Beside me, Richard is perfectly still. Across from me, the Committee Chair—a woman in her sixties with steel-gray hair and a terrifyingly expensive navy suit—leans back and studies me.
"Ms. Morgan," she says. Her voice is calm, measured, the kind of tone that doesn't waste words. "Your design is compelling. The renderings are strong. But I have one question."
My stomach bottoms out. I nod. "Of course."
"What makes this project resilient in a market downturn?"
The room goes quiet.
Excellent, I think. I can answer this in my sleep
I hit her straight with the math. It takes me less than sixty seconds.
The Chair doesn't smile, but her pen moves across her notepad. She writes three lines, then sets the pen down and looks at the other Committee members.
"We'll deliberate," she says.
The Committee stands. Five people in tailored suits file out through the side door into an adjacent room. The door clicks shut behind them.
Richard and I are alone. I walk to the window.
"You look like you're about to pass out," Richard says from behind me.
I realize I'm holding my breath. I exhale slowly and turn to face him. "How long do these usually take?"
"Ten minutes. Maybe fifteen."
I glance at the clock on the wall. 9:14 AM. Ten minutes feels impossible.
Richard leans back in his chair, arms crossed. "You answered well."
"You think so?"
"I know so." He doesn't elaborate. That's all I'm getting.
I turn back to the window. My reflection stares back at me—navy blazer, hair pulled into a low bun, expression carefully blank. I look calm. I don't feel calm.
The minutes crawl. I count the floors of the building across the street. Forty-two. I count the windows on the top floor. Eighteen. I count my own heartbeats until I lose track.
***
At 9:24, the side door opens.
The Committee files back in. Same order. Same neutral expressions. The Chair sits, folds her hands on the table, and looks directly at me.
"The Committee has reviewed your proposal," she says. "We're approving the Harbor District project for capital investment."
The words register slowly, like they're traveling through water.
Approved.
My knees go a little loose, a delayed rush of adrenaline burning through the last of the numbness. I nod. My body moves on autopilot—I shake the Chair's hand, then the others', one by one. My mouth says "thank you" three times, maybe four. I'm not entirely sure.
Richard stands and shakes hands too. His grip on my shoulder is brief but solid.
The Committee members gather their binders and leave. The door closes.
Richard looks at me. "Go home," he says, already picking up his briefcase. "Sleep for two days. Don't come back to the office until Wednesday. I need to brief the Developer."
