Page 90 of The Reluctant Billionaire

What’s a little more surprising, but maybe shouldn’t be, because he’s a sweetheart, is how intent he is on showing me off. Introducing me. Tonight’s his night, but he ensures I’m involved in every situation. That my glass is always filled. That he never leaves my side.

I adore the property sector, but tonight I’m envious, because the energy in this vast room is palpable. Obviously, the numbers at stake in the tech industry are dizzying, but it’s an industry I have surprisingly little exposure to, despite my dad’s background. I can instantly feel the power, the money, the excitement, the ambition here.

Everyone is smart.

Hungry.

Scarily young, considering what they’ve achieved (Exhibit A: Aidan Duffy).

Everyone makes ‘thinking big’ sound like a four-year-old’s imaginary play.

Sure, there are lots of nerds here, but there are also lots of folks from the commercial side, and I can smell their ambition a mile off. These people have Big Hairy Audacious Goals—BHAGs—and they are not afraid to put them out there into the universe.

I fuckingloveit. It’s intoxicating. And I’m lightheaded with pride that my man plays such a central part in driving such a critical part of the economy.

Not just driving. Nurturing. Because surely, having role models like Aide, who are driven by their heart and soul, is everything when it comes to attracting the next generation of engineers? Data scientists?

My parents are here, obviously. Dad looks quietly, politely pained—he’s a lot like Aide, but a lot worse at hiding it—while Mamma’s wearing a couture dress from Dolce and Gabbana’s last Alta Moda collection and loving every minute of this shindig. They are loving Aide and me being together, and I can’t deny it’s a kick to have them see us here like we’re a proper couple.

Which we are.

Obviously.

My man’s speech is electric. Fuck, he’s amazing. He’s amazing because he doesn’t give a shit about any of the optics but he gives far too many shits about the real stuff, and that authenticity, that fervour, just radiates out of him. Also because he’s scarily smart and fluent and articulate and passionate. He makes it sound like he’s just coming up with his beautiful, thought-provoking speech in the moment. All that, and his movie star looks, mean every person in this room is in his thrall.

He talks about the friend he lost and why he started Totum. He doesn’t over-egg it; he tells the story and connects it to the wonder of technology.

Technology is hope and possibility and limitlessness. It is working with the very best of humanity and leveraging that. It is here not to replace us, but to offer us transparency. Liberty. Dignity. He talks about the awe he felt as a young teen when he discovered that the most elevated concepts in the world—love and wellbeing and community—could be transcribed in ones and zeroes. Could be captured. Quantified. Made real.

His words are poetic, and inspiring, and achingly beautiful, but they’re not pompous or exclusive. Maybe that’s his greatest gift—that he can speak to everyone’s hearts. He’s Aidan Duffy, but he’s also Aide, and whatever he says about his inner conflict, about his discomfort at straddling both sides of him, I know they’re one and the same.

Ladies and gentlemen. I give youAide Fucking Duffy.

There isn’t a person off their feet when he finishes. The soaring ceilings of the museum echo the resounding applause and cheers of what must be close to five hundred bastions of industry, politics and education. Because my Aide has touched everyone in this room tonight.

When he gets back to the table, which is a tougher journey than it sounds given the number of people who stop him for back slaps and handshakes en route, he’s smiling and bashful and emotional, but I can tell he’s proud of himself.

And so he fucking should be.

As for me? I’m a shaking, teary mess as I sit there with his Totum colleagues (Aide turned down the top table, apparently. Course he did). I feel shallow and inadequate and star-struck. I make a great living in a very frothy part of the market, catering to people richer than God.

My boyfriend changes lives and pools knowledge and transforms industries.

I give back and pay forward in a perfunctory, efficient and duty-fuelled way, because I know it’s the right thing to do, and I know how lucky I am, and I low-key believe in karma.

My boyfriend gives back and pays forward because he has a fire in his belly, and that fire is altruism. It’s a desperate desire to do better by the people who have less than him.

It’s almost laughable to me now that I saw his attraction as skin-deep at first. Sure, I came for his pecs.

But I stayed for his heart.

And I’m falling forhim.

When he gets back to the table, I jump up before any of his colleagues can get to him and throw myself smack against his chest. ‘You were amazing,’ I breathe against his neck. I’m sobbing. I’m totally bowled over. I hug him tighter. ‘So, so bloody amazing. I’m so proud of you.’

‘Hey,’ he whispers, his hands moving over my bare back. ‘Thank you. And I’m proud of you, too. Every day. But there’s a problem.’

‘What’s that?’ I ask with an unsexy gulp. I am in real danger of ruining my eye makeup like this. Aidan Duffy and his panda-eyed girlfriend.

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