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CHAPTER 7: THE FIRST MEETINGS

I was scrolling through messages on MSN Dating when one stopped me. There was something off about it—or maybe something unusually clear. His profile read as if it had been written on a different frequency. My thoughts split instantly in two: either he's not quite right in the head… or he's something rare. Exceptional, even.

I didn't know what to do with that impression, not so soon. But I didn't want to dismiss him either. So, I sent a neutral reply—polite and careful, neither closing the door nor swinging it open. Almost at once, he replied. We exchanged a few awkward lines in the chat box, but he wasn't interested in typing. He wanted to talk. Really talk. Before I knew it, he was offering his number. I gave mine. Seconds later, the phone rang.

The moment I heard his voice, the words slipped out of me before I could stop them. "You're not forty-five. Add ten years to that." He mumbled something and asked what made me say that. But I already knew. You can hear a decade in someone's voice—sometimes more. There was a depth to his tone that only time carves. I didn't mind; not really. But it was clear he hadn't been honest.

Still, we kept talking. The conversation flowed easily—light, but not shallow. There was something apparent: a thread of connection, a sense that we could at least enjoy each other's company. He asked if I would like to meet him. We planned to meet halfway, somewhere central in the country, just a few days later.

When I hung up, I sat in the quiet, already tossing and turning it over in my mind. What did it mean that I hadn't ended the call the moment I knew he was lying? Was I lonely, or simply open—perhaps more open than I had been in years? Was this about him, or was it about me? I didn't have answers. But I still said yes. And sometimes, that's where a new story begins.

The day of the meeting arrived. We agreed to meet in the lounge of a large hotel. As I walked toward the entrance, nerves fluttering in my stomach, a bright red Ferrari parked right at the door caught my eye. It made an impression—how could it not? But I kept walking, more curious about the man than the car.

Inside, I spotted him immediately. Sitting in an armchair, just like in his photo. There was no need to second-guess. We moved to the bar. He ordered a whiskey and cola; I ordered cola. Alcohol and I have never mixed well—two sips and I'd be gone. We talked for hours. About everything and nothing. And somewhere in that conversation, it became clear that yes—the Ferrari was his. When the check came, I paid. He looked stunned, almost offended.

"This has never happened before," he said. Apparently, he was always the one to pay. For me, it wasn't a statement. It simply felt natural—a quiet way of saying: I'm not here for what you have. I'm here to see who you are.

He told me he'd be away for a few days but would call when he returned. We parted ways, and that night I sat in my apartment, trying to make sense of what I felt. He was charming, confident, and used to attention. But beneath it, I sensed something else—an insecurity, maybe, hidden under small performances. The subtle bragging, the need to be admired—it didn't sit right. Not that I judged him; it just told me there was more to him than the shine.

And yes, I love beautiful things. A Ferrari turns heads. But those things don't win me over. I knew he had more than enough money—he was even listed in Quote 500, the Dutch ranking of the wealthiest. But money doesn't buy depth, or kindness, or peace. Those were what I valued most now.

So, I didn't reach out again. I left the next move to him. I had seen enough to be curious, but not enough to be convinced. A few days later, he called. He wanted to meet again—this time at his place. It was a long drive from Loosduinen, so he offered to book a hotel nearby. I said I'd bring my dog. He said that was fine.

A few days later, I packed the car, buckled Komo in, and drove toward the unknown. He was waiting at the hotel when I arrived. I checked into the room, dropped my bags, and made sure Komo had water. Then the plan changed. He said he'd rather take me to his house. "We won't be long," he said. The dog could stay.

I followed him by car. After a few minutes, we reached a massive gate—the kind that would creak open in a film right before the plot turns. It slowly parted, and we drove down a long, winding driveway until, at the end, a villa appeared.

Enormous. And my first thought, sharp as a heartbeat: Where does all this money come from? Not bitter. Not envious. Just pragmatic. While I love beauty, style, and elegance, I'm not blind to the realities behind a luxury façade. You don't end up in a place like this by accident. And falling into something shady? That wasn't a risk I was willing to take.

Inside, things grew stranger. An older man lived there full-time—Adam. Not a guest, but more like a resident caretaker, managing groceries, the garden, the logistics. There was also a woman, Sarah, his personal assistant. She didn't live on-site but handled his business affairs. And a housekeeper came twice a week to keep the marble floors shiny.

Mr. X was pacing in the background, phone pressed to his ear, moving from room to room as if I weren't even there. I didn't feel unsafe, but I didn't feel grounded either. I smiled, nodded, played polite, but inside I stepped into a movie set—one in which no one had given me the script.

He told me he had five children from two marriages. The youngest two, he said, he no longer spoke to. Of the oldest three, only his son still lived with him—a man in his twenties who, according to him, did nothing. School had failed; work hadn't stuck. He'd once borrowed money from his father to start a business, but mostly he stayed in bed until noon.

According to Mr. X, things had turned dangerous. He told dramatic stories—one after another—about all the trouble this son had caused. There was arrogance in his tone, but also fear. I didn't know what to believe. Maybe the boy really was out of control. But I couldn't ignore the pattern: a man estranged not only from his children, but from his brother, from almost his entire family. His father had died years before. Only his mother remained close—and even that connection felt more like an alliance of power than of love. My gut warned me something was off. But I dismissed it.

I told myself, everyone has flaws, everyone has their version of the story. People can change, given time. And besides, I reminded myself, my mother's story had taught me not to judge family rifts too quickly. She, too, had been cast out—disowned by her Chinese family for refusing to live by their rules. She wanted freedom: to travel, to work, to choose her own friends. To her family, that independence was rebellion. Rebellion met exile. The moment she decided to travel on her own, they cut her off.

That story—her story—taught me to see the danger of assumptions. Who knows what hidden rules, betrayals, or unspoken griefs live beneath a family's silence? So I didn't press Mr. X. I didn't question him. I ignored the red flags and the unease in my gut.

I wanted to believe that people could heal, that estrangement wasn't always proof of wrongdoing. I knew how easily people are misunderstood—how quickly they're cast out for wanting something different.