The next morning, three replies waited in my inbox.

All three VCs wanted to meet.


My hands trembled as I read their responses.

I scheduled coffee meetings for the following week and requested time off for "personal matters."

David approved immediately, without even a perfunctory "everything okay?"


He had no idea I was about to destroy his entire world.

Wednesday afternoon.


A coffee shop in downtown San Francisco.

I arrived fifteen minutes early to calm my nerves.

I mentally rehearsed my pitch until Jennifer Park walked in precisely on time.

A partner at Sequoia Capital, her LinkedIn showed twenty-five years in tech, starting as an engineer at Intel before climbing the ladder at three different companies.

Now whoever's table she chose to sit at determined who got funded.

She sat down, ordered an espresso, and skipped the small talk.

"Emma Chen. MIT PhD. Three years at a unicorn. I've seen your GitHub—your open source contributions are impressive."

"Thank you."

"So," she leaned back, "what do you want to build?"

I'd rehearsed this pitch a hundred times in my head.

"I want to create the next generation of recommendation engines—faster and more accurate than anything on the market."

"What's your competitive advantage?"

"A new optimization algorithm for machine learning models. I've built a working prototype that trains thirty-five percent faster than industry standards with twenty percent higher accuracy."

She raised an eyebrow. "You've already built it?"

"A working prototype. I've been developing it for two months."

"While working full-time?"

"Evenings and weekends."

She smiled briefly, but I caught the genuine approval in her eyes.

"Why leave your current company?"

Good question.

I paused, unsure how much to reveal.

In the end, I decided to lay everything bare.

"They don't respect my contributions," I said. "More specifically, they steal my work."

"Tell me more."

So I told her everything.

The paper with my name removed. The promotion denied despite superior performance. The $50,000 salary gap for identical work—purely because of my gender.

She listened without interruption, her expression impassive.

When I finished, she remained silent for ten seconds.

Then she laughed.

A genuine, unrestrained laugh.

"Twenty years ago," she said, "I was the only female engineer at a chip design company. I developed a revolutionary processor architecture that could have transformed the industry."

"What happened?" I asked.

"My manager stole the credit, published under his name, and rode my work to a VP position." She sipped her coffee. "I quit, started my own chip design company, worked myself to exhaustion for three years, and eventually sold it for two hundred million dollars."

She fixed me with an intense stare.

"I'm sitting here already convinced you can make money. But do you know what I value most?"

"My technical skills?" I ventured uncertainly.

"Anger," she said. "Not just any anger. I'm angry when talent loses to ignorance, when mediocrity tramples excellence."

She leaned forward.

"So I ask you, Emma—are you angry?"

I considered her question.

I thought about David dismissing my warnings. Mike stealing my promotion. Michael erasing my name. Tears welled in my eyes.

"Yes," I said. "I am angry. Furious."

"Good." She extended her hand. "I'll invest two million for this round. Let's build something that makes them regret ever underestimating you."

I shook her hand.

It was done.

Walking out of that coffee shop, my hands wouldn't stop shaking.

Not from fear—from adrenaline coursing through my veins.

I had funding now. I could execute my revenge.

From that night on, I got serious.

I couldn't quit my job yet—I needed stable income and continued access to the company's systems to study their weaknesses.

But every evening after work, I'd start coding the moment I got home.

From 10 PM to 3 AM, I wasn't just writing code—I was building my product, my company, my future.

Coffee became my best friend. Sleep became optional.

Honestly?

Those three months were the most exhilarating of my life. I was finally creating something truly mine.

Something they couldn't steal.

Meanwhile, things at work deteriorated.

David began assigning me mundane tasks.

Fixing bugs. Writing documentation. Polishing other people's code.

"We really need your support on these matters," he'd say.

Translation: We need you handling tedious chores nobody wants so the men can work on interesting projects.

Mike got the new AI feature—the project everyone wanted.

I didn't complain. I kept my head down, smiled, and said "no problem."

And quietly collected evidence.

Meanwhile, my secret company grew.

I met with two more VCs. Both wanted in.

Their offers provided enough capital to complete the product and build a customer base.

I hired my first employee.

Sarah Kim.

Another female engineer I'd met at a conference six months earlier. We'd stayed in touch. Her work situation mirrored mine and Jennifer's.

Good work. No credit. Constantly sidelined.

When I told her my plan, she didn't hesitate.

"I'm in. When do we start?"

"Officially, I resign in two months, but we're already building now."

"Then let's start now."

My second hire was Amy Liu, fresh MIT graduate, twenty-two years old and brilliant.

She'd interviewed with fifteen companies. All fifteen rejected her.

The feedback was always identical: "not a culture fit."

Translation: during interviews, she asked too many questions, pointed out flawed architecture, and didn't laugh at men's stupid jokes.

"You're hired," I told her at our first meeting. "Start whenever you want."

She looked ready to cry. "Just like that? No technical interview? No culture fit assessment?"

"I've seen your GitHub. Your code speaks for itself. We don't do that culture fit nonsense here—we only care about ability."

She started the following week.

Three people.

We rented a tiny office in SOMA—eight hundred square feet, just enough for three desks, a coffee machine, a whiteboard wall, and three dreams.