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And did people realize I wasn't just Arm Candy? So I'm dating Mitchell. He's 56. I'm 28. And yes, he's rich. Like, really rich. We met at this Starbucks where I was working on my laptop. He loved that I wasn't trying to get his attention. And that I added to my coffee. In his words, more sugar than the Boston Harbor needed in 1773. But here's what six months of dating him actually looks like. Waiters hand him the wine list. Never me. His friends' wives talk to me like I'm five. Explaining what investment means. Really slowly. The valet gives Mitchell my car keys. Every. Single. Time. At his country club, someone always asks what I'm studying. I graduated four years ago. They were asked to find needed help reading the dinner menu. It had seven items on it. Mitchell's company, Christmas Party, is everything I expected and worse. I'm wearing this gorgeous Chanel dress that I bought myself because I liked it. And not even five minutes in. One of the wives pulls me into the bathroom. She puts her hand on my shoulder like she's about to deliver terrible news. And tells me I need to save the money Mitchell gives me for when this ends. When I mention having my own money, she laughs like I've told a joke and presses her friend's financial advisor card into my hand. He specializes in girls like me, apparently. Mitchell gets pulled into a work emergency, leaving me at the bar where his colleagues don't bother lowering their voices. How much do you think Mitchell spends on her monthly? One says. He's more age-appropriate and needs a pretty girl. The seller is refusing his $10 million offer, insisting it's worth more but won't explain why. Mitchell sounds increasingly desperate, repeatedly asking what he's missing. That's when my blood runs cold. I know this company. I know it intimately. I know exactly what Mitchell is missing. I push into the conference room before I can stop myself. Mitchell looks up, irritated at the interruption. He tells the seller on the phone. Sorry, my girlfriend just wandered in. I'm already scanning the papers spread across the table, confirming what I suspected. The seller's voice crackles through the speaker, asking what's going on. I state simply that the company has three major clients not listed in the disclosure. Mitchell freezes. This voice turns sharp, demanding to know how I could possibly know that. Mitchell starts apologizing for my intrusion while the CEO appears in the doorway. Mitchell, that's confidential information. You shouldn't be sharing these things. His wife laughs. Suggesting I overheard something and I'm trying to sound smart, but I continue, listing the clients. Facebook signed in November. Google and Amazon followed about two weeks later. The seller sounds panic to now. Those contracts are so confidential that even his board doesn't know about Amazon yet. The CEO orders Mitchell to control his little girl, insisting this is a serious business matter. I ignore him, pointing to the valuation sheet and mentioning the European patents they haven't factored in. Specifically, the AI-related ones worth millions. The seller's breathing becomes audible through the speaker. Only three people on Earth know about those patents. When the CEO suggests I'm googling information, I place my phone face down on the table and describe the third patent in detail. The German filed predicted algorithm software worth four million alone. The room goes silent except for Mitchell's sharp intake of breath. I explain why the valuation should be at least 20 million, not ten. The seller's voice drops to barely a whisper. The only other person who would know those contract details is my lead investor. The person who gave me my first seed money. A pause. Riley, is that you? Everyone in the room stops breathing. Even the wife's smirk dies. Hi, I say quietly. Yes, it's me. Why didn't you tell me? I look at him. Remember our first date? You said you were tired of women googling your network. I paused. I was tired of men googling mine. I wanted you to like me for me. Not my portfolio. Mitchell takes my hand and smiles. So, dinner tomorrow? Only if I pay this time. I insist.