I have billions in the bank, a sprawling Manhattan penthouse with private elevators, and the kind of influence that can open any door in the world. But recently, sitting alone in a room full of VIPs, I realized something truly terrifying.

I had absolutely no idea if anyone in my life actually cared about me as a human being, or if they only loved the lifestyle I could provide.

The loneliness was suffocating. It’s a strange kind of isolation that only comes when you realize your entire existence has been reduced to a walking ATM. I was tired of living in a state of constant paranoia, always wondering about the hidden motives behind every smile and every “I love you.” So, instead of asking questions I knew would only get me hollow promises, I decided to run a simple, silent test.

I wanted to see who these people really were when the masks came off. I called the three women who had the most proximity to my daily life into my office: Vanessa, my glamorous girlfriend of two years; Sarah, my fiercely ambitious executive assistant; and Elena, my quiet, unassuming maid who had been keeping my home in order for the last five years.

I sat them down and handed each of them an unlimited, unrestricted black American Express card. I told them they had exactly 72 hours to spend as much as they wanted, on whatever they wanted, with zero consequences and no questions asked. I framed it as a bonus, a sudden burst of generosity to show my appreciation for their presence in my life.

Their eyes went wide. They asked if there was a catch, and I assured them there wasn’t. I just wanted them to enjoy themselves.

But the truth was, this was the ultimate trap. Over the next three days, I sat at my desk and watched the banking alerts roll in on my private monitor.

Vanessa, my girlfriend, didn’t hesitate for a single second. I had always hoped her feelings for me were genuine, but the alerts told a different story. Within hours, she was charging hundreds of thousands of dollars at luxury boutiques. She bought out entire seasonal lines of designer handbags, booked first-class tickets to Milan for her and her friends, and even put a massive down payment on a luxury yacht—a yacht I had specifically told her weeks prior that I had no interest in buying.

She wasn’t building a life with me; she was extracting as much as she could before the clock ran out. It stung, but it didn’t surprise me. Sarah, my trusted assistant, was far more calculating. I had trusted her with my company’s deepest secrets and considered her a protégé. But she didn’t buy clothes or vacations.