“We were 23.”
Our company, Fintech Solutions, had started in my apartment five years ago. The idea was simple: use machine learning to analyze trading patterns and predict market movements with unprecedented accuracy.
What made us different was our approach to data synthesis. We developed algorithms that could process news, social media sentiment, economic indicators, and historical patterns simultaneously, generating trading recommendations in real time.
The first year, we made $180,000 in revenue. My parents thought I was barely scraping by. They didn’t know that I’d plowed every penny back into development, hired three PhD mathematicians, and secured our first major institutional client, a boutique investment firm managing $2 billion in assets.
Year two: $4.3 million in revenue. My mother told relatives I was still figuring things out. My father stopped asking about my job entirely.
Year three: $18 million in revenue. We landed contracts with six major hedge funds. I bought a house. Nothing ostentatious. A nice three-bedroom in a good neighborhood.
And my sister assumed I’d gone into debt.
“Ethan’s probably underwater on that mortgage,” I overheard her tell my cousin at Christmas. “Trying to look successful.”
Year four: $39 million in revenue. Forbes mentioned us in an article about emerging fintech companies. My mother called to ask if I’d seen it.
“Isn’t it nice that they featured successful companies? Maybe you could try to work for one of them someday.”
I’d laughed.
Then I’d gone back to work.
By year five, we had 63 institutional clients, including four of the top 10 hedge funds in the country. Our algorithms were processing over $50 billion in daily trading volume. We had 127 employees. Our office took up three floors of a Class A building in the financial district.
And my family still thought I was a struggling coder living paycheck to paycheck.
The Series C funding round was the final step before going public. Goldman Sachs had valued us at $280 million. The deal would close in a week, and then it would be public knowledge. SEC filings, press releases, the works.
But apparently, that would be too late for Jessica’s wedding.
The wedding was scheduled for the last Saturday in April at the Fairmont Grand Hotel, a historic luxury property with a reputation for hosting society events.
The reception alone reportedly cost $300,000.
I wasn’t invited, but I followed the preparations through my mother’s increasingly frantic Facebook posts about centerpieces and seating charts.
Jessica posted photos of her custom Vera Wang dress, her destination bachelorette party in Napa, her engagement ring, a flawless 4-carat diamond that Marcus had proposed with at some exclusive restaurant I’d actually eaten at twice.
“Marrying the love of my life,” her posts gushed. “Can’t wait to start our future together.”
The comments were predictable.
My aunt: “You’ve done so well for yourself, sweetheart.”
My mother: “Such a beautiful couple. Marcus is so accomplished.”
My sister commented, “At least one of our generation is successful.” Face blowing a kiss.
I closed Facebook and went back to work.
The week before the wedding, our CFO, Margaret Chin, knocked on my door with a stack of papers.
“Final valuation documents. Goldman wants to announce Monday.”
“Monday?”
“That was three days after Jessica’s wedding.”
“They want to time it with the market. NYC opening bell, maximum visibility. They’re talking about CNBC coverage, Bloomberg, the whole nine yards.”
I signed the documents.
“Sounds good.”
“Ethan.”
Margaret had worked in finance for 25 years, had seen three IPOs, and didn’t mince words.
“Your family still doesn’t know.”
“Nope.”
“That’s going to be a hell of a surprise.”
“Yep.”
She studied me for a moment.
“You could tell them now before it goes public.”
“I could.”
“But you’re not going to.”
“Nope.”
Margaret smiled.