The hidden loneliness of Dubai’s Ultra-Wealthy men
They live in penthouses that kiss the clouds, drive cars most people only see in magazines, and wear watches that could pay off a mortgage but behind closed doors, many of Dubai’s ultra-wealthy men are silently drowning in a loneliness they can’t admit to anyone. Not to their friends, not to their wives, not to their advisors, and certainly not to the public. The world sees wealth and assumes happiness, power, confidence, control. But I see something different. I see what they reveal when they finally allow themselves to be unguarded.
These are the men who call me after midnight not for pleasure, but for peace. The message is always brief: “Are you free tonight?” There’s no flirtation, no small talk, no emojis. Just need and I know what that means. They’re not booking a fantasy. They’re booking a moment of silence. A human presence a space where they can stop pretending, even if only for a few hours. Because when the spotlight is off, what they’re left with is often unbearable quiet the kind of quiet that echoes too loudly in a room meant to impress.
I've sat beside men who own entire buildings in Dubai Marina, who’ve been featured in Forbes, who fly first-class not just across countries but across continents and still, they can’t say what they truly feel to anyone in their life. Many of them are surrounded by people all day, but they go to sleep emotionally alone every night. Their wives have grown distant. Their children live abroad. Their friends are business contacts. Their assistants schedule every moment of their lives yet no one actually knows who they are underneath the suit.
One client, a tech founder from London who relocated to Dubai years ago, told me during one of our quiet sessions: “Everyone talks to me like I’m a product. A brand. Even my wife calls me ‘the CEO’ more than she says my name.” That line stuck with me. He wasn’t trying to complain. He was just tired of being useful, admired, and never truly loved for who he is. He didn’t want sex that night. He just wanted someone to sit near him while he drank tea and watched the skyline.
Another client, the heir of an old money family in the Gulf region, books me once a month. He doesn’t touch me. He doesn’t even want to talk most of the time. He just asks me to be in the room to remind him he’s still a person, not just a role or a name on a foundation’s board. When he finally speaks, it’s often about guilt, fear of failure, or the pressure to appear perfect in front of generations of expectations. It’s not about indulgence it’s about release.
Dubai is a city built on image, luxury, control a place where success is measured in square footage and follower count. Vulnerability doesn’t belong in that equation. and that’s why men like these turn to someone like me. Because I don’t ask for anything. I don’t judge. I don’t need a favor. I’m not here to be impressed I’m here to be present and in a world that rewards performance, that kind of presence is rare. Sometimes I’m the only person in a man’s life who lets him feel human again not because I offer advice or try to fix anything, but simply because I don’t walk away when he finally lets the mask slip.
The hidden loneliness of Dubai’s ultra-wealthy men isn’t written about in magazines. You won’t see it in Instagram posts or luxury travel ads. But it exists, quietly, behind the glass walls and velvet ropes and while their lives may look perfect on paper, the reality is more complicated. What they truly crave more than anything money can buy is someone who sees them, not as a title or a trophy, but as a man who just wants to breathe.