How to Become a Billionaire

First, you have to lower your standards. Not all at once… if you do that, you’ll notice. Start small. Return emails later than you should. Learn to say “I’ll circle back” and never circle back. When someone points out a problem, nod thoughtfully and write it down, then lose the paper. You see a call from your wife, you’ll get back to it later, maybe. It’s not cruel. It’s efficient.

Next, you’ll need capital. You don’t have any, so you’ll borrow it. The trick is to borrow it from people who can’t hold you accountable. They clearly aren’t using it right, right? They won’t miss it. Billionaires themselves will tell you this. They’ll also say things like “disruption” and “innovation” and “scalability”. You won’t fully understand these words, but you’ll use them anyway. They sound better than “rent” or “food” or “healthcare” ever did.

You’ll hire people. Bright people. Overqualified people. People who believe in what you’re building because you told them a good story. You’ll pay them less than they’re worth but more than they’ve ever made. You’ll call this an opportunity. When they work late, you’ll say you’re all family here. And families don’t count hours. Eventually you’ll hire a woman named Zara because she reminds you of someone you used to be—smart, earnest, and grateful for a chance. She’ll work harder than anyone else. You’ll spend Thanksgiving dinner with her family, you haven’t spoken to your own family in years, and get to know her kids and husband.

When the numbers dip, your investors will suggest cuts. You’ll know exactly who they mean before they say it. You look at Zara’s desk and make eye contact.

“It’s nothing personal.”

As the company grows, so will the distance between you and consequences. You won’t see the factory. You won’t meet the people who can’t afford what you’re selling. You’ll receive reports instead—clean, tidy numbers that don’t cry, or cough, or get laid off right before the holidays. Numbers are much easier to deal with than people.

Soon, you’ll sign papers you don’t have to fully read. Your lawyer will summarize them in a calm voice and tell you what matters: exposure minimized, liability contained. When you ask about the people affected, he’ll pause—just long enough to make you feel childish, and say “That’s already been accounted for.”

Eventually, you’ll attend a dinner where everyone is very polite. You’ll hear rumors that come packaged as jokes, and comments about flights taken on borrowed planes, about islands with no cell service and very good lawyers. Someone will mention a list—there’s always a list, but they’ll laugh while they do it, like it’s stupid to care. You won’t ask questions. Questions are how doors close.

Later, when documents surface and names blur behind black ink, you’ll tell yourself you never knew anything. This will be technically true. You’ll learn that not knowing is a skill, and like all valuable skills, it improves with practice.

At this point, you are very close.

Becoming a billionaire won’t require another betrayal, not really. Just maintenance. Just staying quiet. Just continuing to benefit from systems that work exactly as designed. You’ll tell yourself you didn’t build them. You’ll tell yourself you aren’t responsible for everything they do. This will almost feel true.

The numbers look good again. Better than good. Your lawyer smiles. Your investors relax. Someone refills your glass without asking.

You think about Zara, briefly. About her kids, about how fast names disappear once they stop being useful. You wonder if this will ever bother you the way you think it should.

You sign where you’re told. You shake the hands that are offered. You say thank you to others that sound just like you. Later, when people ask how you did it, you’ll tell them that it took sacrifice. You won’t be lying. You’ll just be very careful about what you mean.

Now it’s Thanksgiving and this time you’re hosting. The house is larger. The table longer.

The wine more expensive. The people around it laugh at things you don’t find funny, but you laugh anyway. The turkey is carved cleanly and the plates are full.

For a moment, the smell takes you somewhere else. Suddenly you’re at a smaller table in a crowded kitchen and a child is tugging at your sleeve as Zara brings out the turkey.

You try to remember his name.

Across the table, someone asks about your next acquisition. You answer that instead: “Growth.”