Unfinished

Chapter Four

Nelson

The problem with expensive buildings was that everyone wanted to make them look expensive.

I’d spent the better part of the morning listening to an architect explain why we needed a twelve-foot sculpture in the entrance courtyard.

It was ugly.

Not interesting. Not bold. Just ugly.

And at nearly three million dollars, it was an expensive way to make people question our judgment.

“Tell him no,” I said.

Samuel looked up from his tablet. “You haven’t seen the revised design.”

“I’ve seen enough.”

“He’s going to ask for a reason.”

“Tell him I don’t want an enormous metal object sitting outside my building.”

Samuel considered that.

“Perhaps something less personal.”

“You’re welcome to improve the wording.”

He made a note.

We were standing inside the unfinished lobby of the Voss development, surrounded by exposed concrete, construction equipment, and enough dust to ruin a decent pair of shoes.

The building would eventually contain some of the most expensive residences in Manhattan. Several buyers had already expressed interest in the penthouses, despite the fact that there was still a construction crane towering above us.

People with enough money rarely waited for something to exist before deciding they wanted it.

I’d done the same thing myself.

The property had been an abandoned commercial site when our company acquired it. Other developers had looked at the cost of demolition and walked away.

I’d looked at the location.

Three years later, the building was taking shape, and the same people who’d questioned the purchase were suddenly interested in investing.

Funny how that worked.

“The structural team wants approval for the revised ceiling plan,” Samuel said.

“Has engineering signed off?”

“Yes.”

“Then send it through.”

He scrolled down.

“And STACE Studio confirmed the visit.”

I glanced toward the entrance.

“Are they here?”

“Not yet.”

“Let me know when they arrive.”

Samuel gave me a curious look.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Samuel.”

“You’ve asked about that studio three times since yesterday.”

“Because their revised proposal is under consideration.”

“Of course.”

I turned toward him.

He immediately became interested in his tablet.

There were times when I questioned why I paid him so much money.

Then I remembered that he was one of the few people who could manage my schedule, anticipate problems before they reached my desk, and tell me when I was being unreasonable without losing his job.

That last skill was particularly rare.

“Did the other shortlisted firms confirm their revisions?” I asked.

“Both did.”

“Good.”

“Neither requested an additional site inspection.”

“Then they can work with the information they’ve been given.”

Samuel nodded.

I looked around the lobby again.

The space was enormous, with double-height ceilings and windows that would eventually flood the entrance with natural light. The original architectural design was impressive, but it lacked warmth.

That was why we’d brought in interior designers.

The building needed to feel like somewhere people wanted to live.

Not a museum where they were afraid to touch the furniture.

I thought about Stacy Williams’s presentation.

Her proposal had come closer to solving that problem than the others.

Unfortunately, the woman herself appeared to have been born without the ability to accept criticism gracefully.

I could work with difficult people.

I did it every day.

But difficult people who were also talented had a particular way of becoming inconvenient.

“Mr. Voss?”

I turned.

One of the site supervisors approached us.

“Your visitor is here.”

Behind him stood Stacy Williams.

She was wearing dark trousers, a fitted white shirt, and a charcoal blazer with the sleeves pushed up. Her hair was tied back, and she carried a leather bag over one shoulder.

She looked around the lobby before her gaze settled on me.

“Mr. Voss.”

“Ms. Williams.”

She walked toward us.

“Nice to see the building exists outside your presentation slides.”

“Did you think we were inventing it?”

“With some developers, you never know.”

Samuel coughed.

I looked at him.

He stopped.

Stacy held out her hand.

I shook it.

Her grip was firm, her expression perfectly composed.

“Samuel,” she said, turning toward him. “Thank you for sending the updated drawings.”

“You’re welcome, Ms. Williams.”

“Stacy is fine.”

I watched her smile at him.

Interesting.

Apparently, she was capable of being pleasant.

Just not to me.

“Shall we?” I asked.

She looked back at me.

“After you.”

⸻

We began with the reception area.

Stacy took her time examining the space. She walked toward the windows, looked up at the ceiling, and studied the unfinished walls.

She didn’t immediately start talking.

I appreciated that.

Too many consultants arrived at a site determined to prove how much they knew. They spent more time speaking than observing.

Stacy pulled a measuring device from her bag and checked the distance between two structural columns.

Then she frowned.

“These aren’t where they appear on the updated drawings.”

I glanced at the columns.

“They’re structural. They haven’t moved.”

“I’m not suggesting someone picked them up and carried them across the room.”

Samuel looked away.

She pointed to her tablet.

“The dimensions on this drawing don’t match the space.”

I stepped closer.

She enlarged the plan and showed me the measurements.

I examined them.

She was right.

“Samuel, get engineering to confirm the latest revision.”

He took the tablet from me.

“I’ll call them.”

Stacy walked toward the opposite wall.

“That changes the furniture arrangement.”

“Not significantly.”

She turned.

“It changes the clearance around the seating area.”

“We can adjust the seating.”

“We can, but not without affecting the layout.”

I crossed my arms.

“Then show me the problem.”

She looked almost surprised.

For a moment, I wondered what she’d expected me to say.

Then she placed her tablet on a temporary worktable and opened the rendering.

“See this?”

She pointed to a pair of lounge chairs.

“The original plan gives us enough room to create a private seating area without obstructing movement through the lobby. But if these columns are positioned where they actually are, the chairs will sit too close to the main walkway.”

“Move them.”

“Where?”

I looked at the drawing.

She waited.

I hated that she was enjoying this.

“You’re the designer,” I said.

“Exactly.”

I gave her a look.

She smiled.

It was small, quick, and entirely too satisfied.

Then she moved the furniture arrangement on the screen.

“If we shift the seating toward this wall, we can create a more intimate area. But we’ll need to reconsider the lighting.”

“How much?”

She didn’t hesitate.

“Depending on the fixtures, another sixty to eighty thousand dollars.”

“That’s not happening.”

“Then we use the alternative plan.”

She opened another drawing.

I leaned closer.

It was simpler. The lighting was integrated into the ceiling design rather than relying on additional decorative fixtures.

It also looked better.

I studied it for a moment.

“Why wasn’t this in your presentation?”

“Because I didn’t know your drawings were wrong.”

Samuel made a sound that might have been a laugh.

I turned.

He looked at his phone.

Stacy was watching me.

“Are you going to argue with that?” she asked.

“No.”

Her eyebrows rose.

“Really?”

“Would you prefer I did?”

“Not particularly. I’m just surprised.”

“Enjoy the moment.”

She laughed.

An actual laugh.

Not the polite kind people offered when they wanted something from me.

It caught me off guard.

I looked back at the drawing before she noticed.

“Send me the updated layout,” I said.

“I will.”

“And include the revised lighting costs.”

“Of course.”

We continued through the lobby.

For the first time since she’d arrived, the conversation became almost pleasant.

Almost.

⸻

The private dining rooms occupied a section of the lower floor overlooking a landscaped courtyard.

Once completed, residents would be able to reserve them for dinners, celebrations, and private events.

Stacy stopped near the windows.

“These are beautiful.”

I glanced at her.

“The rooms?”

“The light.”

She walked closer to the glass.

“The courtyard will soften the view. You could do something lovely with this space.”

“That’s the intention.”

“No, I mean something genuinely lovely. Not just expensive furniture and dramatic lighting.”

I slipped my hands into my pockets.

“You have a problem with expensive furniture?”

“I have a problem with people assuming expensive means beautiful.”

“Sometimes it does.”

“Sometimes.”

She turned toward me.

“Would you buy an ugly chair just because it cost twenty thousand dollars?”

“No.”

“Good. There’s hope for you.”

I stared at her.

She smiled again.

I was beginning to suspect she enjoyed testing how much she could say before I lost my patience.

“Do you speak to all your clients like this?” I asked.

“Only the ones who ask ridiculous questions.”

“I didn’t ask a ridiculous question.”

“You defended expensive furniture without seeing it.”

“I defended the possibility that expensive furniture can be beautiful.”

“Congratulations. We’ve established that money can occasionally buy taste.”

Samuel, who had been standing near the entrance, suddenly announced that he needed to take a call.

He left before I could respond.

Coward.

Stacy returned her attention to the windows.

“I’d keep the furniture simple here,” she said. “Let the courtyard do some of the work. The space doesn’t need to compete with the view.”

I studied the room.

“And the budget?”

“The current allocation is two and a half million dollars for both dining rooms, including furniture, lighting, and finishes.”

“Your proposal exceeds that.”

“By approximately three hundred thousand.”

“Which is why I asked for revisions.”

“And I’ve made them.”

She handed me her tablet.

I looked through the updated figures.

She had reduced the total to just under $2.4 million.

I glanced at her.

“How?”

“Changed the wall finish, sourced the tables from a different manufacturer, and reduced the number of custom fixtures.”

“You removed the feature lighting?”

“I replaced it.”

“With something cheaper.”

“With something better suited to the room.”

I scrolled through the images.

She’d replaced the elaborate chandeliers with a series of understated fixtures that complemented the courtyard view.

The result was cleaner.

More refined.

I handed back the tablet.

“This is better.”

She blinked.

I waited.

“Sorry,” she said. “Could you repeat that?”

“No.”

“I just want to make sure I heard you correctly.”

“You did.”

“So you like it?”

“I said it was better.”

“That’s practically a love letter coming from you.”

I looked at her.

She pressed her lips together, clearly trying not to laugh.

I should have been annoyed.

Instead, I found myself fighting a smile.

That was new.

And inconvenient.

⸻

We finished reviewing the remaining spaces and returned to the lobby.

Samuel was waiting near the entrance with the site supervisor.

“The engineering team confirmed the drawing discrepancy,” he said. “They sent an outdated version to the design firms.”

Stacy turned toward me.

I already knew what was coming.

“Don’t,” I said.

She widened her eyes.

“I haven’t said anything.”

“You’re about to.”

“I was only going to suggest that accurate drawings might be useful when asking designers to revise their work.”

Samuel looked at the ceiling.

I exhaled.

“Samuel, make sure all the shortlisted firms receive the corrected plans.”

“Already arranged.”

“Good.”

Stacy nodded.

“Thank you.”

I turned to her.

“Does that satisfy you?”

“Almost.”

“What now?”

“The deadline.”

I stared at her.

She folded her arms.

“You’re asking me to revise a proposal based on drawings your team provided incorrectly. That isn’t my mistake.”

“The changes are manageable.”

“Some of them. But I won’t submit work I’m not satisfied with just to meet a deadline that was shortened without warning.”

I looked at her for a long moment.

Most people would have accepted the deadline and complained about it afterward.

Stacy was standing in the middle of my construction site, telling me exactly why she wouldn’t.

I wasn’t sure whether to admire her confidence or question her judgment.

“How much additional time do you need?” I asked.

“Two working days.”

“One.”

“Two.”

“You’re negotiating with the person approving your contract.”

“I’m negotiating because I want to deliver the work properly.”

I studied her.

There was no hesitation in her expression.

She wasn’t bluffing.

She genuinely believed she was right.

And given the mistake with the drawings, she had a point.

“Fine,” I said.

Her expression changed.

“Fine?”

“Two working days.”

She looked suspicious.

“Just like that?”

“Would you like me to reconsider?”

“No.”

“Then stop looking so surprised.”

She adjusted the strap of her bag.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

She hesitated.

Then she held out her hand.

“I appreciate you being reasonable.”

I shook it.

“Try not to sound so shocked.”

“I’ll work on it.”

Her hand was warm against mine.

For a moment, neither of us moved.

Then she withdrew it.

“Goodbye, Mr. Voss.”

“Nelson.”

She paused.

“What?”

“You can call me Nelson.”

She considered that.

“All right. Nelson.”

The way she said my name was different from the way she’d addressed me before.

Less formal.

Almost curious.

Then she turned and walked toward the entrance.

I watched her go.

Samuel appeared beside me.

“She’s impressive.”

“She’s difficult.”

“Those aren’t mutually exclusive.”

I glanced at him.

He looked entirely too pleased with himself.

“Don’t you have work to do?”

“Plenty.”

“Then do it.”

He walked away, still smiling.

I turned back toward the lobby.

The construction site was quieter now, though workers continued moving equipment through the unfinished corridors.

Stacy had been right about the drawings.

She’d also been right about the dining-room lighting.

That didn’t mean I intended to agree with everything she suggested.

But she had something the other firms lacked.

She wasn’t trying to impress me.

She was trying to make the building better.

And she was willing to argue with me to do it.

I pulled out my phone and opened her revised proposal.

The selection committee would make its final recommendation once all the firms submitted their changes. I intended to review every submission carefully.

But I already knew which proposal I was most interested in seeing.

My phone rang.

My father’s name appeared on the screen.

I considered ignoring it.

Then I answered.

“Father.”

“Nelson. I’ve been trying to reach you.”

“I’ve been working.”

“So have I. We need to discuss the development.”

“What about it?”

“I’ve been speaking with one of the board members. He believes we should reconsider the interior-design shortlist.”

I frowned.

“Why?”

“There’s concern that you’re considering an inexperienced firm for a project of this size.”

I looked toward the entrance Stacy had just walked through.

“Which firm?”

“STACE Studio.”

My expression hardened.

“Who told you that?”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes.”

He sighed.

“Nelson, you’re running a major development. This isn’t the place to experiment with unknown designers.”

“They were shortlisted because their work met our requirements.”

“That doesn’t mean they’re equipped to handle the contract.”

“I’ll decide that after reviewing their proposal.”

“You’re not listening.”

“I’m listening. I just disagree.”

There was a pause.

I knew that silence.

My father had never liked being challenged, particularly by me.

“Don’t make a decision simply because someone has caught your attention,” he said.

I straightened.

“What exactly is that supposed to mean?”

“It means I expect you to exercise judgment.”

“I always do.”

“Then prove it.”

The call ended.

I stared at my phone.

Someone had been discussing the shortlist with my father.

And whoever it was had decided that STACE Studio didn’t belong there.

I didn’t like that.

Not because Stacy Williams needed me to protect her.

She’d made it painfully clear that she could defend herself.

But I had spent years building a company where decisions were supposed to be made on merit, not because someone with influence preferred a familiar name.

If STACE Studio lost the contract, it would be because another firm submitted better work.

Not because my father disapproved of an independent designer.

I opened Samuel’s contact.

“Find out who’s been discussing the shortlist with my father,” I said when he answered.

“Is something wrong?”

“Someone’s trying to influence the selection.”

“Do you want me to remove STACE Studio from consideration until we know more?”

“No.”

I looked down at the proposal on my screen.

“Keep the process exactly as it is.”

“And if your father objects?”

“He can object.”

I ended the call.

For the first time since the project began, the design selection had become something more than a professional decision.

Someone was interfering.

And I intended to find out why.