Gene spent the next six days oscillating between confidence and full-blown panic.
"You need to chill out," his cousin David said over FaceTime. David was still back in Irvine, working at his dad's dental practice and living what Gene considered a very safe, very boring existence. "You're acting like you're about to meet royalty."
"I basically am. Do you realize what this gathering could mean? These people—"
"Gene. Dude. You're spiraling. Go to the gym or something."
Gene hung up. David didn't understand. Nobody back home did.
He stood in his apartment—a sleek one-bedroom in Da'an District that cost an obscene amount but had the right address—and stared at his closet like it had personally offended him.
Lin Yue had been clear: don't dress like you shop at Nordstrom.
Problem was, he basically did.
His phone buzzed. A message from Lin Yue: *Hired you a stylist. She'll be there in 20 minutes. Don't argue.*
"Jesus," Gene muttered, but relief flooded through him alongside the embarrassment.
-----
The stylist's name was Monica. She arrived wearing head-to-toe black and sporting a severe bob that screamed "I will judge everything about you and won't pretend otherwise."
"Stand up," she commanded, not even bothering with introductions. "Turn around."
Gene obeyed.
"Mm. Your body's decent. Your taste is a war crime." She rifled through his closet, made a noise like she'd bitten into a lemon, and started tossing clothes onto the floor. "American mall garbage. When was the last time you had something properly tailored?"
"Uh, my high school prom?"
"That explains everything wrong with your life." She pulled out her phone. "I know three places. We're leaving now. Shoes on."
-----
Two hours later, Gene found himself in a tiny shop tucked into an alley he'd never have discovered on his own. An old man with measuring tape and chalk was pinning fabric around him, muttering rapid-fire in Taiwanese Hokkien.
"He says you have good shoulders but you hide them with tragic fits," Monica translated without looking up from her phone. "Also wants to know if you work out or if this is genetics."
"I work out? Sometimes?"
The old man cackled and fired back something sharp.
"He says work out more if you want to catch anyone's eye at these things. Rich people notice bodies."
Gene couldn't tell if he was being roasted or given legitimate life advice. Probably both.
Three suits later—one navy, one charcoal, one that Monica called "interesting enough to remember but not clown behavior"—Gene's credit card was practically smoking. But when he examined his reflection, he had to admit: he looked different. Less Orange County tech bro trying too hard, more… someone who belonged in rooms that mattered.
"Better," Monica said, circling him like a predator. "Now we fix how you stand. You slouch when you're nervous. Makes you look apologetic. Rich people smell apologies like sharks smell blood."
"I don't slouch—"
"You're doing it right now."
Gene straightened his spine.
"Better. Now, when you walk into that room next Thursday, you walk like you've been invited to twenty gatherings this month and chose this one because you felt generous. Got it?"
"That feels… fake?"
"It's called confidence. Fake it until it's real, or go home to California." She checked her watch. "We have four more days. I'm coming back tomorrow to work on your handshake and how you hold a drink. Your grip says 'aggressive American' and your drink holding says 'frat party.'"
After she left, Gene collapsed on his sofa and stared at the ceiling. His phone buzzed again—this time his mom.
*How's Taiwan, baobei? Making friends?*
He typed back: *Working on it. Takes time.*
*Your baba says you're spending too much money. He checked the credit card.*
*Tell Dad it's an investment.*
*He says investments should make money, not spend it.*
Gene tossed his phone aside. His parents didn't get it either. They'd made their money through hard work and smart business moves, sure, but they'd never tried to break into circles that had been closed for generations. They didn't understand that sometimes you had to spend money to make the right kind of money.
-----
Thursday arrived like a freight train.
Gene stood in front of his mirror wearing the "interesting but not clown" suit—a deep midnight blue with subtle texture, paired with a crisp white shirt and no tie. Monica had been insistent: "Ties are for bankers and politicians. You're neither."
His hands were shaking. He forced them to stop.
*You belong here,* he told his reflection. *You chose to be here. Act like it.*
The gathering was in a private room at a restaurant in Zhongshan District—the kind of place with no sign outside, just a red door and a hostess who looked like she modeled in her spare time.
"Name?" she asked in Mandarin.
"Gene Eu. I'm with Lin Yue's party."
She checked her tablet, nodded, and gestured toward a corridor lined with dark wood and soft amber lighting. Gene's heart hammered as he walked, his new shoes silent on the polished floor.
The room opened into a space that was somehow both grand and intimate. Maybe thirty people scattered in clusters, all holding drinks, all dressed like they'd never set foot in a mall in their lives. Crystal chandeliers. Art that was probably worth more than Gene's car. A wall of windows overlooking the city lights.
Lin Yue spotted him immediately and glided over, wearing a black dress that probably cost more than his rent.
"You clean up nice," she said, eyeing his suit with approval. "Monica's work?"
"Every painful second of it."
"Good. Come on, I'll introduce you around. Try not to look terrified."
"I'm not terrified."
"You're doing that thing where you clench your jaw. Stop it."
She led him to a group of three people—two men and a woman, all probably in their forties or fifties. Expensive watches. Effortless posture. The kind of people who'd been rich so long they forgot what middle-class even looked like.
"This is Gene Eu," Lin Yue said smoothly. "From California originally, working in semiconductors and rare earth supply chains. Gene, this is Richard Chen, Vivian Wu, and Thomas Liang."
Richard—the one with silver at his temples and a smile that didn't reach his eyes—extended his hand. "Ah, the American Lin Yue's been talking about. Welcome."
Gene shook it, remembering Monica's coaching: firm but not crushing, two seconds, eye contact, slight nod.
"Thanks for having me. Lin Yue's been generous with introductions."
"She's good at collecting interesting people," Vivian said, her voice smooth as silk. "So tell me, Gene, what brings you to Taipei? Besides the obvious business opportunities."
This was it. The first real test.
Gene took a breath, channeled every ounce of Monica's coaching, and answered: "Honestly? I got bored. Irvine's safe, clean, profitable—and completely soul-crushing. I figured if I was going to build something that lasts, I needed to be somewhere where things actually happen."
Thomas raised an eyebrow. "And you think Taipei is where things happen?"
"I think Taipei is where the right people meet. And in my experience, the right people matter more than the right place."
Vivian laughed—a genuine sound that cut through the room's polite murmur. "Well, that's refreshingly honest. Most young entrepreneurs spend twenty minutes explaining their disruption strategy before they remember to breathe."
"I'm not disrupting anything," Gene said. "I'm just trying to build relationships with people who've been doing this longer and better than I have."
Richard studied him. "You're either very smart or very naive. I haven't decided which yet."
"Why can't I be both?"
That got another laugh from Vivian. Even Richard's smile warmed slightly.
"Alright, California boy," Richard said. "Let's see if you can keep up with the conversation. We were just discussing the new tariff negotiations. What's your read on how they'll affect rare earth supply chains in Q4?"
And just like that, Gene was in.
The next two hours blurred together—a test disguised as casual conversation, where every question probed what he knew, how he thought, whether he could handle being challenged by people who'd forgotten more about business than he'd learned yet.
Gene held his own. Not perfectly—there were moments where his knowledge hit its limits—but he didn't pretend to know things he didn't. When stumped, he asked questions instead of bullshitting. Monica had drilled that into him: "Smart people respect curiosity more than fake expertise."
Around 10 PM, Mr. Chen—the silver-haired man from Gene's first dinner—approached him near the windows.
"You survived," he said simply.
"Barely."
"That's more than most do on their first night." Mr. Chen sipped his whiskey. "My son wants to meet you. He's starting a venture fund focused on cross-strait supply chain investments. Thinks you might have useful perspectives."
Gene's heart jumped. "I'd be happy to meet him."
"Good. I'll have my assistant send you details." Mr. Chen turned to leave, then paused. "One more thing. You came here wanting to break into old money circles, yes?"
Gene decided honesty was still his best play. "Yes."
"Then remember this: we don't actually care about old versus new money. We care about whether you'll still be relevant in ten years. Stay relevant, and doors open. Become boring, and you'll disappear." He smiled. "Don't be boring, Gene Eu."
After he walked away, Lin Yue materialized at Gene's elbow.
"Well?" she asked.
"I think I didn't completely humiliate myself."
"You did better than that. Vivian told me you were 'refreshingly direct without being obnoxious,' which from her is basically a marriage proposal."
Gene laughed—a real, relieved laugh. "So what now?"
"Now you go home, sleep off the adrenaline, and wait for Mr. Chen's assistant to email you. And Gene?" She clinked her glass against his. "Welcome to the game. Try not to screw it up."
As Gene left the restaurant and stepped into Taipei's humid night air, his phone buzzed. An email from Chen & Associates.
*Mr. Steven Chen would like to schedule a meeting to discuss potential collaboration opportunities. Please confirm your availability for next week.*
Gene stood on the sidewalk, city lights blazing around him, and allowed himself a moment of pure, unfiltered triumph.
He'd done it. The door was open.
Now he just had to walk through it without falling on his face.