“Still doing that?”
“Yes.”
“Making any money?”
“We’re doing okay.”
That last answer was technically true.
The company was doing much better than okay.
My personal wealth on paper was already enormous, although the number people would later repeat on television was not the same thing as cash sitting in my checking account.
Most of it was ownership in a private company.
I understood that distinction.
I also understood that once a company reached a certain scale, numbers became less like normal money and more like weather systems.
People talked about them as if anyone could truly imagine fifteen billion dollars.
I could not.
What mattered to me was that Asteron had survived.
Thousands of people now depended on it for their work.
Large institutions trusted systems we had built.
A company that once existed only as code on my laptop had become real enough that governments and banks planned around it.
The valuation announcement had been discussed for weeks.
Asteron was completing a financing transaction that required greater public disclosure than we had previously allowed.
The board decided that trying to keep my identity completely separated from the company was becoming more awkward than protecting it.
The timing happened to line up with graduation.
Westbridge’s administration asked whether I would allow the university to acknowledge me during the ceremony.
My first answer had been no.
I hated the idea of turning graduation into a corporate event.
My degree mattered to me.
I did not want four years of work reduced to a headline about money.
The dean understood.
We eventually agreed on something restrained.
The ceremony would remain a graduation.
I would walk with my class like everyone else.
Near the end, the dean would briefly acknowledge the fact that one of Westbridge’s graduating students had built Asteron while earning her degree.
At 3:40, once the company’s release became public, he could mention the valuation.
No confetti.
No enormous check.
No theatrical surprise.
Just the truth.
That was all.
I had told my family the date of graduation almost a year earlier.
Three months before the ceremony, Mom said the Europe trip might overlap.
I reminded her of the date.
She said they would “figure something out.”
Six weeks later, Vanessa showed me photos of hotels they had booked.
I asked Mom whether they had changed the flight.
She said it had become complicated.
After that, nobody brought it up until the suitcases appeared by the door.
At 12:10 on graduation day, I showered.
I covered the dark circles under my eyes but did nothing elaborate.
I put on the dress I had bought for the ceremony, then my gown.
My phone buzzed constantly on the bed.
Messages from classmates.
Employees.
Board members.
My chief operating officer.
One from a professor who had advised me since I was seventeen.
Proud of you today. Degree first. Everything else second.
I smiled.
That was exactly what I needed to hear.
At 1:40, I went downstairs.
A black sedan was waiting outside.
Our company used them often enough that I no longer thought much about it.
The driver opened the rear door.
“Congratulations.”
“Thank you.”
As we pulled away, I looked up at the apartment windows.
I had imagined graduation day differently.
Not because I needed a huge celebration.
I had never wanted the ballroom Vanessa got.
I had wanted four familiar faces in a row somewhere in the crowd.
Mom.
Dad.
Vanessa.
Maybe one empty chair between them because Dad always bought too much food and needed somewhere to put the bag.
Something ordinary.
That was all.
I wondered where they were.
Probably at the airport by then.
Vanessa would be taking photographs of coffee cups and boarding passes.
Mom would be checking the passports again.
Dad would be complaining about airport prices while buying snacks anyway.
They would be together.
I looked down at my phone.
I had one message from Mom.
Made it to airport! Hope everything goes well today. Send pictures!
There was a heart at the end.
I stared at it for a few seconds.
Then I put my phone away.
The graduation banners appeared as the sedan approached Westbridge.
Students and families covered the sidewalks.
Parents carried flowers.
Grandparents moved slowly through the crowd.
People were taking photographs under every tree and beside every sign that had the university name on it.
A father stood on the curb holding a bouquet almost as large as his daughter.
She was laughing.
I looked away.
The car stopped near the administration building, where security had been told to expect me.
My chief operating officer met me inside.
She was one of the first people I had hired who openly told me I was too young to know everything.
That was one reason I trusted her.
“You okay?” she asked.
“Why does everyone keep asking me that?”
“Because you’re graduating from college while fifty reporters wait two buildings away for us to announce you founded a company worth fifteen billion dollars.”
“When you say it like that, it sounds busy.”
She smiled.
“Family here?”
“No.”
She knew enough not to ask why.
“The board is ready. Legal has the release queued. You do not need to do anything until after the ceremony.”
“Good.”
“Also, congratulations.”
“Thank you.”