Ben Sands’ smile was a weapon, all capped teeth and practiced sincerity, beaming from hundreds of social media images. His tagline was everywhere: “Become A World-Class Operator. High Growth Leadership”
Ben wasn’t a CEO, nor a leader. He’d once run a drop-shipping business that sold faulty phone chargers, which he’d spun into a “seven-figure exit” in his lore. Now, his product was the dream itself. For $2,997 a “foundational investment in your sovereign future” you got access to his six-week course: buzzword filled weekly newsletters, pre-recorded videos of Ben in a rented WeWork office, a private Discord full of desperate people, and weekly “Q&A Power Sessions” where he mostly talked about his new BMW.
His target audience was the anxious, the overlooked, the freshly laid-off. Sarah was one of them. A meticulous, talented graphic designer, she’d been “right-sized” out of her job. Algorithm-fed ads found her. Ben’s voice, urgent and smooth, filled her headphones: “Employees are hostages with salaries. The system is designed to keep you a consumer, not a creator. Your skills are your empire. I’m just the map.”
She maxed a credit card to buy the course. The “modules” were vapid. “Cultivate a CEO Mindset” involved buying a journal and writing “I am a billion-dollar decision-maker” ten times each morning. “Monetize Your Genius” advised her to “package her design skills into a high-ticket offer.” When she asked, in the Discord, how to do that, what to actually price, how to find clients, a “Success Coach” (a 19-year-old named Kevin who’d taken the course last month) linked her to a video of Ben saying, “Clarity comes from action, not hesitation. The market rewards boldness.”
Sarah watched the ecosystem churn. People in the group, encouraged to “build their personal brand,” began posting identical content: slick quotes over stock photos of skyscrapers, stories about “crushing it” while secretly drowning. They sold each other motivational e-books and mindset coaching, a pyramid scheme of inspiration with Ben, smug and remote, at the apex. His feed was a barrage of manufactured proof: screenshots of “student wins” (often faked), videos of him on “boardroom calls” (just Zoom with a virtual background), and the constant, grating refrain: “Everyone should be a CEO. It’s not a job, it’s a state of being.”
The turning point was the “CEO Gala.” An extra $500 got you a ticket to a hotel ballroom for “networking and scaling.” Sarah, hoping for real connection, went. It was a temple to artifice. Men in cheap, too-tight suits and women in fast-fashion blazers air-kissed and exchanged LinkedIn profiles. Ben took the stage to pulsing EDM. He spoke of “leveraging assets” and “disrupting verticals,” a word-salad of empowerment. He then brought up “a success story.” A young man, trembling, talked about how he’d “monetized his social anxiety” into a “peak performance podcast.” He’d made $200. Ben applauded wildly, calling it “the first brick in a palace.”
Sarah felt sick. This wasn’t empowerment; it was a grift that weaponized people’s dreams against them. It told them their ordinary skills, jobs, and lives were failures. That the only success was a solitary, glorified kingship.
Her moment came during the Q&A. She took the mic, her hand steady. “Ben,” she said, the room quieting. “You say everyone should be a CEO. But who builds the roads the CEO drives his BMW on? Who teaches the CEO’s kids? Who fixes the CEO’s ruptured appendix? Are they all failed CEOs? Or is a functioning society actually… a team?”
A nervous titter rippled through the crowd. Ben’s smile didn’t falter, but his eyes glinted like chilled steel. “A brilliant question that reveals a limiting belief,” he boomed, patronizingly. “The nurse can be CEO of her health practice. The teacher can be CEO of his educational platform. You’re thinking in old, hierarchical paradigms.”
“No,” Sarah said, her voice clear. “I’m thinking in real paradigms. You’re selling survivor’s guilt to the drowning. You’re not building empires; you’re just convincing people to feel ashamed of their own perfectly good houses so they’ll buy your overpriced, imaginary bricks.”
The room was dead silent. Ben’s facade cracked for a microsecond, revealing something cold and furious. He laughed, a hollow, dismissive sound. “I hear a lot of fear in that. And fear is the number one killer of abundance. Everyone, give Sarah some love for her… brave vulnerability.” The sycophantic applause was muted, confused.
But Sarah was done. She walked out. The next day, she started a website, not as a “CEO,” but as a collaborator. She partnered with a writer, an accountant, and a developer. They built a cooperative, a true team where skills complemented each other, where profits were shared, where success wasn’t a solitary throne but a sturdy, common table.
Meanwhile, Ben’s empire began to show cracks. A investigative YouTube piece dissected his fake testimonials. Former “acolytes” began sharing stories of debt and despair. The word “grift” started to follow his name in comments. He responded by doubling down, selling a new “Recession-Proof CEO” course, his smile growing ever more strained.
One day, Sarah saw a new ad. Ben, looking slightly tired, was now selling “The Exit Strategy Masterclass: How to Sell Your CEO Empire and Retire to Paradise.” The cycle was complete. He’d finally admitted that the point wasn’t to be a CEO, but to sell the dream of being one.
Sarah closed the tab and got back to work with her team. They were designing a beautiful, functional website for a local community garden. It was honest work. It paid the bills. And in a quiet, profound way that Ben would never understand, it felt truly powerful.
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