Unfinished

Chapter One

Stacy

At 7:43 on Monday morning, I was standing barefoot in my kitchen, arguing with a coffee machine that had apparently decided my life wasn’t stressful enough.

“Come on. Please.”

The machine made a horrible grinding noise.

I stared at it.

“Don’t do this to me. Not today.”

It sputtered, released half a cup of coffee, and stopped.

I took a slow breath.

“Fantastic.”

I had a presentation to prepare, three emails to answer, and exactly forty minutes to get dressed and leave for work. I didn’t have time to negotiate with a machine that cost me three hundred dollars and apparently possessed the emotional stability of a toddler.

My phone buzzed on the counter.

I glanced at the screen, expecting another reminder from my supplier.

Instead, I saw an email notification.

I frowned.

For a second, I simply stared at it.

Then I picked up my phone.

The email was from the development company I’d submitted my proposal to almost two months ago. I’d spent weeks researching their upcoming Manhattan project, studying the architectural plans, and putting together a design that I thought could genuinely work for them.

I’d also spent the last ten days pretending I wasn’t checking my inbox every fifteen minutes.

Apparently, I had no shame left.

I opened the email.

Dear Ms. Williams,

Thank you for your interest in our upcoming development. Following our preliminary review, we’re pleased to inform you that your proposal has advanced to the final selection stage.

I stopped reading.

Read it again.

Then I scrolled down.

We would like to invite you to present your concept to our development team this Thursday. Further details regarding the meeting will follow.

I lowered my phone.

“No way.”

I raised it again.

Read the email a third time.

Then I screamed.

Not a cute, delicate scream either. A full, undignified noise that probably concerned my neighbors.

I slapped a hand over my mouth and looked toward the kitchen window.

“Sorry!”

Nobody answered.

I started laughing.

For the first time in weeks, something had gone right without me having to fight for it.

The project wasn’t mine yet. I knew that. There were other designers, other firms, people with bigger portfolios and better connections. Getting through the preliminary review didn’t guarantee anything.

But they’d looked at my work.

They’d considered it good enough to take another look.

That was something.

I pressed my phone against my chest and let myself enjoy it for approximately five seconds.

Then I remembered the presentation was on Thursday.

Three days.

I had three days to prepare.

“Oh, my God.”

I abandoned the coffee machine, hurried into my bedroom, and started pulling clothes from my wardrobe.

If I was going to get this project, I wasn’t going to lose it because I’d failed to prepare for a question about lighting fixtures.

My phone rang while I was searching for my other shoe.

RUTH CALLING.

I answered.

“If you’re calling to ask whether I’m awake, I am. Unfortunately.”

“Why do you sound like somebody has a gun to your head?”

“Because I haven’t had coffee.”

“You say that every morning.”

“And every morning, it’s a serious problem.”

“What’s wrong with your coffee machine now?”

I stopped searching.

“How do you know something’s wrong with my coffee machine?”

“Because you called me yesterday to complain that it was making a noise.”

“It was making a noise.”

“You said it sounded possessed.”

“It did.”

Ruth sighed dramatically.

“Jesus, Stacy. Buy another one.”

“With what money? The money I use to pay rent? The money I use to pay my assistant? Or the money I use to buy the ridiculously expensive materials clients insist on changing their minds about?”

“You could stop buying those little candles you pretend are necessary for your creative process.”

“They’re necessary.”

“Of course they are.”

I found my shoe beneath the bed.

“Anyway, I have news.”

There was a pause.

“What kind of news?”

I smiled.

“The good kind.”

“Stacy.”

“I got through.”

“Got through what?”

“The preliminary review. They want me to present my proposal on Thursday.”

For a moment, there was silence.

Then Ruth shrieked so loudly I had to pull the phone away from my ear.

“YOU’RE LYING!”

“I’m literally looking at the email.”

“THE MANHATTAN PROJECT?”

“Yes!”

“Oh, my God!”

“I know!”

Ruth made another noise that sounded like she’d knocked something over.

“I’m coming over.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I’m putting on my shoes.”

“You live twenty minutes away.”

“Then you have twenty minutes to find champagne.”

“It’s eight in the morning!”

“Successful people don’t limit their celebrations to business hours.”

I laughed, slipping into my shoes.

“It’s only a presentation, Ruth. I haven’t won anything yet.”

“And if you don’t win, we’ll find another opportunity. But today, we’re celebrating the fact that somebody looked at your work and decided you deserved a seat at the table.”

I went quiet.

Sometimes Ruth had an annoying habit of saying exactly what I needed to hear.

“Thank you,” I said.

“Don’t get emotional on me. I haven’t even brushed my teeth.”

I laughed again.

“See you later.”

“And Stacy?”

“Hmm?”

“Don’t spend the next three days convincing yourself you’re going to fail.”

I stared at the email on my phone.

“I wasn’t planning to.”

“Good. Because if I hear you say anything about being unqualified, I’m coming over there to slap some sense into you.”

“Very supportive.”

“That’s why you love me.”

She hung up.

I stood in the middle of my bedroom, still smiling.

Then I opened my calendar and blocked out the next three days.

There would be no unnecessary outings, no late-night scrolling, and absolutely no distractions.

Well, except the occasional phone call from Ruth, who would inevitably ask whether I’d eaten.

I could manage that.

Probably.

⸻

My studio occupied the fourth floor of a converted building in Chelsea.

Calling it a studio was generous, considering the elevator made a worrying sound every time it stopped between floors. The air-conditioning was temperamental, the kitchenette had a refrigerator that froze everything placed near the back wall, and the bathroom door required a firm shoulder to close properly.

But the glass door at the entrance had my name printed on it.

WILLIAMS INTERIORS.

I had paid for those letters myself.

Nobody had given me the office. Nobody had handed me a business to inherit. I had found the space, signed the lease, bought the furniture secondhand, and spent weekends assembling shelves because hiring someone to do it would have meant spending money I didn’t have.

Every time I walked through that door, I remembered why I’d started.

I wanted something that belonged to me.

Not my parents’ money.

Not their connections.

Not the family name that seemed to arrive in a room before I did.

Me.

“You’re smiling,” Maya said when I walked in.

My assistant sat behind her desk with a yogurt in one hand and a spreadsheet open on her computer.

“Am I not allowed to smile?”

“You are. It’s just suspicious before nine.”

I dropped my bag onto my chair.

“We made the final selection.”

Maya froze.

Then she slowly lowered her spoon.

“Wait. What?”

“The Manhattan development. They want me to present the design on Thursday.”

She stood so quickly that her chair rolled backward into the filing cabinet.

“Stacy!”

She hurried around the desk and hugged me.

I laughed, wrapping my arms around her.

For a few seconds, we celebrated without talking about budgets, schedules, or the possibility of rejection.

Then Maya stepped back.

“Okay. What do we need to do?”

I pointed at her.

“That is exactly why I hired you.”

“No, you hired me because I was the only person who agreed to work for you while you were still paying yourself in anxiety.”

“That was temporary.”

“You were eating instant noodles for dinner.”

“I was experimenting with a new diet.”

“You were broke.”

“Details.”

She laughed and returned to her desk.

“Send me the email. I’ll check whether they included any additional requirements.”

I forwarded it immediately.

While she read through the message, I opened the design files on my computer.

The proposal had taken almost two months to complete. The development was supposed to be a luxury commercial property with offices, private meeting rooms, and shared spaces designed for businesses that wanted something more sophisticated than the usual glass walls and uncomfortable chairs.

I had envisioned warm oak, natural stone, carefully placed lighting, and a central lounge that felt welcoming without sacrificing the clean lines of the architecture.

The space needed to look expensive.

But more importantly, it needed to feel good to be in.

I hated rooms designed solely to impress people. Beautiful furniture meant nothing if nobody wanted to sit on it. A dramatic chandelier wasn’t impressive if it made the entire room feel cold.

Good design wasn’t just about what people saw.

It was about how they felt.

I’d learned that long before I started my business, back when I used to rearrange my bedroom every few months because changing the furniture was easier than admitting I wanted to change my life.

Maya rolled her chair toward me.

“They haven’t included the names of the people attending.”

“That’s fine.”

“They’ve said the presentation will be reviewed by the development team and senior management.”

I nodded.

“Expected.”

“They’ve also requested that you bring your preliminary material samples.”

I looked at her.

“That’s less expected.”

“Do we have everything?”

“Almost. I need the revised oak samples from Harrison, and I want the stone supplier to confirm the finish before Thursday.”

Maya opened her spreadsheet.

“I’ll call them.”

I smiled.

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet. I haven’t told you the bad news.”

My smile disappeared.

“What bad news?”

She turned the screen toward me.

The preliminary budget was still within range, but only just. If the development team wanted substantial changes, we’d have to renegotiate some of the material costs or adjust the layout.

I studied the figures.

“How much room do we have?”

“Enough for minor changes. Not enough for them to change their minds about half the design.”

“Then we’ll make sure they understand why the design works.”

Maya watched me for a moment.

“You really want this, don’t you?”

I looked at the render on my screen.

“Yes.”

The answer came out more quietly than I’d intended.

Because I did.

I wanted this project so badly that thinking about losing it made my stomach tighten.

Not because it would solve all my problems. One contract wouldn’t magically turn my business into a success, and I wasn’t naive enough to believe a single client could guarantee my future.

But it would be a start.

Something solid.

Something I could point to when people asked what Williams Interiors had accomplished.

Something that had nothing to do with my parents.

“Then we’ll give them something worth saying yes to,” Maya said.

I looked at her.

She was already typing, making calls and rearranging the schedule as though we’d been preparing for this opportunity our entire lives.

Maybe we had.

“Right,” I said, turning back to my computer. “Let’s get to work.”

⸻

By one o’clock, I’d called three suppliers, revised the presentation slides, and discovered that the lighting consultant had somehow managed to send me the wrong quotation twice.

I was considering whether it was socially acceptable to throw my phone across the room when it rang.

My mother’s name appeared on the screen.

I stared at it for a moment before answering.

“Hi, Mom.”

“Stacy, where are you?”

“At work.”

“You sound busy.”

“I am.”

A pause.

“I won’t keep you long. Your father would like you to come to dinner tonight.”

I leaned back in my chair.

“Tonight?”

“Yes. Eight o’clock.”

“What’s the occasion?”

“Does there have to be an occasion for a family to have dinner together?”

“With Dad? Usually.”

“Stacy.”

There it was.

That familiar warning in her voice. The one that meant I was about to be reminded that my attitude was the problem.

I rubbed my forehead.

“Sorry. I’m just busy preparing for a presentation.”

“What presentation?”

I hesitated.

I wasn’t sure why.

Perhaps because I could already imagine the conversation that would follow. My father asking which company it was, whether the contract was worth the effort, and how much money I’d actually make from it.

Perhaps because I didn’t want to watch my good news become another reason for someone to explain why I wasn’t doing enough.

“A development project in Manhattan. I’ve made it through the preliminary selection.”

“Oh.”

One word.

I waited.

“That’s nice,” she added.

I looked at the window.

“Thanks.”

“You should still come to dinner. Your father has something to discuss with both you and Jenny.”

“Can’t you tell me what it’s about?”

“He wants to discuss it in person.”

Of course he did.

My father loved an audience, especially when he had decided what everyone should do before the conversation even began.

“I have a lot to prepare.”

“You have the entire week to prepare.”

“My presentation is on Thursday.”

“And dinner is tonight. You’ll manage.”

I pressed my lips together.

There was no point arguing. If I refused, I’d spend the rest of the day receiving messages about how disappointed my parents were that I couldn’t make time for my family.

If I agreed, I’d spend the evening wishing I hadn’t.

“Fine. I’ll be there.”

“Eight o’clock, Stacy. Please don’t be late.”

The call ended.

I lowered my phone.

Maya looked up from her computer.

“Everything okay?”

“Family dinner.”

Her expression changed immediately.

“Ah.”

“Don’t start.”

“I haven’t said anything.”

“You made a face.”

“I have a face, Stacy. I can’t help that.”

I laughed despite myself.

She turned back to her screen.

“Want me to prepare an emergency excuse?”

“Do you have a medical degree?”

“No, but I can make you sound convincingly ill.”

I shook my head.

“I’ll survive.”

I hoped.

⸻

At 7:56 that evening, I stood outside my parents’ house, questioning several of my life choices.

The house was beautiful, of course.

It had been featured in a magazine a few years earlier, after my mother spent an unreasonable amount of money renovating the kitchen. The front garden was immaculate, the stone steps had been recently cleaned, and the windows glowed against the darkening sky.

My parents liked their home to look perfect.

They liked their family to look perfect, too.

I straightened my blouse and rang the bell.

Susana , the housekeeper, opened the door.

“Good evening, Miss Williams.”

“Good evening, Susana.”

“Your family is in the dining room.”

“Of course they are.”

She gave me a small smile.

I handed her my coat and followed the sound of conversation.

My father sat at the head of the dining table, discussing a charity event with Jenny. My mother was beside him, holding a glass of water.

Jenny looked up as I entered.

“There she is.”

I leaned down and kissed her cheek.

“Miss me?”

“Terribly. Mom has checked the time approximately six times.”

“I am four minutes early.”

“Seven, actually.”

I glanced at the clock.

“Do you want a medal for your timekeeping?”

“Wouldn’t say no.”

I smiled, and she smiled back.

For a moment, it was easy to forget how different our lives had become.

Jenny had always been the one who knew how to navigate our parents. She understood their moods, their expectations, and the invisible rules that governed our family.

I understood those rules, too.

I simply had a terrible habit of questioning them.

“Stacy,” my father said, glancing up from his plate. “Sit down.”

I pulled out my chair.

“Lovely to see you, too, Dad.”

His eyes narrowed slightly.

My mother set down her glass.

“Can we please have one evening without the comments?”

“I said hello.”

“You know what you meant.”

I opened my mouth, then closed it.

There was no point.

Not tonight.

I picked up my napkin and placed it across my lap.

Dinner began with the usual conversations about business, social events, and people I barely knew. Jenny mentioned a charity luncheon she was attending the following week. My mother asked whether she’d found a dress for it.

My father asked about the guest list.

Nobody asked about my presentation.

I told myself I didn’t care.

I even managed to convince myself for almost fifteen minutes.

Then my father placed his fork beside his plate.

“Your mother tells me you’ve been shortlisted for a development project.”

I looked up.

“She mentioned it?”

“This afternoon.”

“Right.”

“What company is it?”

I told him.

He paused briefly before nodding.

“They have a reputation for demanding a great deal from their contractors.”

“I’ve done my research.”

“I’m sure you have.”

Something about his tone irritated me.

“What does that mean?”

“It means you should be careful about taking on more than you can manage.”

I stared at him.

“I can manage my work.”

“I didn’t say you couldn’t.”

“You implied it.”

“Stacy,” my mother warned.

I ignored her.

“I’ve spent two months preparing that proposal. I’ve worked through the budget, the material costs, and the architectural plans. I know what I’m doing.”

My father took a sip of water.

“Confidence is useful. Experience is better.”

Jenny looked down at her plate.

I felt the familiar heat rising beneath my skin.

There it was again.

The assumption that I was all ambition and no ability. That I could work myself to exhaustion and still somehow be less qualified than someone who had been handed an opportunity without having to ask for it.

I put my fork down.

“I’m not asking you to approve the project.”

“No one said you were.”

“Then can we please stop discussing my career as though I’m making a reckless decision?”

My father looked at me for a long moment.

Then he returned to his food.

“We’ll see how the presentation goes.”

I almost laughed.

Of course we would.

Because until someone else confirmed I was good enough, my own opinion didn’t count for much.

Jenny reached beneath the table and briefly touched my hand.

It was a small gesture.

A quiet reminder that she was there.

I appreciated it more than I wanted to admit.

I returned to my meal, determined not to let the conversation ruin my evening.

But I could feel the disappointment settling inside me.

Not because my father doubted me.

Because a small, foolish part of me had hoped that this time might be different.

That perhaps, if I worked hard enough, achieved enough, and proved myself often enough, he’d finally look at me and see something worth being proud of.

I was beginning to suspect that no amount of achievement would ever be enough.

And I was tired of trying to earn something that seemed to come so easily to everyone else.

⸻

I left my parents’ house shortly after nine.

Jenny followed me to the front door.

“Stacy, wait.”

I stopped and turned.

She folded her arms against the evening chill.

“Don’t let Dad get to you.”

I gave her a tired smile.

“I’m not.”

“You are. I can tell.”

“Then why ask?”

She sighed.

“Because I don’t want you going home upset.”

I looked at her.

Jenny had always been good at this part. The gentle voice, the sympathetic expression, the ability to make me feel as though she was the only person in the family who understood me.

Sometimes, she was.

Sometimes, that was what made everything else harder.

“I’m fine,” I said.

She studied me.

“You’ll do well on Thursday.”

“Thank you.”

“And if you get the project, you should celebrate.”

I smiled.

“Are you volunteering to buy champagne?”

“Absolutely not. You’re the one with the big opportunity.”

I laughed.

She hugged me before I could respond.

For a moment, I held on.

Whatever else happened between us, Jenny was my sister. We had grown up sharing a bedroom, stealing food from the kitchen, and whispering under the covers long after our parents thought we were asleep.

There were parts of my childhood that belonged to both of us.

I didn’t want to lose that.

“Call me after the presentation,” she said.

“I will.”

I walked to my car and drove away.

By the time I reached my apartment, the irritation had faded into exhaustion.

I changed into comfortable clothes, washed my face, and opened my laptop.

The presentation was waiting.

I had three days left.

Three days to make sure every slide was right, every figure was defensible, and every design choice had a reason behind it.

I wasn’t going to let one dinner, one dismissive comment, or years of feeling underestimated distract me from what I wanted.

I pulled the render back onto the screen.

The lounge filled the display, warm light falling across the oak flooring and the carefully arranged seating.

I studied it for a long moment.

Then I smiled.

“This is good,” I whispered.

Not perfect.

Not finished.

But good.

And it was mine.

At 10:18 p.m., another email arrived.

I nearly ignored it, assuming it was another supplier updating a quotation.

Then I noticed the sender.

PROJECT COORDINATION TEAM.

I opened it.

Dear Ms. Williams,

We’re pleased to confirm your presentation for Thursday at 10:00 a.m. Please arrive fifteen minutes early to meet with our project coordination team.

You’ll be presenting to senior members of the development company.

The name of your assigned project executive and the remaining meeting details will be provided upon arrival.

I read the final sentence twice.

The name of the assigned executive would be provided upon arrival.

Strange.

I leaned back in my chair.

Whoever this person was, they’d have a say in whether my design went forward. Their opinion would matter. Their questions could make or break the presentation.

I should have been nervous.

Instead, I felt something else.

Curiosity.

I closed the email and returned to my slides.

I had no idea who I’d be meeting on Thursday.

I didn’t know his name, what he looked like, or how he would react to my work.

For now, there was only the opportunity in front of me.

And I intended to be ready.

Thursday couldn’t come soon enough