Unfinished

Chapter Three

Stacy

I had been staring at the reception-area rendering for so long that the expensive stone was beginning to look like a personal insult.

I zoomed in, adjusted the lighting, then zoomed out again.

Nope.

Nelson Voss was still wrong.

Not entirely wrong, which was the irritating part. His concerns about the budget were reasonable, and I could admit that without suffering a personal crisis. The man had a building to complete, investors to satisfy, and enough money tied up in the project to make my entire studio’s annual revenue look like pocket change.

But his delivery?

Terrible.

I could still see his expression when I’d explained why the darker stone worked. He’d looked at me as though he couldn’t decide whether to argue with me or have someone escort me out of his office.

The fact that he had done neither was probably the only reason I still had a project to work on.

“You’re doing it again.”

I looked up from my screen.

Maya stood in the doorway of my office, holding two cups of coffee.

“Doing what?”

“Making that face.”

“What face?”

“The one you make when you’re mentally insulting someone.”

I accepted the coffee. “Maybe I’m mentally insulting you.”

“Then I must have done something impressive.”

She dropped into the chair opposite my desk and glanced at the rendering.

“Is this the billionaire project?”

“Please don’t call it that.”

“What should I call it? The project with the building that costs more than I’ll earn in my entire life?”

“That’s not helping.”

“Neither is your face.”

I took a sip of coffee.

Maya had been working at STACE Studio long enough to recognize when I was frustrated, which meant she had also learned that asking me to calm down was a dangerous sport.

She was good at her job, organized enough to keep the studio running when I was buried in designs, and far too comfortable telling me things I didn’t want to hear.

Naturally, I liked her.

“What happened?” she asked.

“The client has opinions.”

“Shocking. Should we alert the press?”

“He thinks the reception area will feel smaller with the darker stone.”

“Will it?”

“Not if the lighting is done properly.”

“So he’s wrong.”

“That’s what I thought.”

Maya waited.

I hated when she did that. She had a gift for remaining silent until I filled the space myself.

“His concern about the cost isn’t unreasonable,” I admitted. “But he acts like every decision I make is an attempt to personally inconvenience him.”

“Maybe you two have that in common.”

I gave her a flat look.

She smiled into her coffee.

“You’re both stubborn, aren’t you?”

“I am not stubborn.”

“Of course not.”

“I know when to compromise.”

“Absolutely.”

“I just don’t compromise when someone is wrong.”

Maya nodded solemnly. “A completely different thing.”

I threw a paper ball at her.

She caught it, laughed, and got up before I could find anything heavier.

“Your eleven o’clock client is here,” she said. “And before you ask, yes, I’ve printed the samples she requested.”

“You’re a saint.”

“I prefer competent.”

“Fine. You’re competent.”

“I’ll take it.”

She disappeared into the hallway.

I turned back to my screen, but my attention had already wandered.

The Voss project wasn’t just another contract. Winning it would put STACE Studio in front of developers and investors who usually hired firms with offices bigger than my entire building. It could mean better clients, a stronger portfolio, and enough financial breathing room to hire another designer instead of doing half the work myself.

I wanted it.

Not because Nelson Voss was rich.

Not because his office had windows that probably cost more than my car.

I wanted the opportunity because I’d worked hard enough to deserve it.

And I wasn’t about to lose it because I found the man unpleasant.

I pulled the rendering closer and began revising the lighting plan.

If Nelson wanted numbers, I’d give him numbers.

If he wanted alternatives, he’d get alternatives.

And if he wanted me to agree with every decision he made, he could find another designer.

⸻

By the time I finished with my client, my coffee was cold and my patience had returned to a level that could reasonably be described as functional.

I spent the rest of the morning comparing suppliers, adjusting the material schedule, and looking for ways to reduce costs without sacrificing the design.

The cheaper stone Nelson had questioned turned out to be a possibility, but only if we sourced it from a different supplier. The original supplier could deliver within the project’s schedule; the alternative offered a better price but needed confirmation about availability.

I made a note to investigate both options.

My phone buzzed beside the keyboard.

Ruth: Tell me everything.

I stared at the message.

Me: About what?

Her reply came almost immediately.

Ruth: Don’t play with me. You had a meeting with Mr. Moneybags. How did it go?

I sighed.

Ruth had been waiting for an update since I’d told her about the final presentation. She had also spent the previous evening reminding me that powerful men were not automatically attractive simply because they owned expensive things.

As if I needed the reminder.

Me: He’s annoying.

Ruth: Annoying how?

Me: The kind of annoying that makes you want to prove a point even when you weren’t planning to argue.

Ruth: Oh, so he’s your type.

Me: I don’t have a type.

Ruth: You absolutely do. You like men who make you angry.

Me: That’s not true.

Ruth: Remember Josh?

My fingers stopped over the screen.

For a moment, the studio noise seemed to fade into the background.

Josh’s name had a way of doing that. It could take an ordinary conversation and drag me somewhere I hadn’t intended to go.

I locked my phone.

Ruth hadn’t meant anything by it. She rarely did. She’d been there through the worst of what happened, through the whispers and the questions and the period when I couldn’t walk into a room without wondering whether someone had seen the video.

She was allowed to make the occasional joke.

It didn’t mean I had to find it funny.

I pushed my chair back and stood.

A walk to the sample shelves seemed like a better idea than sitting there remembering a man who had already taken enough from me.

Josh had taught me that attraction wasn’t the same as trust. He’d taught me that someone could tell you exactly what you wanted to hear and still be capable of humiliating you for reasons you might never fully understand.

Most importantly, he’d taught me that being in love could make you careless with the parts of yourself you should protect.

I wasn’t interested in repeating that mistake.

Whatever Nelson Voss was, he was a client.

An irritating, demanding client with an enormous project and an ego that probably needed its own office.

That was all.

I picked up a sample board and returned to my desk.

My phone buzzed again.

Ruth: Okay, I won’t mention Josh. But I reserve the right to make fun of Mr. Moneybags.

I smiled despite myself.

Me: You’re a terrible friend.

Ruth: And yet you keep me.

Me: Unfortunately.

Ruth: Love you too.

I set the phone aside and got back to work.

⸻

The problem with having a small studio was that every new opportunity came with a dozen practical questions.

Could we afford another designer if the project expanded? Would I need to hire a consultant for the specialist materials? How much time could I spend at the development site without neglecting our existing clients?

I had built STACE Studio carefully, taking smaller residential projects and gradually moving into commercial work. I had learned to stretch a budget without making the finished space look cheap. I’d learned how to negotiate with suppliers, how to tell a client their favorite idea wouldn’t work, and how to keep my face neutral when someone assumed I was too young to know what I was doing.

I had also learned that talent wasn’t enough.

You needed discipline. Patience. A willingness to do the unglamorous work that never appeared in the photographs.

And, occasionally, a client who didn’t make you want to throw your laptop out of a window.

Nelson Voss was testing that last requirement.

I was checking the revised material estimates when an email arrived from his office.

Subject: Voss Development — Design Revisions

I opened it.

Ms. Williams,

Following your presentation, Mr. Voss has requested revised drawings for the main reception area and private dining rooms, along with a detailed material and cost breakdown.

We would also like you to review the proposed materials in person at the development site before finalizing your revisions.

Please let us know your availability.

I read it twice.

A site visit made sense. The drawings could only tell me so much about the actual space, especially when the construction team had already completed some of the structural work.

What bothered me was the implication that the design needed to be reviewed in person before I could finish the revisions.

I was the designer. I knew why I’d chosen those materials.

Still, there was no point arguing with an email.

I replied with a few possible days and went back to the drawings.

His office responded before I’d finished reviewing the dining-room layout.

Mr. Voss would prefer the earliest available appointment.

Of course he would.

I typed a reply, deleted it, and started again.

We can arrange a site visit once the construction team confirms access. I’ll need the current floor plans and an updated list of completed work before the visit.

I sent it before I could make the message less polite than it needed to be.

Then I leaned back and rubbed my eyes.

Working with Nelson was going to be exhausting.

But if I could get through this project without letting his personality get in the way of my work, the result could change everything for STACE Studio.

I wasn’t going to let an unpleasant man stand between me and the career I’d spent years building.

Not even one who owned half the skyline.

⸻

I was packing up the material samples when Maya appeared beside my desk.

“You’re staying late again.”

“I’m finishing the dining-room revisions.”

“You said that about the reception area.”

“And I finished it.”

“Eventually.”

I slid the samples into their case.

Maya watched me for a moment.

“You know you don’t have to prove yourself to every difficult client, right?”

I paused.

“I know.”

“Do you?”

I gave her a tired smile. “Maya, I don’t have the energy for a lecture.”

“Good. Because I don’t have the energy to give one.” She picked up her bag. “I’m just saying, don’t let one project consume your entire life.”

“I won’t.”

“That’s what you said last time.”

“Last time was different.”

“Was it?”

I looked at her.

She held up a hand. “I’m leaving before you fire me.”

“You’d have to give me a reason.”

“You’re welcome for all the free entertainment.”

She walked away before I could respond.

I turned off my monitor and looked around the studio.

The space wasn’t large. We didn’t have a receptionist or a marble-floored lobby. Our sample library took up one wall, and the conference table had a scratch near one corner that I kept meaning to fix. There were days when the workload felt impossible and the bills seemed to arrive faster than the payments.

But it was mine.

Every client we won, every design we completed, every mistake we corrected—it all belonged to the business I had built.

My family had money. They had connections and a name that opened doors before anyone knocked.

I could have leaned on that.

I could have asked my father to make a call or used his reputation to convince someone to give me a chance.

I hadn’t.

I wanted to know that when STACE Studio succeeded, it would be because of the work we did.

Not because of who my parents were.

And certainly not because I had impressed a billionaire.

I picked up my bag and headed for the door.

My phone buzzed as I was locking the studio.

Another email from Nelson’s office.

This one contained the updated floor plans and a note confirming the site visit.

At the bottom was a short message from Nelson himself.

Bring your alternatives. I want to see the numbers behind your recommendations.

I stared at it.

No greeting. No acknowledgment of the work I’d already done. Not even a simple please.

I typed a reply.

I’ll bring the numbers. You bring an open mind.

My thumb hovered over the screen.

That was unprofessional.

It was also entirely deserved.

I deleted the message and wrote something more appropriate.

I’ll bring the revised cost breakdown and material alternatives for review.

I sent it, put my phone away, and walked out into the evening.

Nelson Voss wanted a designer who could defend her decisions.

Fine.

He was going to get one.

And if he thought he could intimidate me into changing my work just because he was accustomed to people agreeing with him, he had seriously underestimated the woman he’d hired.

I hadn’t built STACE Studio to spend my career making powerful men comfortable.

I had built it to create spaces worth remembering.

And I intended to make sure Nelson Voss remembered mine.