Unfinished

Chapter Two

Nelson

On Thursday morning, I had already rejected three designs, moved a meeting with investors, and received a call from my father reminding me that a company did not run itself.

I was aware.

What I was less interested in was listening to a man who hadn’t opened an architectural plan in twenty years explain how I should run mine.

“Your father expects you at the family office tomorrow,” Samuel said, walking beside me as we crossed the private lobby of the Blackstone Tower.

I glanced at him. “Then he can expect me.”

Samuel sighed. “You know what I mean.”

“I usually do. It doesn’t make the conversation more interesting.”

He gave me the look he reserved for moments when he was deciding whether my attitude justified his salary.

It probably didn’t.

The elevator opened directly into the executive floor. Beyond the glass walls, Manhattan stretched beneath a pale morning sky. The Hudson River caught the light in the distance, and the streets below were already filling with traffic.

I never got tired of the view.

I had spent enough years moving between cities, hotels, and private residences to appreciate a place that felt like mine. My penthouse occupied the top two floors of a building on the Upper East Side. A driver waited downstairs whenever I needed one. There were properties outside New York, a house in the Hamptons I barely used, and more investments than I cared to count without asking someone else to put the numbers in front of me.

Money had never been something I needed to think about.

Decisions were different.

Every major decision came with someone else’s expectations attached to it. Investors wanted returns. Board members wanted reassurance. My father wanted control, even when he pretended to be offering advice.

And lately, everyone seemed to have an opinion about the Manhattan redevelopment project.

The project was supposed to become one of the company’s most ambitious properties: a luxury residential tower with private gardens, exclusive amenities, and interiors that would make buyers feel they were purchasing something more than an address.

I wanted it to be exceptional.

The board wanted it finished on schedule.

My father wanted his name associated with it.

We were all getting something out of it. The difference was that I intended to make sure the building was worth remembering.

“Who’s presenting first?” I asked as we entered my office.

“Two firms before lunch. STACE Studio is scheduled for ten.”

I set my watch beside the folder Samuel had placed on my desk.

“STACE Studio?”

“Small independent studio. Strong portfolio, limited experience with a project of this scale.”

“Then why did they make the final round?”

“Because their proposal was good enough to get them here.”

I looked up.

Samuel lifted both hands. “I’m quoting the review panel, not defending them.”

“Good. I prefer people who can defend their decisions.”

He placed the proposal in front of me.

The studio’s name was printed across the cover. Beneath it was the designer’s name: Stacy Williams.

I opened the folder.

The first few pages were polished, but polish wasn’t what held my attention. I looked at the floor plans, material selections, lighting studies, and the proposed flow between the private residences and shared spaces.

Then I reached the concept for the main reception area.

I leaned back.

It was good.

Not perfect. The design had a few decisions I disagreed with, and the projected cost of certain finishes needed closer examination. But the woman had understood something several expensive firms had missed.

The building didn’t need to look like a showroom designed to impress people who already owned everything.

It needed character.

I turned another page.

“Who approved the shortlist?”

“The selection committee.”

“I know that. Who argued for this firm?”

Samuel hesitated. “You did, technically.”

I stared at him.

“You requested that we include at least one independent studio instead of relying entirely on the firms we normally use,” he reminded me. “STACE Studio was the strongest candidate.”

I looked down at the proposal again.

“Fine. Bring them in.”

Daniel checked his tablet. “They’re expected at ten.”

“Then let’s hope they arrive prepared.”

⸻

At nine fifty-seven, I was already tired of the morning.

The first presentation had been competent and painfully predictable. The second had offered beautiful images with no convincing explanation of how the designs would function once people actually lived in the building.

I had sent both firms away with questions to answer.

By the time Samuel appeared at my office door, I was reading through a report from the construction team.

“STACE Studio is here.”

“Send them in.”

He didn’t move immediately.

I looked up. “Is there a problem?”

“No. I just thought you should know the lead designer is here alone.”

“Should I be concerned?”

“She said the rest of her team is handling another appointment at the studio.”

I closed the report. “If she’s presenting the proposal, she can present it.”

Samuel nodded and disappeared.

I returned my attention to the folder, giving her another minute before I checked the time.

Ten o’clock.

Then ten-oh-one.

I disliked lateness. Not because I believed my time was more valuable than everyone else’s, but because punctuality was one of the simplest ways to show respect for a commitment.

At ten-oh-three, the door opened.

A woman walked in carrying a large portfolio case and a tablet tucked beneath one arm. She wore a tailored cream blazer over black trousers, with her hair pulled back neatly. Her shoes clicked against the floor as she crossed the room.

She didn’t look nervous.

That was either a good sign or a very bad one.

“Mr. Vo—”

She stopped herself when Samuel gestured toward me.

“Mr. Nelson,” he corrected.

Her gaze shifted to mine.

For a brief second, she looked as though she had expected someone older. Then her expression settled into something professional.

“Sorry for the delay,” she said. “The traffic on Fifth Avenue was ridiculous.”

“You had a ten o’clock appointment.”

“And it’s ten-oh-four. I’m aware.”

Samuel looked at her.

I looked at her.

She seemed to realize, a second too late, that she had not exactly helped her case.

“I’m Stacy Williams,” she added, placing her portfolio on the table. “STACE Studio.”

“I gathered that.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly.

Interesting.

Most people became noticeably more agreeable when they realized who they were speaking to. Some tried too hard to impress me. Others became so cautious that I had to drag a straight answer out of them.

Stacy Williams looked as though she was already deciding whether I was going to be a problem.

At least we had something in common.

“Shall we begin?” she asked.

I gestured toward the presentation screen. “Please.”

She connected her tablet and brought up the first slide.

The opening pages were concise. She introduced the concept, explained the intended atmosphere, and showed how the different spaces would connect. She spoke with confidence, but she wasn’t trying to sell me a fantasy. When she discussed materials, she addressed durability as well as appearance. When she explained the lighting, she talked about how it would change throughout the day.

I found myself listening more closely than I had intended.

Then she reached the reception area.

“The original brief places a strong emphasis on luxury,” she said, pointing toward the rendering. “But luxury doesn’t have to mean making every surface expensive or every room enormous. People should feel that the space was designed for them, not that they’re being asked to admire how much money went into it.”

I folded my arms.

“And you believe this achieves that?”

“I do.”

“Even with the darker stone?”

“Especially with the darker stone.”

“It’s going to make the room feel smaller.”

“Only if the lighting is handled badly.”

Samuel’s eyes flicked toward me.

I ignored him.

“You’re proposing natural stone across a large section of the reception area,” I said. “That adds cost without necessarily improving the experience.”

“It improves the experience if you stop treating every material as a line item and consider how the room works as a whole.”

I looked at her.

She held my gaze.

There it was. The first crack in the polished presentation. She wasn’t simply defending her design. She thought I was looking at it the wrong way.

I wasn’t used to being told that in my own office.

“Are you suggesting I don’t understand the project?” I asked.

“No. I’m suggesting you might be looking at it from the wrong angle.”

Samuel went very still.

Stacy glanced at him, then back at me. Whatever warning she saw in his expression came too late to stop her.

“I’ve reviewed the original brief,” she continued. “The building is supposed to feel private, comfortable, and exclusive. If you want people to walk in and immediately think about the price of everything, we can make that happen. But if you want them to feel like they belong there, the design needs restraint.”

“And your solution is darker stone, softer lighting, and less obvious luxury?”

“My solution is a space that doesn’t have to announce its value every five seconds.”

For the first time that morning, I almost smiled.

Almost.

“You seem very certain for someone presenting to a client who hasn’t approved a single thing yet.”

“Would you prefer I pretend I don’t believe in my own work?”

“I’d prefer you answer criticism without turning it into a personal argument.”

“Then criticize the design. Don’t assume I haven’t thought about the choices I made.”

Silence settled over the room.

Samuel looked as though he was mentally calculating how much damage four minutes of conversation had caused.

Stacy stood beside the screen, her shoulders squared. She had every opportunity to soften her tone. She could have laughed, apologized, or offered some carefully worded explanation about how she appreciated my feedback.

She did none of those things.

I turned back to the rendering.

“Show me the alternative lighting plan.”

She blinked.

“What?”

“You heard me. The alternative lighting plan.”

After a short pause, she brought up the next slide.

The room changed almost immediately. The darker stone was balanced by warmer lighting and reflective details that prevented the space from feeling closed in. It wasn’t the direction I would have chosen without seeing it, but it worked better than the first rendering suggested.

I leaned forward.

“What’s the projected cost?”

She gave me the figure.

“Too high.”

“By how much?”

I told her.

She checked her notes. “That’s based on the current supplier estimate. I have two alternatives that would bring the cost down without changing the overall look.”

“Then why aren’t they in the proposal?”

“Because I wanted to show you the original concept before presenting the compromises.”

“Compromises?”

“Adjustments,” she corrected. “If you’d prefer.”

I looked at her for a moment.

She was irritating.

Not because she lacked talent. That would have been easier to deal with. She was irritating because she had enough talent to justify her confidence, and she seemed determined to make me work for every answer.

I closed the folder.

“Your proposal has potential. The budget needs work, and I want revisions to the reception area and the private dining rooms. I’ll also need a clearer plan for how the materials will hold up under heavy use.”

She nodded, already making notes.

“Anything else?”

“Yes. I want the revised proposal by Monday morning.”

Her head lifted. “Monday?”

“That’s what I said.”

“The original schedule gave us a week after the presentation.”

“The construction team has moved its deadline forward.”

“Without informing the design firms?”

“The schedule changed yesterday.”

“And you couldn’t have told us before we came here?”

I stared at her.

She stared back.

“I just did,” I said.

Her mouth tightened.

For one ridiculous second, I thought she might tell me exactly what she thought of that answer.

Instead, she shut down her tablet.

“Fine. Monday morning.”

“Can you manage it?”

“Yes.”

“Without another four-minute delay?”

Samuel closed his eyes briefly.

Stacy slid the tablet into her bag.

“If I can get through the traffic, I’m sure I can survive the deadline.”

She turned toward the door.

“Ms. Williams.”

She stopped.

“If you’re selected, you’ll be working directly with my office. I expect you to be available for regular design reviews and site visits. There won’t be much room for last-minute surprises.”

She looked back at me.

“Good. I don’t like surprises either.”

Then she left.

The door clicked shut behind her.

Samuel remained beside the table.

“Well,” he said carefully.

“Don’t.”

“I haven’t said anything.”

“You’re thinking loudly.”

He glanced toward the door. “She’s good.”

“I noticed.”

“And stubborn.”

“I noticed that too.”

He collected the folders, but I reached for Stacy’s proposal before he could take it.

The design still needed work. The budget certainly did. And I had no intention of letting an independent studio dictate the schedule of a project worth hundreds of millions of dollars.

But the more I studied the reception rendering, the more I understood why the committee had advanced her proposal.

She wasn’t trying to make the building look expensive.

She was trying to make it feel different.

I respected that.

What I didn’t respect was her assumption that I needed to be corrected every time I disagreed with her.

“Have the committee review the revised proposal when it comes in,” I told Samuel. “If the numbers work and the changes are strong enough, we’ll move forward.”

“With STACE Studio?”

“If they earn it.”

Samuel nodded and headed for the door.

I turned back to the rendering.

Stacy Williams had been in my office for less than fifteen minutes, and she’d managed to challenge three of my decisions, question my judgment, and leave without making the usual effort to charm me.

I should have found that refreshing.

Instead, I found it annoying.

Which was probably why, when my next meeting began, I was still thinking about the woman who had told me my building didn’t need to announce how much money went into it.

She might have a point.

That didn’t mean I was going to tell her so.

Not yet.