Finally, the bell chimes and fifteen lights up.
The doors part, and I gesture for Mya to get out first. “After you, Ms. Jones.”
“Thank you, Mr. Miller.”
She steps past, poker face back on, and we peel off in opposite directions down the glass corridor, both pretending the static didn’t follow us out.Christ. Whatever that was needs to be buried for the rest of the day.
I walk into my office, drop my brief on the credenza, and head to the conference room. It’s already loud; two of our building partners, Lang and Pierce, are tag-teaming excuseswhen Griffin slips into the chair at my right, sleeves rolled up. He gives me a sideways nod.
The wall screen pings and Henson pops on from Vancouver, tie loosened, hotel art behind him.
“We can’t absorb those penalties,” Lang insists. “Your revisions pushed the timeline?—”
“My revisions kept your tower from shearing in high wind,” I say from the head chair. “You’re welcome.”
Pierce slides a folder across. “We’ll need W.H.M. to participate in liquidated damages?—”
Griffin taps the folder back with one knuckle. “You’ll need to participate in reading. Section 12.2 excludes safety-driven changes.”
On the screen, Henson lifts a brow. “And your procurement window closed before those revisions locked. You cheaped out on glazing, gentlemen. That’s not market conditions. That’s a gamble.”
Pierce bristles. “We value-engineered per?—”
“Correction,” Griffin says, calmly. “You gambled and lost.”
I look from one brother to the other. Before the skyscrapers, the suits, and the glass office with a view, I was hauling demo debris at dawn. None of us grew up rich, but we grew up solid. Our parents taught us to hustle and build from the ground up. W.H.M. wasn’t born from a trust fund or a loan—it came from sweat equity, second jobs, and the kind of risk that keeps you up at night. We built this company brick by brick. So I don’t take it lightly when people try to take me for a ride.
“You’re asking the wrong house for charity,” I finish. “Here’s what you’ll do: lock your steel order by noon, revert to the approved glazing spec, and stop pretending you can save a dime by spending a dollar.”
Henson holds up a single page to his webcam. “Your homework. Send us a revised schedule by three p.m., weekendsincluded. If you want W.H.M. to babysit, add a zero to the retainer. Otherwise, do your jobs.”
Lang starts, “We?—”
I lift a hand and tap the contract. “Meeting adjourned.”
Chairs scrape, and they file out, chastened. Griffin leans back, mouth ticking. Onscreen, Henson watches them go.
“Should’ve brought cupcakes,” he says dryly. “Everyone takes bad news better with frosting.”
Griffin huffs a laugh. “Or bourbon.”
Henson’s gaze swings back to me. “So… How’s it going with the new junior designer?”
Griffin muffles another laugh into a cough.
“Good,” I snap. “Why?”
Griffin studies me like I offended him. “Only that you go taut like a tripline when she’s around.”
“I don’t.” It’s the opposite. Somehow, I’m less taut with her in the room, as if the noise drops and my breathing evens out—even if my face refuses to admit it. I won’t tell these idiots that.
“Sure,” Henson says, voice dry. “And I don’t eat carbs.”
Griffin tips his head. “She’s sharp and holds her ground. You like that.”
“I like competence,” I retort.
“Uh huh.Competence.” Henson mimes quotation marks.