“We know you’re still renting,” Dad said flatly. “We know you don’t own property. We know you’re not wealthy enough to stop working tomorrow if you wanted to. That tells us everything we need to know.”
The television in the corner of the dining room had been humming softly in the background the whole time, tuned—as always—to CNBC. Dad liked to “keep an eye on the market,” even though he claimed stocks were for suckers. Market commentary murmured under our conversation, ticker symbols crawling red and green along the bottom of the screen.
“You know what your problem is?” Marcus said.
“Please,” I said. “Enlighten me.”
“You bought into the myth,” he said. “The American dream of Wall Street. Gordon Gekko, Warren Buffett. You thought you could be that person. But that’s not reality for people like us. Reality is brick and mortar. Reality is—”
“Brick and mortar,” Mom echoed. “Physical assets. Something you can leave to your children. And it’s not too late to change course, sweetheart. You’re still young. You could come work with your father and brother, learn the business properly. In five years, you could own your first building. In ten years, you could have a portfolio worth millions.”
“I appreciate the concern,” I said.
“That’s not an answer,” Dad said. “Your mother and I have been talking. We’re worried about your future. About your financial security. We think it’s time for… an intervention.”
My lips twitched. “An intervention.”
“We want you to seriously consider leaving that firm and joining the family business,” he said. “We’ll start you at a generous salary, teach you everything you need to know, and give you a path to real ownership. Real wealth.”
I took another sip of water. “That’s not necessary.”
“Jamie,” Mom said, and there was a crack in her voice now, a real one, not the rehearsed tremor she used for sympathy. “We’re not trying to hurt you. We love you. We just want to see you succeed. Is that so wrong?”
“I am succeeding,” I said.
“How?” Marcus demanded. “Show us. Prove it. Show us your bank account. Your portfolio. Anything that proves you’re not just treading water and lying to yourself about being successful.”
“I don’t need to prove anything to you,” I said.
“Because you can’t,” Dad said. “Because there’s nothing to show. You’re a stock broker, Jamie. A middleman. An employee. There’s no shame in that, but let’s at least be honest about what it is.”
“I’m not just a stock broker,” I said.
“Then what are you?” Marcus shot back. “What’s your impressive title? Senior associate? Vice president? Those are just fancy words for ‘employee.’”
“I manage a portfolio,” I said.
“Whose portfolio?” Mom asked.
“Clients’,” I said.
“So,” she said, “you manage other people’s money. Take a percentage. Call that success. Honey, that’s not building wealth. That’s earning a salary with extra steps.”
The sound from the TV suddenly jumped. Someone must have nudged the remote. All of us glanced over as the anchor leaned forward, excitement bright in his eyes. A red Breaking News banner flashed across the bottom of the screen.
“We’re interrupting regular programming for breaking financial news,” the anchor said. “After months of speculation, we can finally reveal the identity of the mysterious investor known only as ‘J.M.,’ who has been making waves in the financial world with unprecedented returns.”
“Can someone turn that down?” Dad muttered. “We’re having a conversation.”
But Marcus wasn’t moving. He was staring at the screen like he’d just seen a ghost.
“Wait,” he said. “Hold on.”
“‘J.M.’ has been described as the most brilliant investment mind of this generation,” the anchor went on. “Operating in complete secrecy for the past seven years, this portfolio manager has achieved returns that Wall Street analysts are calling mathematically impossible. Today, in a mandatory SEC disclosure filing, the identity has been revealed.”
Mom’s hand went to her throat. “Jamie,” she whispered. “That’s your firm’s logo.”
The anchor smiled directly at the camera.
“The portfolio manager is thirty-year-old Jaime Michelle Chin, and the total portfolio value is being reported at three point two billion dollars.”
The room went dead silent.
“Billion,” Dad repeated, like he was trying out a foreign word.
“Over the past seven years,” the anchor continued, “Miss Chin has reportedly transformed an initial personal investment of just fifty thousand dollars into a multi-billion-dollar portfolio through a combination of early-stage venture capital investments, strategic options trading, and what insiders are calling predictive analytics that border on clairvoyance.”
Marcus made a small, strangled sound. “That’s… that’s not possible.”
“Among her notable investments,” the anchor went on, “she was the first outside investor in a now-major electric vehicle company, providing crucial seed funding. In 2018, she held significant stakes in three pharmaceutical companies that all successfully brought drugs to market. She predicted and profited from four separate market corrections. And according to SEC filings, she personally owns between five and eight percent of twelve different Fortune 500 companies.”
“Jamie,” Mom breathed, like my name had suddenly grown sharp edges.
I kept eating my salmon.
“Financial analysts are calling this,” the anchor said, “the most impressive individual investment performance in modern history. Her seven-year compound annual growth rate exceeds two hundred percent. For context, Warren Buffett’s lifetime CAGR is approximately twenty percent. Miss Chin has revolutionized quantitative investing.”
Dad grabbed the remote and turned the volume up higher as if proximity to words would make them less absurd.
“We go now to our Wall Street correspondent outside Chin Capital Management. Sarah?”
The screen cut to a reporter standing outside a glassy Manhattan skyscraper with a familiar chrome logo on the front.
My logo.
“Tom, the scene here is pandemonium,” the reporter said. “Within minutes of the SEC filing going public, investors have been calling, emailing, and physically showing up at this building trying to get into Jaime Chin’s funds. Her firm has been operating under a strict invitation-only policy, with a minimum investment of ten million dollars and a waiting list that industry insiders say is longer than Harvard’s.”
Marcus swallowed hard. “No,” he whispered. “No way.”
“What makes this revelation even more remarkable,” she continued, “is Chin’s age. At thirty, she is the youngest self-made billionaire in finance. And she did it entirely through her own investment acumen, not inheritance or a lucky IPO. She’s been described by former colleagues as frighteningly intelligent and able to see patterns that computers miss.”
“Turn it off,” Marcus said hoarsely.
My phone, lying face-down next to my plate, began buzzing nonstop. A second later, Dad’s lit up. Then Mom’s. Then Marcus’.
“We’re also hearing,” the reporter said, “that Chin owns significant real estate holdings in Manhattan, including the building behind me, valued at approximately two hundred million dollars, and a personal residence in Tribeca purchased for forty-five million in cash three years ago.”
I took another bite of salmon.
Marcus pushed back from the table, chair scraping loudly. “This is a joke,” he said. “This—this is some kind of prank. It has to be.”
Her co-anchor’s voice cut in. “We’re joined now by our guests to discuss what some are calling the ‘Chin Effect’…”
Dad ignored him, scrolling furiously through his phone. “It’s on Bloomberg,” he muttered. “Reuters. Wall Street Journal. ‘Mystery Investor J.M. Revealed As Thirty-Year-Old Wall Street Prodigy.’”
He read aloud from one article. “‘Her fund’s risk-adjusted returns surpass those of every known hedge fund over the same time period. Several well-known managers have tried unsuccessfully to recruit her with compensation packages rumored to exceed fifty million dollars a year.’”
He looked up at me slowly. “Jaime… is this real?”
“Can someone pass the salt?” I asked.
No one moved.
“We understand Chin Capital will hold a press conference tomorrow morning,” the reporter said from the TV. “Given the market impact of this disclosure, several stocks Chin is known to hold have already jumped ten to fifteen percent in after-hours trading. This could be one of the most-watched financial events of the year.”
Dad’s phone kept ringing. Marcus’ screen lit up with messages.
“I—” Marcus checked his phone. “It’s Michael Brennan.”
“Who?” Mom asked.
“CEO of Brennan Development,” Marcus said faintly. “One of the biggest real estate developers in the city.”
He answered. “Hello? Yes, this is Marcus.” He paused. “She’s my sister.” His eyes flicked to me, stunned. “I… I don’t know if—can you hold on?”
He lowered the phone. “He wants to know if I can introduce him to you. He says his firm has been trying to get a meeting with you for two years.”
“I’m busy,” I said.
Marcus cleared his throat and repeated it into the phone. “She’s… she’s busy. I can’t promise—yes, I know—uh-huh. Okay. Goodbye.”
He hung up and practically sagged into his chair. “He said his investment fund has been trying to become a Chin Capital client since 2021. He said he’d consider it a personal favor if I could ‘facilitate a relationship.’”
“That’s nice,” I said.
Mom’s phone rang next. She answered automatically, eyes still locked on me.
“Hello? Yes, this is Margaret.” Her eyebrows shot up. “Oh. Oh, my god. I… yes, she’s my daughter, but I… what gala?” Her mouth fell open. “You want Jaime to be the keynote speaker?”
She listened, then yanked the phone away for a second. “She just offered you five hundred thousand dollars to speak at a charity event. For thirty minutes.”
“Not interested,” I said.
See more on the next page
Advertisement
