But not the home run it should’ve been.
They asked about ROI and bottom lines, not the systems that make this complex a showpiece.
They’re looking at the price tag.
Not the fucking crown jewel.
Damien doesn’t say a word as he walks out of the boardroom. He doesn’t have to. The tension in his shoulders says plenty.
We follow, and I trail behind the group, jaw tight.
His office is sleek and dark like the rest of Wolfe Industries, but the whiskey cart by the windows is the only thing I care about right now. Four crystal tumblers sit waiting—because Damien knew this wasn’t going to be a toast.
He pours without ceremony. No ice.
“Shut the door,” he says.
Grant does. And just like that, we’re locked in with one of the most powerful men in Manhattan—and I already know he’s about to hand us our asses.
Damien passes around the drinks, then leans a hip against his desk, arms crossed.
“So…” He takes a slow sip. “What the fuck happened in there?”
He’s not angry. Not loud. But disappointment from Damien Wolfe lands harder than most men’s rage.
Marcus stands beside him—quiet but alert. Watching us like we’re two boys who brought home a failing report card.
“There’s no synergy,” Damien says, voice even. “You’re not working like partners. And don’t tell me it’s just a bad day.”
Grant clears his throat. “We had a few last-minute changes—some crossed wires, that’s all. It won’t happen again.”
“Next time,” Damien says mildly, “might be too late.” His eyes flick to mine. “This was supposed to be the jewel of the skyline. A legacy project. And you had them counting pennies over concept renderings.”
I feel the fire stir in my chest.
“And yet no one asked how those concepts are redefining sustainable vertical design. They asked about costs because that’s all they know how to measure.”
“They measure what matters to them,” Damien says, calm as ever. “And like it or not, that part matters too.”
We fall quiet.
I don’t look at Grant. I keep my gaze locked on the glass in my hand, then shift to the window—the skyline stretching wide and brilliant, just waiting for its next crown.
Then Damien sighs. “So.” He lets the word hang in the air. “Is this about Friday?”
My jaw clenches. I don’t look away from the view, but I feel both of their eyes on me.
Grant jumps in before I can answer. “I’m not going to lie. That was a trainwreck. I’ll give you that. But it’s over. And we’re not making excuses. The board made a few… comments. Nothing we can’t fix.”
Bullshit. He’s not telling him the whole truth.
Not that it matters.
Damien lifts a brow. “I already heard about the threat to pull the firm. And I’m not asking as your client. I’m asking as your friend.” He glances at Marcus, who nods once—quiet affirmation.
“We don’t always agree,” Damien continues. “Hell, we argue like bastards behind closed doors. But out there?” He gestures toward the conference room. “We’re a team. Always. And we sure as shit don’t bring our fights to the table.”
Grant exhales. “We’re working on it.”
