“Yes. The soft open can’t feel like a partial. It has to feel like an invitation. Then the grand opening is the bang. We want to underpromise and overdeliver in between the soft and grand openings.”
“Guest segments?” I ask.
She turns the second monitor toward me. The screen shows a slideshow of brand statements, half-finished style tiles.
“We’re not trying to be Vegas. We’re not trying to be old-school Boardwalk either. Think: precise, contemporary, but warm. A lens of Italian coastal. Subtle, not theme-park. Polished wood, and low light beneath hand-cut chandeliers. Private gaming salons on the upper floors, accessible only by invitation.
“The Regent does not cater to tourists. It’s for legacy patrons—politicians, financiers, and men who prefer their power—shall we say, absolute and unseen. Rules are enforced without spectacle. Problems disappear without explanation.
“And nothing that happens inside these walls ever truly leaves. Discretion is everything here.”
I nod, taking notes. “So not neon and brass. More sandstone and light. Brand voice restrained and confident.”
“Exactly,” she says. “Not tacky but still fun.”
It all sounds perfect. Exactly what I’ve been looking for. But I don’t want to get ahead of myself. Sometimes, too-good-to-be-true is too good to be true. I realize my hand is shaking with adrenaline. I rest it on the notebook, and it calms. “KPIs?”
“Occupancy at soft open: seventy percent in the first two weekends without discounting below target ADT,” she says immediately. “Grand opening: sellout across three days at target ADT plus ten percent; casino footfallexceeding modeled flow by fifteen percent; loyalty program enrollments exceeding baseline by twenty percent. We’ll track earn-and-burn behavior in the first thirty days post-launch; I want a plan that moves new members from basic enrollment to first redemption in under fourteen days.”
“Got it.” I write fast. “What do we have on the loyalty program now?”
“Name is set. Tiers are set. Creative is halfway there. The tech is… being welded into place.” She makes a face. “We can get people enrolled. The back end will track. Redemption will be manual for two weeks while they finish the automation.”
“Manual how?” I ask because manual is how mistakes happen.
“Paper and a code list. It won’t be pretty,” she says. “But it will work. We’ll keep the initial redemption menu small. Rooms, dining credits, and a partner spa credit we’re negotiating.”
I flip my page. “Opening calendar. What events exist already?”
She pulls another folder from a stack and fans the contents like a deck of cards. “Hold dates only. No contracts yet. I wanted you to build it with me, from the ground up.”
She slides a list toward me. “Press preview dinner for locals and hospitality media. Chef’s table series—intimate, twelve seats, three nights. Charity gala with the hospital foundation—this one is important; they’re a legacy presence here, and this is part of how we belong quickly. One or twoentertainment nights—tasteful. I will not be doing a foam party.”
“I can live without foam,” I say. “Who’s the chef?”
“We have a proper professional coming in. My Uncle Gio’s wife, Bianca. She’s just coming off maternity leave but is itching to get back in a professional kitchen. CIA-trained. That’s Culinary Institute, not the other one.”
She smiles. “Spent a few years working in Italy under a Michelin-starred chef. Came back to Atlantic City to run her family’s legacy, Regalia, an institution in this town. It’s a family restaurant, but we want to open a second location in the hotel itself and give it a fancier vibe. She’ll be culinary director for anything else food-related under the roof as well. You’ll like her.”
“I’ll trust your judgment on that one,” I say.
“You should. I’ve got great judgment,” she says, and it’s not bragging. It’s just true. “For vendors, I want your Brain Trust approach.”
“You mean the list,” I say, my chest warming pleasantly in the way that happens when someone recognizes something you’re proud of.
At Wharton, I kept a spreadsheet of cold contacts and warm ones: rental houses that didn’t gouge on weekends, photographers who could shoot food with warmth and professionalism, string quartets who could switch to jazz. It became known as “Olivia’s Brain Trust” during my time there.
“I brought it,” I say. “I updated it on the flight.”
“Of course you did,” she says. “We have some local must-haves. The hospital foundation has a preferred florist, and there’s an old-soul print shop that everyone here respects. I’ll share the community list. I want you to layer your national partners on top, but lead with local when we can. This town remembers who put money back into it.”
“Budget?” I ask.
Her finger taps the page twice, an almost-satisfied rhythm. “For the launch series? Mid-six figures. You’ll have guardrails, but you won’t be starved.”
“Bless you,” I say, heartfelt. She actually laughs, the real kind that used to sneak out of her when we were too exhausted to be serious grad students anymore.
A knock interrupts us. A man in a hard hat opens the door, squinting at a clipboard. “Five minutes on the breaker,” he says. “You’ll lose power. Sorry.”
