As one of the world's largest stock exchanges, NASDAQ's location is predictably prime—nestled in the Condé Nast Building at 4 Times Square, right by New York's iconic Times Square. Home to the renowned publishing giant behind Vogue, the building is a fitting spot for such a powerhouse market.
What steals the show is Times Square's massive vertical screen. Whenever a company goes public, they snag this screen for three days of rolling ads. Early on, it raked in big bucks for the square, but after a ad firm bought it, the screen briefly became a haven for micro-business promotions.
Today, UKBigSale claimed the screen, its static ads blaring to every high-roller trading room at NASDAQ. Another internet-born company was listing, but whether it would crash or soar post-IPO was anyone's guess. Back before the dot-com bubble burst, any internet company hitting NASDAQ was a guaranteed multi-day stock surge. Now? It's a coin toss.
"Hey, Orff, you hear? Some UK internet ticketing company's IPO got greenlit!" a trader called out.
Orff, looking annoyed, snapped at his colleague, "Oh, spare me. It's not Yahoo or NetEase—it's some UK-based internet firm. What's it gonna do?"
"Whoa, not afraid of eating your words?" his colleague teased. "You forgot how misjudging Google got you demoted from mid-level to junior manager? This company's backed by Steve Chen!"
Orff grumbled and shuffled into his office.
While NASDAQ is an electronic exchange, it's not so different from the NYSE, boasting sprawling VIP trading rooms for major funds and investment firms. Warren Buffett's Berkshire Hathaway occupies a lavish top-floor suite. Rumor has it, top-floor traders get a 0.3-second edge on transactions—a myth NASDAQ never debunked. Over time, the legend of the elite 14th-floor rooms grew, whispered about by every financial broker.
Orff eyed the elevator's 14th-floor button but rubbed the faded number instead, pressing for the 6th floor. The elevator wasn't crowded, and he reached his floor quickly. The 6th floor was hushed, lined with soundproof carpets and sponge-padded doors to keep trading noise from bleeding between rooms.
Class distinctions were everywhere in America, but Orff was used to it. He headed to Blackstone Group's modest VIP trading room. Unlike Goldman Sachs, which leased two rooms on the 9th floor, Blackstone, one of the largest listed investment firms, kept a low-key office.
Stepping inside felt like home to Orff. Floor-to-ceiling windows and sharp-suited professionals sparked his drive to hustle. A steaming coffee was already on his desk, alongside neatly organized files and a laptop. Sipping his coffee, Orff casually said to a stunning assistant, "Ellie, pull up everything on UKBigSale. They're listing today. I need their underwriters and shareholder details."
Ellie, 5'7" with a model's figure, stood, drawing every male gaze in the room. Orff, catching the envious looks, smirked. Despite his demotion years ago for a bad investment call, the company hadn't forgotten his tenure. His setup was still senior-manager level, and he controlled a top-three capital pool in the office.
He'd even handpicked Ellie, a Hollywood hopeful who hadn't landed a single role, as his assistant. As she set a thick stack of files on his desk, Orff lightly brushed her backside.
"Stop it!" she huffed.
Glancing around, Orff whispered, "If I boost my client's returns by two points today, meet me at the Hilton tonight."
Ellie rolled her eyes playfully but didn't respond.
Orff dove into the files. He hadn't realized UKBigSale went public via a SPAC—a move reeking of Goldman Sachs' playbook. He gave their investment potential a 60/100; SPAC-listed companies often had limited growth. But then a name caught his eye.
"Ellie, is Claire Lee that British-Asian star you mentioned?"
"No!" Ellie snapped, clearly annoyed. "Claire's Irish, with a dad."
Orff ignored her tone, digging into Claire's shareholder profile. When he saw UKBigSale had related operations—and that 90% of its profits came from —he froze. Plenty of internet firms had gone public, but they expanded outward. None had leveraged foreign clout to crack market. This was a game-changer.
"We're buying this stock," Orff declared. "Ellie, coordinate with Goldman Sachs. Get the traders ready to scoop up UKBigSale shares the moment the market opens."
He grabbed his phone to secure a spot at UKBigSale's bell-ringing ceremony.
Orff's excitement wasn't just about the stock. While eBay, Amazon, and Yahoo had faced fierce resistance , they chased its massive profits and demographic dividend. But Orff spotted something else: Claire's shares had been indirectly acquired by a firm—yesterday.
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At the ceremony, Steve Chen, dressed in a sharp suit, trailed Kai-Fu Lee, greeting everyone warmly. Lee, calm as ever, stayed reserved.
"I was shocked Claire offloaded shares to the Football Association," Chen said.
Lee smirked. "You don't know your buddy as well as you think. Denis Irwin, Claire's uncle, visited Beijing the day before becoming an Anderlecht councilor."
Chen's jaw dropped. "Google's tech is that good?"
"No," Lee said. "It's about Google . We were on the same flight. Denis dropped hints, but I kept it short. His trip was about Claire's company."
"Because of the English FA?" Chen asked.
Lee countered, "Did Claire mention spinning off the cross-border tourism business?"
"Yeah," Chen said. "Caissa Travel wants it. They don't care about the ticketing side, but the tourism GMV is huge. It might spin off in a year or two."
Lee nodded. "Exactly. It's less tourism, more football exchange. When it spins off, Caissa will likely swap their UKBigSale shares for control or operations. Caissa's backed by Poly Group. The English FA's in it for Lyme Valley Stadium's wild spending and revenue potential. The English and FAs will probably co-run it."
Chen was stunned, barely noticing Roman Abramovich greeting Lee. After retreating to the lounge, he mumbled, "So Abramovich and the Glazers didn't invest in UKBigSale for control over UK sports leagues?"
Lee chuckled at Chen's naivety. "You're great at work and life, but Claire's miles ahead in playing the game. If he wanted to screw you over, you'd be counting his money for him."
"Abramovich is new to the UK," Lee continued. "Given Russia's baggage, he needs to blend in fast. Entertainment's his ticket. If Beyoncé plays the UK and every ticket buyer sees Abramovich's face on UKBigSale, her fans will start seeing him as one of them. Once, twice, three times—it sinks in. That's what he needs. The Glazers? Simpler. Malcolm's old, his sons are flops. He needs a key to UK sports influence."
Chen nodded vaguely, half-getting it. Onstage, Abramovich spoke passionately. Below, not Malcolm but his son Avram Glazer waited to speak. Chen felt a flicker of understanding—or maybe not.
Lee watched the ceremony calmly. IPOs could be simple or complex. Usually, founders pitch a roadshow, but if underwriters secure 50% of circulating shares, you skip straight to shareholder speeches. UKBigSale was the latter. As the biggest shareholder and angel investor, Chen rang the bell, billed as "co-founder" for the optics. He'd even invited Lee to hype the event, though Lee thought it overkill. He spotted Booking.com's Glenn Fogel and an Expedia rep in the crowd, reminding him of Ctrip's IPO.