The Billionaire Who Forgot How to Love
Chapter 2: The Price of Remembering
The first week back felt like wearing someone else's skin.
Elias walked the halls of Greystone University with a calm, practiced stillness. He knew the rhythm of the place better than most of the students rushing by. The smells, the sounds, the lazy chatter about finals and weekend parties—he'd lived it all before. Only this time, every moment carried weight.
He wasn't here to relive it. He was here to rebuild it.
And avoid everything that destroyed him.
It started with choices. Small ones.
He dropped the elective that had led him to meet Alana the first time. He switched from economics with Professor McCrae to Professor Yun—the one who would later lead an investment firm Elias wanted to plant seeds in early.
He sat in the back of his classes. He spoke less. Observed more.
But the memories wouldn't leave him alone.
Every room whispered a warning. Every face reminded him of things they didn't even know they'd do yet.
He passed Bryce in the hallway—the old roommate who had smiled while stealing from him.
He saw Monica laughing with a friend—the one who'd faked a crisis to manipulate him into paying off her debt.
Even his old friends. James. Derek. Leah. All bright-eyed now. All still good people. For now.
He didn't hate them. Not even a little.
But he wouldn't let them close.
He'd give kindness, but never his heart.
Because last time, they left scars so deep, he forgot who he was.
And Alana…
He saw her again two days later, outside the library.
She hadn't changed. Not yet.
She was the same girl who smiled too easily, who drew people in like light. He remembered their first conversation. The way he'd fallen. How hard he'd tried.
How much it destroyed him.
This time, he kept his distance.
Until she approached him.
"Hey," she said, stepping into his path. "You're Elias, right?"
He paused, measured. "Yeah."
She smiled. "We were supposed to be in the same elective. I noticed you dropped it."
He nodded. "Didn't fit my schedule."
She tilted her head. "Or you didn't like me."
He looked her in the eye. There was no cruelty in her yet. Only curiosity. Youth.
"No," he said calmly. "I just know how I learn best."
She smiled again, but it faltered. "Well, I just thought I'd say hi. You seem... different."
"I get that a lot."
She looked like she wanted to say more but stopped herself. "Maybe I'll see you around."
He watched her walk away.
It hurt. Quietly. Unexpectedly.
But he didn't call after her.
Not this time.
The next few weeks passed like chapters from a familiar book.
Elias worked in silence. Studied hard. Invested quietly. He remembered exact dates when tech companies would announce new patents. He bought shares with money saved from tutoring, knowing which ones would multiply.
He avoided parties. Avoided attachments.
Except one.
There was a girl in his philosophy class—Liv. Quiet. Sharp. Always in the second row. She reminded him of who he used to be before ambition drowned him.
She never spoke to him until one morning she tapped his shoulder.
"You take better notes than I do," she said. "Can I borrow them for the week I missed?"
He handed them over without looking.
"Thanks," she said, eyes scanning him. "You don't talk much."
"Not much to say."
"Hmm." She slid into her seat. "You look like someone with too much to say, actually. You just don't trust anyone with the truth."
That stopped him.
He turned to her. "What makes you think that?"
"Because I'm the same."
She smiled—wry, almost sad.
He didn't respond, but he watched her the rest of class.
Maybe, just maybe, not everyone would be the same as last time.
Maybe not everything had to be rebuilt alone.
Back at home, Elias updated his notebooks. He had three now—coded ledgers tracking ideas, names, timelines. Business contacts he would connect with at the right moment. Markets he would manipulate before others even saw the curve.
His room was still cluttered with old posters and cheap furniture.
But in his mind, he was already building the future.
By December, he'd sold his first algorithm.
Small. Hidden under another developer's name. But it was his code. His innovation.
The check was five figures.
He deposited it into an offshore account under a fake shell identity.
Quiet power. Hidden empire.
It had begun.
Winter came fast.
Snow dusted the edges of campus. Scarves replaced earbuds. Conversations turned toward holidays, families, love.
Elias moved through it all like a ghost. Focused. Silent. Watching.
He saw Liv most days now. They didn't speak much, but when they did, it was honest.
She once asked him, "What scares you?"
He told her, "Forgetting myself."
She nodded. Didn't ask more. She understood.
That made him uneasy.
People who understood too quickly were dangerous.
Alana, on the other hand, had started showing up everywhere.
Once in the café line behind him. Once in the study hall where he always chose the far corner.
Once, she sat across from him, uninvited.
"You act like we had a fight," she said.
"We didn't."
"Then why are you always leaving the room when I walk in?"
He looked up. "I like my space."
She leaned back, studying him. "You're not like the others."
He didn't reply.
"Good," she said, standing. "I'm tired of the others."
She left. Just like that.
And something about it cracked through him.
One night in January, Liv caught him staring out the window after class.
"You ever feel like the future already happened?" she asked.
Elias blinked. "All the time."
She tucked her hands in her coat pockets. "Sometimes I dream about things that haven't happened yet. And when they finally do, I don't feel surprised. I just feel tired."
He turned toward her. "You're not normal."
"Neither are you."
They smiled at each other. Small. Real.
He almost told her everything.
But instead, he asked if she wanted to grab tea.
She said yes.
Over tea, they talked about the world, not themselves.
He learned she painted. She loved sad music. She was afraid of dying before doing something that mattered.
He didn't tell her that she already mattered. That in his past life, people like her were the ones he stepped over without seeing.
Now, he couldn't look away.
By February, his silent empire grew.
He'd funneled profits from his algorithm into seed funding for a start-up he knew would thrive in three years.
He helped a struggling app developer fix backend problems that would've killed their user retention. He did it anonymously, just for a tiny slice of future equity.
He did freelance security testing on college servers under another name. Found vulnerabilities, patched them, charged high.
He wasn't rich. Not yet.
But his reach was spreading.
And no one knew.
Not even Liv.
Valentine's Day arrived like a joke.
He didn't notice until he saw the roses in dorm windows, the couples in matching sweaters, the texts buzzing around like mosquitoes.
He ignored them all.
Until he found a single note in his locker.
No name.
Just handwriting he recognized.
"Do you believe in second chances? -A"
He crumpled it, but didn't throw it away.
That night, he walked past the library steps where he and Alana had shared their first kiss in his past life.
She was there.
Sitting like she had back then. Alone. Waiting.
He didn't stop.
But he didn't forget either.
Because love doesn't fade.
It just buries itself deep enough to hurt forever.
March came with wind and quiet changes.
Liv started sitting closer during lectures. Not too close. Just enough.
She never pushed. Never asked for more than he offered. But her presence was steady. And it unnerved him.
One evening, after a brutal exam, they sat beneath the large sycamore near the west field. The wind carried faint music from a student jam session nearby.
"I used to think love was a finish line," Liv said. "Like if you found the right person, all the chaos would stop."
He didn't speak.
She added, "But now I think it's just... quiet. Something that stays, even when you're drowning."
He stared up at the branches. "That's not how it worked for me."
She looked at him then. "You talk like someone who tried to love the wrong person until it bled."
His chest tightened.
"I did," he said.
"And?"
"She smiled while it bled."
Later that week, he found another note in his locker.
"I still think about you. Every day. I wish you'd talk to me. -A"
He didn't reply.
But he stayed up that night, staring at the ceiling.
Wondering what part of him still wanted to believe her.
By spring break, he was managing two online identities, consulting for a fintech startup, and scheduling a meeting with a European investor using a voice modulator and a fake name.
He wore hoodies. Rode the campus bus. Ate instant noodles with classmates who didn't know he already owned slices of their future.
Liv noticed.
"Sometimes," she said, "you disappear for days. And then when you come back, your eyes look older."
He almost told her why.
Almost.
But instead, he said, "I'm just building something."
She didn't ask what.
Just nodded. "I hope it doesn't cost you everything."
The next day, he passed Alana in the hallway.
She didn't smile. Didn't say anything.
But her eyes—God, her eyes—they looked like they knew.
Knew he was gone.
Knew he wasn't coming back.
And maybe, finally, she was the one being left behind.
That weekend, it rained.
The kind of rain that felt personal—soft but endless, like the sky had something it needed to say and wouldn't stop until it had been heard.
Elias sat beneath the overhang outside the library, hoodie up, watching droplets gather on the edge of the stone ledge. The world was gray and slow.
Liv found him there. No umbrella, no rush, just presence.
"You look like you're running from something," she said.
"I am."
She didn't sit. Just stood close, eyes calm.
"Then why are you standing still?"
He exhaled, the breath fogging in the cold. "Because running doesn't change the direction. Just the pace."
She blinked. Thought. Nodded.
Then, quietly: "Did you love her?"
He didn't ask who she meant.
"Yes."
"Still?"
"I don't know how to stop."
Silence stretched between them. The kind that stripped you down, bone-deep.
Liv sat beside him anyway.
"Then maybe it's not about stopping," she whispered. "Maybe it's about surviving the part where it still hurts."
The next day, an email arrived.
Anonymous sender. Encrypted.
Inside: a business proposal. Confidential. High stakes.
A data firm Elias knew would explode in two years wanted early investors. Quiet ones. There was risk, but not to someone with his knowledge.
He stared at the screen for hours.
The old him would've hesitated.
The new him? He replied in under five minutes.
Using his cleanest fake identity.
The contract was signed by nightfall.
Three days later, Liv didn't show up to class.
Then the next. And the next.
He texted once.
No reply.
On Friday, he saw her at the café. Her eyes were red. Her shoulders hunched like she was holding up a world she didn't ask for.
Before he could speak, she said, "My mom's in the hospital."
"I'm sorry."
"She might not make it."
"I'm so—"
"I don't want comfort," she interrupted. "I just wanted someone to know."
He nodded.
"I know."
She looked at him for a long time. Then: "You're good at carrying pain that isn't yours."
And she left.
That night, Alana called him.
He shouldn't have picked up.
But memory is a ghost that always answers.
"Why do you hate me now?" she asked, voice small.
"I don't hate you."
"Then why do you act like I don't exist?"
He closed his eyes. "Because if I admit you exist, I have to admit what you did."
She was silent.
"I wasn't perfect," she finally whispered.
"No," he said. "You were worse than imperfect. You were convincing."
A sharp breath. Like she'd been slapped.
"You think I didn't love you?"
"I think you loved what I gave you. Not me."
She cried. He didn't stop her. Didn't say anything.
When she hung up, he let the silence stay.
And for once, it didn't hurt more than it healed.
Spring broke open the sky.
His bank accounts were climbing.
His anonymity was intact.
His silence was still his shield.
But something in him cracked the day Liv returned to class. Quiet. Pale. But there.
She sat next to him. Didn't speak.
Then, just before the lecture started, she slid her hand across the table.
And he took it.
Not because he was ready.
But because maybe, finally, someone understood that love didn't need to shout.
It just needed to stay.