My name is Grace Preston. I am thirty-three years old. Last December, my father looked me in the eye at a private dinner in Manhattan and told forty people I was a nobody.
He is a CEO. He runs a midsize investment firm on Park Avenue, the kind of place where men in navy suits shake hands over bottles of wine that cost more than my first month’s rent. He is used to being the most important person in every room.
What he did not realize, what nobody at that table realized, was that the man sitting three seats away from him had just wired my company its ninth billion-dollar transaction. And he was about to stand up. But I am getting ahead of myself.
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I love reading those. Now let me take you back seven years, to the Thanksgiving dinner where my father said the six words that changed everything. Actually, no.
Before Thanksgiving, you need to see where I am now, just so the rest makes sense. I live in a one-bedroom apartment in Brooklyn Heights. No doorman.
No view. The radiator clanks at four in the morning, and I have learned to sleep through it. I keep three plants on the windowsill.
A fern, a pothos, and something I bought at a bodega that refuses to die. That is my luxury. I wake up at 5:15 every morning.
By 5:45, I am at my office in Tribeca. It is a clean space, glass walls, twenty-three employees, no art on the walls except a whiteboard covered in equations that look like nonsense to most people and look like money to me. The company is called Vidian Capital.
We run a quantitative hedge fund. Artificial intelligence. Machine learning.
Algorithmic trading. If those words mean nothing to you, here is the simple version. We built software that reads the market faster and smarter than any human team on Wall Street.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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