood up and left me there sitting on the floor alone.
I was not okay; I was broken into pieces.
I drag myself off the floor and sit on the bed.
My legs are still shaking, but my mind is getting clear.
The sun is setting through the dirty window of my small apartment, casting long shadows across the carpet.
I walk to the bathroom and splash some cold water on my face, staring at my reflection in the cracked mirror.
My phone buzzes - another text from Lana, probably gloating about her new life with Raul.
I delete it without reading.
Moving to my bedroom, I pull out the worn duffel bag from under my bed and start packing my few belongings.
There's nothing left for me here in this place filled with memories of failure.
I sit on the edge of the mattress, methodically folding my few shirts and placing them in the bag.
My phone buzzes again, but this time, it's a call from an unknown number.
"Hello?"
I answer hesitantly.
"Hey, Shane. It's Alex."
Alex?
I haven't heard from him since high school.
"Alex? What's up?"
"I heard about Lana through some mutual friends. I'm sorry, man."
He sounds genuinely concerned.
"I'm doing alright," I lie.
"You don't sound it."
"I'm just... reevaluating things."
There's a pause on the other end of the line.
"Listen, if you need a place to crash, I've got a spare room in my apartment. It's nothing fancy, but it's better than sleeping on the streets."
I hesitate, unsure if I should take him up on his offer.
But then I remember how he stood up for me when kids at school mocked my secondhand clothes.
"Thanks, man. I appreciate it."
"Great. Text me your address and I'll come pick you up."
I hang up and trace the frayed edge of my duffel bag with my fingers.
Alex is working at Weber Tech now, one of the biggest tech companies in the city.
Maybe he can help me get a job there too.
I dial Alex's number again, my heart pounding with a mix of hope and desperation.
"Hey, Alex, it's me again," I say, trying to sound casual.
"Yeah, what's up?" he replies, his voice steady and reassuring.
"I was wondering... do you think there's any chance I could get a job at Weber Tech?"
"I don't know, man," he says, his voice laced with uncertainty.
"But I can ask around. Let me see what I can do."
"Thanks, Alex. I really appreciate it."
I end the call and sit on my mattress, staring at the cracked screen of my phone.
I scroll through old photos from high school, stopping at one of Alex and me sitting on a bench during lunch.
We were both outcasts back then, but we had each other's backs.
My finger hovers over the screen as I zoom in on our faces, remembering the day that photo was taken.
Alex's dad had just been named CEO of Weber Tech, and he was furious when he found out his son was friends with someone from the wrong side of the tracks.
I remember the look on his face when he saw me sitting next to Alex in class - pure disgust and contempt.
My jaw clenches at the memory of it. My phone buzzes again, pulling me out of my thoughts.
It's a text from Alex - an address and a time for tomorrow morning.
I'm supposed to meet with someone from Weber Tech's HR department to discuss possible job openings.
I quickly type out a "thank you" and toss my phone onto the bed.
The next morning, I arrive at the address Alex sent me, my heart pounding with a mix of nerves and anticipation.
As I step inside the sleek office building, I'm greeted by a woman with a warm smile.
"Hi, you must be Shane," she says, extending her hand. "I'm Emily from HR. Alex spoke highly of you."
I follow her through the hallways, my worn shoes squeaking against the polished floor.
We stop at a small conference room, where three men in expensive suits are waiting for us.
Their eyes scan me from head to toe, taking in my thrift store clothes and scuffed shoes.
"Shane, this is Mr. Patterson, Mr. Johnson, and Mr. Smith," Emily says, gesturing to each of them.
"They're part of our executive team."
I nod awkwardly, feeling out of place among these high-powered executives.
They all stand up and shake my hand, their grips firm and confident.
"Please have a seat," Mr. Patterson says, gesturing to the only empty chair at the table.
I take a seat, trying not to notice the way the leather cushion makes my secondhand clothes feel even shabbier.
"So, Shane," Mr. Patterson begins, his voice smooth and authoritative.
"Tell us a little bit about yourself."
I take a deep breath and launch into my well-rehearsed speech about my qualifications and experience.
As I speak, I can feel their eyes on me, sizing me up and judging me.
But I keep my focus on Mr. Patterson, maintaining eye contact as I speak clearly and confidently.
When I finish, there's a moment of silence before Mr. Patterson speaks again.
"Thank you, Shane," he says, his voice dripping with condescension.
"That was... enlightening." I can feel my heart racing in my chest as he pulls out a tablet and begins typing furiously on the screen.
The other two executives watch him with interest, their faces expressionless.
After a few moments of typing, Mr. Patterson looks up at me again.
"So, Shane," he says, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
"Tell me more about your experience with software development."
I swallow hard and launch into another speech about my skills and qualifications.
As I speak, I can feel their eyes on me again, judging me and sizing me up.
But I keep my focus on Mr. Patterson, maintaining eye contact as I speak clearly and confidently.
When I finish, there's another moment of silence before Mr. Patterson speaks again.
"Thank you, Shane," he says, his voice dripping with condescension once more.
"That was... enlightening."
He turns to the other two executives and begins speaking in hushed tones.
I strain to catch snippets of their conversation, but it's too low to make out.
Finally, Mr. Johnson clears his throat and addresses me directly.
"Shane, we have an entry-level position that might suit your skills, but there's something else we need to discuss."
He leans forward and slides a folder across the polished conference table.
I open it, scanning the contents quickly.
It's a job description for a junior developer position - $45,000 salary, basic benefits, nothing special.
Mr. Patterson clears his throat and glances at me with a serious expression.
"We have a special project that we need someone trustworthy to work on," he explains.
"It's not something we can discuss in detail here, but it's a sensitive matter that requires discretion."
The three men exchange glances before Mr. Smith speaks up.
"We need someone to quietly audit our code for any potential security breaches," he says.
"There have been some... irregularities recently, and we suspect that someone on the inside might be causing problems."
My pulse quickens as I realize what they're asking me to do.
"We'll triple your salary if you accept," Mr. Patterson adds, his eyes locked on mine.
"But we need you to understand that this is a confidential matter. You can't breathe a word about it to anyone outside of this room." My mind races as I process their offer.
This could be my ticket out of poverty, my chance to start fresh and make something of myself.
But something about their intense stares makes me feel uneasy.
There's more to this than they're letting on.
I reach for the folder with a steady hand, trying to hide my uncertainty.
I nod slowly, knowing that this decision will change everything.
I reach across the polished conference table to shake Mr. Patterson's manicured hand first, his grip firm and calculating.
Mr. Johnson follows with a quick, almost dismissive handshake, while Mr. Smith's lingering grasp feels uncomfortably damp.
Emily hands me an NDA, watching intently as I sign each marked page.
The fluorescent lights hum overhead as I initial the final document, officially accepting both positions at Weber Tech.
Mr. Patterson collects the papers, locks them in his briefcase, and instructs me to report Monday at 8 AM sharp.
As I stand to leave, Mr. Patterson leans in slightly, his voice low and conspiratorial.
"Remember, Shane, not a word to Alex or anyone else," he warns, his eyes narrowing.
I nod again, feeling the weight of his words settle heavily on my shoulders as I exit the room.
I take the bus back to my apartment, clutching the job offer folder against my chest like a shield.
The other passengers blur into the background as I replay Mr. Patterson's words in my head.
At each stop, I check that the folder hasn't slipped from my grip.
A teenager across the aisle stares at my worn shoes and secondhand clothes, reminding me why I accepted their offer.
When an elderly woman stumbles, I automatically reach out to steady her, then frantically check the folder again.
I clutch the folder tightly while climbing the stairs to my apartment, already mentally planning which clothes I need to buy for my first day at Weber Tech.
My phone buzzes with an unknown number, but I almost ignore it until I see the area code is from New York.
I answer at the last ring.
"Hello?"
"Good afternoon, is this Shane Weber?" asks a formal voice.
"Yes, who's this?"
"My name is James Morton. I'm calling from Morton & Associates Law Firm."
I sink onto the worn couch, the folder sliding from my grip and onto the floor.
"We represent your grandfather's estate. There's an urgent matter that requires your presence in our office as soon as possible."
My heart pounds in my chest.
"I'm sorry, did you say my grandfather? But he passed away when I was a kid."
"Yes, Mr. Weber," Morton replies.
"But there are some matters that need your attention. Please come to our office tomorrow morning."
Back in my apartment, I pull out my old laptop and search for information about my grandfather, Edgar Weber Sr.
Most of the articles are about Weber Industries' meteoric rise in the 1990s.
But one small news piece catches my eye - a family dispute over inheritance rights.
The article mentions a "contested heir" but doesn't name anyone.
I keep digging, finding photos of my grandfather at charity events.
His stern face is eerily similar to mine.
A notification pops up - an email from Morton & Associates with tomorrow's appointment details.
I stare at the email, my mind racing with possibilities, when my phone buzzes again.
"Shane, it's Alex," comes the familiar voice of my older brother. "Did you get a weird call about Grandpa too?"
"Yeah, I did," I reply, trying to keep my voice steady. "But why would they contact us now after all these years?"
I pace the small living room, staring at Morton's business card on the coffee table.
I've been putting off calling him back all morning.
But I finally pick up the phone and dial the number.
My hands shake as I listen to three rings.
A receptionist answers, then transfers me to James Morton himself.
"Good morning, Mr. Morton," I say, trying to sound calm.
"Can you explain why you're contacting us about Grandpa's estate after all this time?"
There's a pause on the other end of the line.
Then Morton clears his throat and speaks in his practiced lawyer voice.
"Well, Mr. Weber, it appears your grandfather left a sealed letter with instructions not to reveal any details about the inheritance until today's date."
"What? Why would he do that?"
I ask, my confusion growing by the minute.
"That's all I can disclose over the phone," Morton replies firmly.
"Please, Mr. Weber, come to our office tomorrow, and all will be explained."
I hang up, feeling more confused than ever, when Alex calls again.
"Shane, I think there's more to this than just an inheritance; we need to find out what Grandpa was hiding."
I wake before dawn, pull on my cleanest shirt despite the frayed collar, and catch the first bus downtown.
The law firm occupies the entire top floor of a glass high-rise.
My worn shoes echo across the marble lobby as I step into the elevator.
The receptionist looks up from her computer, her eyes widening slightly at my shabby appearance.
"Mr. Weber? Mr. Morton is expecting you. Please follow me."
She leads me to a conference room where Alex already sits, his Weber Tech polo a stark contrast to my thrift-store find.
We exchange tense nods, both of us early because we're desperate for answers.
At 8 AM sharp, James Morton enters with a thick leather briefcase in hand and an envelope sealed with red wax bearing the Weber family crest.
Morton breaks the seal and unfolds the letter.
His eyes widen as he reads, then he looks up at us.
"During a recent renovation of your grandfather's mansion, workers discovered a hidden room in the attic. Inside were stacks of wooden crates filled with rare gold coins."
Alex leans forward, his polo stretching across his broad shoulders.
"What kind of coins?"
Morton pulls out photographs from his briefcase and slides them across the table.
I grip the armrest of my chair as I study the images - countless coins glinting under the workers' flashlights.
Spanish doubloons, ancient Roman aureus, and mint-condition American double eagles.
Morton clears his throat and adjusts his tie before speaking again.
I lean forward as Morton spreads the photos across his mahogany desk.
My fingers trace over images of gold doubloons spilling from wooden chests, while Alex rapidly types notes on his phone.
Morton pulls out a preliminary assessment report and slides it to us.
"Based on the coins we've examined so far, just one chest could be worth millions. We're talking about pieces that haven't seen daylight in centuries."
The room seems smaller as Morton explains the complexity of authenticating and selling such rare pieces.
He mentions potential buyers already expressing interest, but Alex interrupts him.
"We'll keep everything in the family," he says firmly, glancing at me with a hint of accusation in his eyes.
Morton's smile falters for a moment before he regains his composure.
"Of course. We'll work with your family's interests in mind."
I lean back in my leather chair and pull out my phone.
While Morton and Alex discuss logistics, I open a search engine and look for reputable coin appraisers in the city.
A name catches my eye: "Davidson & Sons."
They've handled collections for other wealthy families and have a reputation for discretion.
I tap on the link to their website, but the screen freezes due to the crack across my phone's display.
Morton notices my struggle and raises an eyebrow.
I show him the website on my phone, and he nods in recognition.
"That's a good choice," he says, reaching for his office phone.
I watch as he dials the number, Alex's jaw tightening with impatience.
The call connects, and Morton schedules an appointment for tomorrow morning before hanging up.
Alex leans back, crossing his arms.
"Why didn't Grandpa ever mention this room to us?"
Morton hesitates, then replies, "Your grandfather had a penchant for secrets; perhaps he intended it as a surprise or a safeguard."
I look up from my phone as Morton opens his office door, revealing Aunt Clara in her signature pearl necklace and tailored suit.
She strides in uninvited, her heels clicking against the marble floor.
Alex shifts uncomfortably beside me as she sets her leather portfolio on Morton's desk, pulling out detailed records and photographs of grandfather's coin collection.
My stomach tightens as she explains that she helped catalog the coins years ago.
Morton's face pales when she produces additional photographs, showing even more treasures hidden within the mansion's walls.
