Unfinished

Chapter Five

Stacy

The first thing I did when I got back to STACE Studio was take off my shoes.

The second was call Maya into my office.

“Tell me you have good news,” she said, appearing in the doorway with a folder tucked under her arm.

“I have good news.”

“Really?”

“And bad news.”

She groaned. “Why can’t you ever start with the good news and stop there?”

“Because then you’d think working here was easy.”

Maya dropped into the chair opposite me.

I turned my laptop toward her.

“The dining-room revisions are approved in principle. We managed to bring the estimate below the original allocation, and Nelson agreed to give us more time to finish the proposal.”

“Nelson?”

I looked at her.

“What?”

“You called him Nelson.”

“That’s his name.”

“Last time you called him an arrogant pain in the ass.”

“That’s also accurate.”

She grinned.

I ignored her and opened the updated drawings.

“The structural plans they sent us were outdated. We caught it during the site visit.”

Maya leaned forward. “You’re joking.”

“I wish.”

“That could have ruined the entire layout.”

“Exactly. But we’ve corrected it, and I think the reception area is going to look better because of the changes.”

She studied the screen.

“Okay, that’s actually gorgeous.”

“Thank you.”

“No, seriously. The seating arrangement feels more natural now.”

“I know.”

She gave me a look.

I smiled.

“Fine. You were right to be worried about the columns.”

“I didn’t say anything about the columns.”

“You were thinking it.”

“Apparently, I’m not allowed to have private thoughts anymore.”

“Not during office hours.”

She laughed, then glanced at the folder in her lap.

“There’s something else.”

I leaned back.

“Why do you look like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re about to tell me the building has collapsed.”

“It hasn’t.”

“Wonderful. We’re off to a strong start.”

She opened the folder.

“One of our suppliers called. The stone we wanted for the reception area is available, but the price has increased.”

“How much?”

“Enough to make me wish I’d answered the call sitting down.”

I took the quotation from her.

My smile disappeared.

“That’s ridiculous.”

“That’s what I said.”

I scanned the figures again.

The supplier had increased the cost by nearly eighteen percent.

Eighteen.

For material we had discussed less than a week ago.

“Did they give a reason?”

“Import costs. Shipping. Some explanation about demand.”

“Of course.”

“Should I contact the alternative supplier?”

“Already on my list. But we need to confirm the finish matches the sample before we commit.”

Maya nodded.

I stared at the quotation.

This was the part of running a design studio nobody put in the glamorous photographs.

People saw beautiful rooms and carefully arranged furniture. They didn’t see the hours spent negotiating with suppliers who changed prices whenever they felt like it.

They didn’t see the invoices, the delayed deliveries, or the moments when one unexpected cost threatened to undo an entire budget.

And they certainly didn’t see me sitting barefoot in my office, wondering whether throwing a stapler at the wall would improve my mood.

“Okay,” I said, setting the quotation aside. “Let’s find another supplier.”

Maya smiled.

“That’s it?”

“What else am I supposed to do? Cry?”

“I was expecting at least one dramatic speech.”

“Give me another price increase and you’ll get one.”

She stood.

“I’ll make the calls.”

“And Maya?”

She turned.

“Thank you.”

Her expression softened.

“That’s what I’m here for.”

“Actually, you’re here because I pay you.”

“Not enough, apparently.”

“Get out.”

She laughed and left.

I looked at the drawings again.

We could fix this.

We had to.

⸻

Ruth called while I was eating lunch at my desk.

“Before you say anything,” she announced, “I have a complaint.”

“Get in line.”

“You’ve been ignoring me.”

“I’ve been working.”

“That’s your excuse for everything.”

“It’s a very reliable excuse.”

“Stacy.”

“Ruth.”

“Are you coming out with me this weekend or not?”

I glanced at the open spreadsheets on my laptop.

“Where?”

“Dinner. Drinks. Somewhere with actual people who aren’t architects or suppliers.”

“That sounds suspiciously like socializing.”

“Yes. It’s this thing normal adults do.”

“I’m a normal adult.”

“You spent your last Saturday comparing bathroom tiles.”

“They were important bathroom tiles.”

“You’re proving my point.”

I laughed.

Ruth had been trying to drag me out of the studio for weeks. According to her, I was becoming the kind of person who considered answering emails a hobby.

She wasn’t entirely wrong.

“I’ll think about it,” I said.

“No. You always say that, and then something comes up.”

“Something usually does come up.”

“Then let it come up without you.”

I smiled.

“You make running a business sound very easy.”

“I make having a life sound necessary.”

That shut me up for a moment.

Ruth softened her voice.

“Stace, I know this project is important. But you can’t spend every waking moment trying to prove yourself.”

I looked around my office.

The sample boards leaning against the wall. The sketches spread across my desk. The framed photograph of the first apartment I’d designed after opening STACE Studio.

“I like my work,” I said.

“I know you do.”

“And if we get this contract—”

“Then you’ll be even busier. Which is why you should come out now, before you start charging people for appointments to see your face.”

I laughed.

“Fine. Dinner.”

“With drinks.”

“One drink.”

“Three.”

“Two.”

“Deal.”

I shook my head.

“You negotiate like a criminal.”

“Thank you. Now tell me about Mr. Moneybags.”

I closed my eyes.

“Why?”

“Because I want to know whether he’s still annoying.”

“Very.”

“Good-looking?”

“Ruth.”

“That’s not an answer.”

I sighed.

“He’s not ugly.”

There was silence.

Then she screamed.

I pulled the phone away from my ear.

“Oh my God! Stacy!”

“What?”

“‘He’s not ugly’? That’s practically a marriage proposal coming from you.”

“Please behave.”

“How not ugly?”

“Ruth.”

“Tall?”

“Yes.”

“Nice face?”

“Unfortunately.”

“Good body?”

“I wasn’t conducting a physical examination.”

“But you noticed.”

I stared at the ceiling.

This was a mistake.

“He’s my client.”

“Potential client,” she corrected. “And I asked whether he’s attractive, not whether you’re planning to marry him.”

“He’s attractive. Happy?”

“Very.”

“He’s also controlling, sarcastic, and convinced everyone should agree with him.”

“So, handsome and annoying.”

“Exactly.”

“Interesting.”

“There’s nothing interesting about it.”

“Of course not.”

I could hear the smile in her voice.

“Don’t start.”

“I’m not starting anything.”

“You sound like you’re starting something.”

“Stacy, relax. You can admit a man is attractive without falling in love with him.”

I looked down at the drawings.

She was right.

Nelson Voss was attractive. Anyone with functioning eyesight could see that.

It didn’t mean anything.

There were plenty of attractive men in New York.

Some of them were even pleasant.

I should probably meet one of those instead.

“I have to go,” I said.

“Running away?”

“Working.”

“Same thing.”

I ended the call while she was still laughing.

⸻

The alternative supplier sent over samples that afternoon.

They were good.

Not perfect, but good enough to consider.

I arranged them beside the original stone and studied the differences under the studio lights.

The alternative had a slightly warmer undertone. In the wrong space, it would look dull. With the lighting we’d planned, however, it might actually work better.

I took photographs and added them to the proposal.

Then I checked the revised budget.

The reception-area finishes were still within reach of our target, provided we made a few careful adjustments.

I was beginning to feel optimistic when an unfamiliar number appeared on my phone.

I answered.

“Stacy Williams.”

“Ms. Williams, this is Samuel from Mr. Voss’s office.”

“Hello, Samuel.”

“I hope I’m not interrupting.”

“Not at all.”

“Mr. Voss has reviewed the updated dining-room figures.”

I sat straighter.

“And?”

“He has no further objections to the proposed materials.”

I blinked.

“Really?”

Samuel chuckled.

“That was my reaction too.”

I smiled.

“Tell him I appreciate it.”

“There’s something else.”

Of course there was.

“Go ahead.”

“The selection committee has requested a final presentation from each shortlisted firm. They’ll be reviewing the complete revised proposals before making a recommendation.”

“All right.”

“The committee also wants confirmation that your studio can handle the project’s scale.”

I looked toward the sample shelves.

“What kind of confirmation?”

“Staffing plans. Supplier arrangements. Project management procedures. That sort of thing.”

I exhaled slowly.

It wasn’t an unreasonable request.

But I knew what it meant.

They wanted reassurance that a smaller studio could deliver work on the same scale as firms with entire departments dedicated to procurement and construction coordination.

“We can provide that,” I said.

“Good. I’ll send the requirements.”

“Thank you, Samuel.”

“You’re welcome.”

He hesitated.

“Ms. Williams?”

“Yes?”

“For what it’s worth, Mr. Voss doesn’t usually spend this much time reviewing a design proposal himself.”

I frowned.

“What does that mean?”

“Nothing beyond the fact that he takes this project seriously.”

I wasn’t sure whether that was supposed to reassure me.

“Well, so do I.”

“I’ve noticed.”

After we ended the call, I sat there thinking.

Nelson’s involvement wasn’t necessarily a good sign. He was demanding, and the project mattered to him. Of course he’d scrutinize every detail.

Still, I couldn’t deny that he had listened during the site visit.

He’d admitted when something worked.

He’d corrected the drawings.

He’d even agreed to extend the deadline.

Perhaps he wasn’t entirely unreasonable.

Perhaps.

⸻

I was reviewing our staffing plan when my mother called.

I considered letting it ring.

Then I answered.

“Hi, Mom.”

“Stacy, darling. Are you busy?”

“Working.”

“You’re always working.”

I smiled without humor.

“Someone has to.”

“Don’t start.”

I leaned back in my chair.

“What’s going on?”

“Your father and I are having dinner with some friends this weekend. Jenny will be joining us, and we’d like you to come.”

“Which friends?”

“The Hendersons.”

I closed my eyes.

Of course.

The Hendersons were wealthy, well-connected, and obsessed with asking questions about my personal life.

Mrs. Henderson had once spent an entire dinner explaining how unfortunate it was that young women no longer understood the importance of marriage.

I had nearly choked on my water.

“Mom, I already have plans.”

“What plans?”

“Dinner with Ruth.”

“You can see Ruth anytime.”

“And you can see the Hendersons anytime.”

“Stacy.”

There it was.

The warning in her voice.

I rubbed my forehead.

“I’m not coming.”

“Your father would appreciate having the whole family together.”

“Then he can appreciate it another time.”

She sighed.

“Why must everything be difficult with you?”

I stared at the wall.

That question.

Always that question.

It didn’t matter what I said or how politely I said it. If I disagreed with my parents, I was difficult.

Jenny could decline an invitation and receive understanding.

I declined, and suddenly I was ruining family unity.

“I’m not trying to be difficult,” I said. “I already made plans.”

“Well, your sister manages to make time.”

I laughed quietly.

“Of course she does.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing, Mom.”

“Stacy—”

“I have to get back to work.”

“At least think about it.”

“I will.”

It was a lie.

We both knew it.

I ended the call and placed my phone facedown on the desk.

For a moment, I considered calling Jenny.

She would probably tell me not to take it personally.

She usually did.

Jenny was good at smoothing things over. She could turn an argument into a misunderstanding and a criticism into concern.

Sometimes I admired that about her.

Other times, I wondered whether she understood how exhausting it was to be the person everyone expected to adjust.

My phone buzzed again.

This time it was a message from Jenny.

Jenny: Mom said she invited you to dinner.

I sighed.

Me: And?

Jenny: Please don’t be mad. I told her you were probably busy.

I stared at the message.

Me: Then why is she acting like I committed a crime?

Jenny: You know how she gets.

I typed a reply, then deleted it.

Yes.

I knew exactly how she got.

That was the problem.

Jenny: Are you okay?

I looked at the screen for a long moment.

Me: I’m fine. Just tired.

Jenny: Don’t work too hard. Love you.

Me: Love you too.

I put the phone down.

Jenny wasn’t the enemy.

She never had been.

Whatever our parents did, whatever comparisons they made, Jenny had always tried to be there for me.

I loved my sister.

I just wished loving her didn’t sometimes feel like standing beside someone everyone else had already decided was better than me.

⸻

The email arrived as I was preparing to leave.

Subject: Final Presentation Requirements — Voss Development

I opened the attachment.

Staffing plan.

Procurement strategy.

Detailed budget.

Project timeline.

Risk management.

Evidence of previous work.

I read through the requirements carefully.

They were thorough.

Demanding, but fair.

Then I reached the final section.

The selected firm will be required to assign its lead designer to work closely with the Voss development team throughout the project. Regular on-site reviews and direct coordination with the executive office will be mandatory.

I leaned back.

Direct coordination with the executive office.

Meaning Nelson.

Of course.

I read the sentence again.

If we won, I would be spending a considerable amount of time working with a man who seemed to enjoy challenging every decision I made.

I should have been concerned.

Instead, I felt a small, unexpected thrill.

Not because of him.

Because this was real.

The project was no longer a distant possibility. We had reached the stage where they were discussing staffing, procurement, and long-term responsibilities.

STACE Studio had a genuine chance.

I looked around my office.

Then I opened a new document.

STACE STUDIO — PROJECT DELIVERY PLAN

I began typing.

We would show them we could handle the work.

We would show them that a small studio could compete with the biggest firms in the city.

And if Nelson Voss wanted to challenge every decision I made along the way, he was welcome to try.

I wasn’t afraid of difficult clients.

I’d built a business dealing with them.

What I hadn’t expected was that one of them would make me look forward to an argument.

I stopped typing.

That was a ridiculous thought.

I shook my head and returned to the document.

There was a contract to win.

Everything else could wait.

Especially Nelson Voss.