"I do now."
The app finishes installing. Tom opens it, navigates through the setup screens with mild frustration. He types slowly, deliberately: Sat. 7pm. Sam.
Then he sets the phone down on the table between us, screen facing me. For a man who lives by improvisation, it feels enormous.
"There," he says. "I'm not winging this."
Tom watches me. I reach across the table, lacing my fingers through his.
His hand tightens around mine. Not desperate. Just present.
We sit like that, hands linked, phones dark and silent, while the espresso machine hisses and the door chime rings and the world keeps moving around us.
I don't know if this will be enough.
But it's what we've got.
Chapter thirty-eight
Tom
From my seat in the back corner of the boardroom, I see exactly when the presentation goes off the rails.
Castellano flips back two pages in the printed deck.
"Stop there."
His voice cuts across the room. Sam's hand freezes on the presentation remote.
She turns toward him, shoulders squaring. "Yes?"
"Widening the pedestrian corridors. Opening the sight lines to the water." He taps the page. "I understand the design logic. What I don't see is the financial justification."
Sam's jaw tightens, just barely. I doubt anyone else notices.
"The market research shows buyers pay more for properties with direct water views—"
"Market research is speculative." Castellano leans forward. "Those wider corridors come from somewhere. Either we lose sellable space, or the building gets bigger. Both cost money. Where do we make it back?"
The room goes quiet.
Two board members glance at each other.
The Developer's pen stops moving.
Sam doesn't look at me.
"The case studies from Boston and Seattle show that—"
"Anecdotal." Castellano flips another page. "Different markets, different buyer profiles. I need data specific to this project, this market. "Can you show me how this sells faster? Or for more?"
"People pay more for places they actually want to live in," Sam says, her voice level but harder now. "Buyers at this price point aren't just comparing square footage and finishes. They're looking for—"
"I understand the theory, Sam." Castellano sets the deck down, folds his hands, and looks directly at her. "But I've seen young architects prioritize aesthetics over financial performance before. I need proof this isn't the exact same pattern."
Sam's knuckles go white around the remote.
She knows the design works. She's spent two years proving it.
