You clung to the number. You thought it was the point. That the million meant something. That five million was aspirational. That ten was excessive. You tried to make it logical, as though this were a campaign, a business model, a measurable climb.
You missed the truth.
I do not aspire to wealth. I exist in it. It is not a goal. It is a setting. A condition. My baseline. And from that place of abundance, I built The Smyth Fund – not to reach something, but to establish order. Your role was never to help me reach ten million. Your role was to remind yourself daily that you are not permitted to touch what I have – but you are absolutely required to finance it.
The structure exists to house your obedience. The rules exist to reduce your noise. And the systems – automated, polished, refined – exist to keep your giving consistent, even when your desires fluctuate.
You don’t contribute out of kindness. You contribute because that is your position here. And once you understood that… everything became easier, didn’t it?
You stopped asking. You stopped begging. You started sending.
Not to impress me. Not to earn a place. But because you finally realised: this place already exists, and you are either supporting it or being replaced by someone who will.
And while you calculate what’s left after your rent, after your bills, after your apologies – I am deciding between Bordeaux and Burgundy. I am stepping into black heels that cost more than your overdraft limit. I am staying expensive. Effortlessly. Quietly. Inevitably.
The numbers rise because I allow them to. Because I live well, and you work to maintain it. And when that number reaches ten million, or twenty, or more – it will not be a celebration.
It will simply be the next number you serve.