35. Initial Public Offering
Alexander
I wake up with a mix of excitement and apprehension that knots my stomach.
Today is the big day. MatchMapping’s IPO.
Seven years of work.
Thousands of hours.
Sleepless nights.
Sacrifices no one sees.
Everything converges on this single day.
The past few days have been grueling. I’ve barely slept, running on coffee and adrenaline. My body is protesting, but today, I don’t have the right to be tired.
At 6:30 a.m., I’m already in the shower. The scorching water slides over my skin without managing to dissolve the tension locking my shoulders. I get dressed carefully: a tailored navy-blue suit, white shirt, silk tie.
In the car, Gilles watches me in the rearview mirror.
“Big day, sir.”
“Yes, Gilles. Big day.”
I scroll through the projections on my tablet. Interview notes. Key messages for investors. Expected opening price. Volumes. Valuation. The numbers overlap, blur together.
Notifications keep coming in.
Mom.
Dad.
Oliver.
Colleagues, mentors, friends.
One absence jumps out at me.
Sam.
I stare at the screen as if my anticipation might conjure her name into existence. Nothing.
I swallow my frustration. Not now. Not today.
Since she went back to the Lacroix sisters’ place, something between us has shifted. I can feel it. An invisible distance, but a very real one.
I push the thought aside. Today, I need to be present. Focus.
*
At 9:00 a.m., the conference room looks like a control center. The entire team is here. Tense. Jittery. Excited. Giant screens display real-time market feeds.
Then our symbol appears.
MTCH.
Four letters.
Seven years of my life.
The stock opens at €42. A collective breath moves through the room.
“Here we go,” David murmurs.
43.
44.
45.
I breathe for the first time in hours.
Then the curve hesitates. Drops. Rises again. Oscillates.
44.50.
43.80.
45.20.
Each fluctuation is a jolt of adrenaline. Phones vibrate nonstop. Messages, requests, analyses. I respond, delegate, smile when I have to.
At 10:30 a.m., the first articles hit. Encouragement, doubts, conflicting projections. Social media ignites.
Our public image is being built minute by minute—fragile.
At noon, lunch with the investors is a balancing act. I talk vision, growth, innovation. I reassure them, again and again. All the while, one question begins to gnaw at me.
What if none of this holds?
Still no message from Sam.
Mid-afternoon, volatility intensifies.
The screens feel oppressive.
A Bloomberg article drops. Sharp. Critical.
The stock falls 3% in twenty minutes.
“Shit,” David mutters.
“We hold,” I say. “This was expected.”
I hide my trembling hands. My team is watching me. They need me steady at the helm. I force myself to be there, even as doubt creeps in.
My phone vibrates.
It’s not Sam.
I don’t have the strength to open the message.
The end of the day approaches.
43.
42.50.
43.20.
I stand in front of the main screen. Every second stretches.
4:59 p.m.
5:00 p.m.
Close.
€42.80.
It’s not a triumph. It’s not a failure.
It’s a fragile line, barely held.
A collective sigh passes through the room.
“We held,” David says.
“Yes… barely.”
I feel no victory. Only a crushing exhaustion.
I go home. The penthouse is dark, silent.
I should be celebrating. Calling my parents. Opening a bottle of champagne.
Instead, I sit in the dark and stare at my phone.
Still nothing.
Today, I proved my worth to the entire world.
I achieved what many thought was impossible.
But the one person I needed today wasn’t there.
And for the first time in a long while, I wonder whether everything I’ve built can really make up for that emptiness.