The first thing I saw in my father’s office was the tiny U.S. flag magnet crooked on the mini‑fridge—one of those cheap souvenir ones you get at a pharmacy, the kind tourists slap on without thinking. The second thing was the way the Bloomberg terminal’s green glow painted my father’s hands like he was underwater.
In the hall outside, someone’s radio leaked Frank Sinatra, soft enough to pretend it was ambiance instead of nostalgia. Somewhere down on the street, New York kept yelling at itself—horns, brakes, the sharp bark of a delivery truck—while twenty floors up, everything was polished quiet. My worn leather portfolio sat on my knees like a weight.
The seams were scuffed, the handle rubbed smooth from years of being held too tightly. It didn’t belong in this office the way everything else did. Neither did I, at least not in their minds.
My father didn’t look up right away. He was still pretending to read a document, like fourteen months ago, like I was still a distraction he could file away. Then the screen flashed.
Tech Founder’s Net Worth Hits $5.8 Billion. The headline refreshed, bold and indifferent. A new number replaced the old, like money didn’t care who deserved it.
My father’s eyes snapped up—sharp, alarmed—like the terminal had called my name. I kept my face calm. I’d practiced calm the way other people practiced smiles.
Fourteen months earlier, the same man told me to start at entry level. That was the day I stopped asking for permission. Back then, Chin & Associates Investment Group sat twenty floors above the financial district’s daily pulse, in a building that smelled faintly of lemon polish and old confidence.
The mahogany conference table gleamed under recessed lighting so bright it felt like interrogation. The chairs were all expensive except one—the cheapest one, the one with the stiff back reserved for interns, assistants, and, apparently, disappointing children. That’s where I sat.
Across from me, my father—Robert Chin—occupied the head of the table like a permanent fixture. He’d built his firm into a $400 million operation and wore that fact the way other men wore wedding rings. His gray suit was flawless.
His hair was perfect. His gaze, when he bothered to offer it, carried the cold assurance of someone who believed the world rewarded the deserving. To his right, Marcus lounged in a leather chair like he’d been born already comfortable.
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