Chapter thirteen
Sam
Iclick to the final slide and take my hand off the laptop.
On the screen, images of the Harbor District glows blue and white—clean lines, perfect lighting, zero trash on the imaginary sidewalks.
In the room, nobody moves.
Six investors are sitting around the glass table. For the last forty minutes, they’ve been interrupting, checking their watches, and flipping through the printouts to find mistakes.
Now, they are just staring at the screen.
I stand at the front of the room, keeping my hands at my sides. Tom stands two feet to my left. I don't look at him. I don't look at the clock. I just wait. I've learned to let silence sit there and work.
Mr. Aldridge, the man whose signature we need to get this project funded, taps his pen against the table.Click. Click. Click.
He points at the screen.
"That west exposure," he says. He doesn't look at me. "What happens to the merchandise in the windows in July? The sunhits that glass for six hours a day. It’ll fade everything on display."
Good, an easy question.
I know the answer. I spent three days modeling the solar angles for exactly this question. I open my mouth to explain the glazing specs.
I stop.
Tom steps forward, seamlessly moving into my space. The sleeve of his suit jacket brushes my arm. He’s looking straight at Aldridge.
It won’t,” Tom says, his voice a low, steady rumble of absolute authority. “Sam designed the canopy to block the worst of the west sun. The light hits the pavement, not the glass.”
Aldridge stops clicking his pen.
I didn't brief Tom on the solar modeling. That detail lived in a technical appendix I sent two weeks ago.
Aldridge writes something down on his notepad. He circles it.
Tom is still looking at him. Not at me. Not checking if he got the numbers right. He went looking for it himself.
Aldridge writes a short line. Caps the pen. "Good."
That's all he gives us. But his folder closes.
In the hallway, the Developer shakes both our hands. His grip is firm.
"You two are a powerhouse," he says. "Exactly what this project needs."
A powerhouse.
I don't look at Tom, but I feel him glance at me.
Richard is standing behind him, already typing on his phone. That means we’re good. When my boss is unhappy, he stops typing and stares at you until you stop talking. Today, he doesn't even look up.
Tom glances at me. The corner of his mouth lifts—just a little. A small, private signal.
I smile back and zip my portfolio case closed.
My hands are steady now, but my brain is already three steps ahead.
