Page 8 of How to Fall for the Secret Billionaire
I should be happy.
So why does everything feel so heavy?
I drop into my chair. Let out a long breath. My fingers graze the glass paperweight stamped with the TechBit insignia. I pick it up and turn it slowly in my hand.
TechBit. The beginning of everything.
I launched it at twenty-six—a scrappy little fintech startup nobody took seriously. Until they did. We broke every legacy system, rewrote the rules, turned banking into something you could do half-asleep on your phone. The valuation exploded.
At twenty-nine, I sold it in a deal so massive it made headlines for weeks. Multi-billion-dollar exit. Everyone called me the golden boy.
I stayed on as chairman. Partly to protect what I built. Partly because I didn’t know what else to do. And now, three years later, I’m still here. Still building. Still guiding. Still rich.
And still tired.
Nobody tells you how lonely it gets up here. The higher you rise, the more people look at you like you’re an idea, not a person. Youstop being human. You become a net worth. A stepping stone. A photo op.
They see the articles, the TED Talk, the airport photos, the curated social media strategy.
But not the man behind the camera flashes.
I lean back and stare out at the city. There was a time this skyline thrilled me. Now, it just feels like noise.
For the last year, I’ve been out of the spotlight. No press tours. No launches. No interviews. No new ventures. Just the bare minimum to keep the machine running. I’ve skipped award shows. Evaded paparazzi. Turned downForbesprofiles. Said no to a documentary deal that probably would’ve landed me another hundred million.
None of it felt worth it.
I thought money would buy me freedom. Peace. Connection.
Instead, it built a glass box around me.
And with all the billions in the world, I can’t afford the one thing I want most.
Something real.
Someone real.
A connection. Fulfillment. Home.
I drop the paperweight back onto the desk.
And for the first time in a long time, I say the words out loud, just to hear how they sound.
“I wish I could disappear for a while.”
That evening, I slump into the back seat of my car, phone in hand, tie loosened, head pounding.
The driver pulls away from the office tower in silence—he knows better than to make small talk when I look like this. I lean my head against the leather headrest and do what everyone does when they’re too tired to think.
I doomscroll.
The internet is a false reality of peace, and I revel in it. Flipping from one video to another, what’s real and what’s not rolling into one. News. Finance threads. Some guy in a cashmere turtleneck telling me how to be “unapologetically alpha.”
Rumors about the next unicorn startup. A clip of a guy falling off a treadmill. A post about “10 CEOs Under 30 Who Are Changing the Game.” I’m number one. Again. I roll my eyes and keep scrolling. They can’t even be bothered to get their facts right. I’m 31. Under 30 where?
Then an ad starts, halting my doomscroll and plunging me back to reality.
I grunt.
