Page 4 of The Revenge Game

On the back of that, I started my tech company, which I sold a few months ago for the kind of money that sounds made up when you say it aloud.

Now, my brain is ticking faster than an atomic clock.

I take a large sip of my drink. The smooth tones of the red wine linger on my tongue after I swallow.

I’m a big believer in karma. What goes around, comes around. If you put enough good into the universe, some of it will return to you. I like to think I’ve always been a good person, and as the balance of my bank account testifies, a lot has made its way back to me.

But now, my faith in the all-encompassing might of karma has been shaken.

I study the restroom door with the same intensity a cat studies the red dot from a laser pointer.

Justin emerges after a few minutes. He weaves through the crowd effortlessly, sliding back into the fold of his friends, who greet his return with shoulder bumps and easy laughter carrying across the pub.

My chest constricts with an emotion I can’t quite name—something between rage and despair—watching him hold court. The carefully constructed walls I’ve built between my past and present suddenly feel paper-thin.

Because Justin’s still exactly who he was in high school. The golden guy surrounded by a circle of smiling admirers.

Yes, it definitely appears karma hasn’t caught up with Justin Morris.

Possibilities swirl in my mind. I’m currently footloose, with no set ties or projects lined up. I have almost unlimited funds at my disposal.

And there’s that one important, undeniable, inescapable fact.

He didn’t recognize me.

Maybe just this once, karma needs a helping hand.

It turns out my new project is exactly what I need. After years creating digital solutions, I’ve found an analog problem worth solving: designing a perfectly calibrated dose of payback for Justin Morris.

Like any good revenge scheme, it requires meticulous planning. I find myself creating spreadsheets categorizingOptimal Embarrassment ScenariosandPsychological Impact Metrics. The scientist in me demands data points, even for vengeance.

It’s actually a weird relief to have something to occupy my time.

I’d come over to Europe after selling NovaCore with the grand idea of traveling while working out exactly what I wanted to do with the rest of my life.

And I’d done the obligatory European tourist circuit—climbing the Eiffel Tower, getting lost in the Vatican Museums, eating my body weight in gelato in Rome. I’d imagined myself having profound epiphanies while gazing at Renaissance masterpieces. Instead, I mainly discovered that European restrooms are architectural mysteries and my capacity for carbohydrate consumption is truly impressive.

I’d extended my stay in London with the hope that maybe if I stayed in one place long enough, purpose would find me.

Unfortunately, I’ve been just as aimless here, spending my days wandering the city, buying overpriced coffee, and staring at pigeons in the park as if they hold the secrets to life’s meaning.

I’ve developed a first-name relationship with three different baristas, who now start making my order the moment I walk in. Yesterday, I left a hundred-pound tip in Maya’s jar after overhearing her talk about veterinary school. Her shocked expression was the most genuine human connection I’ve had in weeks. I almost asked if I could pay her tuition in exchange foroccasional coffee and conversation before realizing that might come across as either creepy or pathetic—possibly both.

Who am I if I’m not Andrew Yates, young CEO of a top 500 company? My inability to work this out plagues me.

My life was supposed to follow a predictable script. The bullied kid gets rich and successful, and suddenly, everything makes sense. But somehow, the zeros in my bank account haven’t managed to erase the high school memories.

It doesn’t help that my personal life is like a computer in sleep mode. Technically still functional but not doing anything useful.

Initially, I was so busy in the early years of NovaCore that I had no time to date. When I finally emerged from my coding cave and joined some dating apps, I discovered that being a young tech CEO attracted a certain type. Like the guy who spent our entire first date pitching his cryptocurrency startup idea. Or the one who casually mentioned his student loans within the first five minutes. The final straw was the wannabe influencer who’d posted our coffee date on Instagram with the captionLiving that #TechMillionaire lifebefore I’d even gotten home.

My dating profile should read:Has money, terrible taste in men, and the emotional intelligence of a dial-up modem.

At least when I was working eighty-hour weeks, I could pretend I was too busy for relationships rather than admitting I have the romantic appeal of a Linux manual. But since I’ve been in Europe, I’ve had no excuse for not trying, besides the inevitable dilemma of how in the hell can I meet someone genuinely interested in me rather than my bank balance?

Anyway, at least I don’t need to worry about my pitiful love life right now. I’m too busy with my revenge plan.

I’ve found myself waking up every morning with a flush of excitement that I haven’t felt since the early days of starting my company.