Chapter 1: The Asian Gatsby

In 2014, at the 71st Golden Globe Awards in Los Angeles—city of stars and second chances—Leonardo DiCaprio, the magnetic lead from “The Wolf of Wall Street,” held up the trophy for Best Actor. For a second, the world seemed to pause, all eyes on Leo and the shimmer of gold in his hands—he couldn’t help but grin.

The ballroom buzzed with pure electricity—cameras popping, tuxedos swirling, sequined gowns catching the light. Everyone was waiting to see who’d take the stage next. No one wanted to miss it. Leo’s smile spread through the crowd like wildfire, pulling everyone closer, everyone waiting for him to crack a joke or say something real.

He started off by thanking a mysterious investor behind the scenes—someone he just called “my friend.”

The audience traded looks, whispers rippling through the tables. In Hollywood, a “friend” could mean anything—a producer, a backer, or just someone who knew how to throw the wildest party in town. But something about Leo’s tone made people sit up. There was a weight to his words…

This friend seemed to know everyone in Hollywood. Paris Hilton was always on his guest lists, and Victoria’s Secret supermodel Miranda Kerr? She’d even been his girlfriend—for a while, anyway.

His parties were legendary—rooftop bashes in Beverly Hills, private rooms in Vegas with bottle service that ran until sunrise. No one threw a party like him. Paparazzi would stake out the sidewalk for hours, hoping to catch a glimpse of the glitterati streaming in. Even the gossip blogs struggled to keep up with the ever-changing guest lists.

Even President Obama—after meeting him—ended up visiting his hometown. That’s how far his reach went.

It wasn’t just the stars—politicians, tech moguls, even the President himself got swept up in his orbit. When Obama made a stop in his hometown, the local paper ran a headline: “From Penang to the White House: The American Dream, Redefined.”

These were the kind of stunts you’d expect from a young Donald Trump. But they all belonged to a man from Malaysia.

Sure, maybe Trump did it in the ‘80s. But this time, it was a Malaysian guy running the show.

Everyone called him Jho Low, but when he was in the States, he just went by Jonah Lee.

“Jonah Lee” just fit. In New York or LA, he blended right in. At charity galas, folks would nudge each other: “Hey, is that Jonah Lee?”

Jonah Lee? Always wore glasses, round face, always looked a little too young for the room. People liked him.

There was something disarming about him—the thick black frames, the cherubic cheeks, the way he’d laugh a little too loud at a joke. He didn’t seem to take himself too seriously. That’s what made people drop their guard. In a town full of sharks, he was the guy you wanted at your table.

But then, one day, this guy who’d been everywhere—gone. Just like that.

One morning, his name just stopped showing up in the columns. No more party pics. No more whispers at Soho House. Nothing.

It was as if the “Asian Gatsby” had stepped into the fog and never looked back. People wondered. But the city moved on. Every now and then, though, someone would glance over their shoulder at a crowded party, half-expecting to see him in the corner.

At 16, Jonah Lee was shipped off to St. George’s Academy in the UK. After that? Wharton.