Chapter 13 Sam
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 sun hits 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.
The elevator is empty. I lean back against the wall and watch the numbers count down to the lobby.
We did it.
The Board approved. Aldridge capped his pen. The Developer called us a powerhouse. And Tom credited my design in front of the people writing the checks.
I walk straight to the coffee cart in the lobby. I order a flat white and stand there while the barista steams the milk. The counter is sticky. The line is loud. I don't check my email. I don't make a to-do list.
I just drink my coffee and let myself feel it for thirty seconds. We won. This round.
By the time I get back to my desk, the feeling is already fading.
I set my bag down and wake up my laptop. The meeting minutes are already in my inbox. Timestamp: 10:14 AM. Seven minutes after the vote.
I open it, expecting a standard compliance check. My hand stops.
The last file is labeled: Perimeter Activity — Follow-Up. Site: Harbor District.
It’s the same alert I read two weeks ago. I already knew Tom was the one who triggered it. But today, for the first time, I look at the CC list at the top of the finalized email.
Sloane Rafferty. Richard. The Developer's Office.
My chest goes tight. All three of them knew. Before I ever met him at the gate, before I ever shook his hand, they knew he was a massive liability.
I switch tabs.
Tom's hero shot fills my screen. The one Aldridge just approved. The one going into the bid package. It’s a perfect angle—high, wide, catching the light in a way you simply can't get from the street.
I stand up and go to the window.
In the boardroom, Tom answered questions effortlessly. Point-two-three. Thirty percent. Summer solstice. He was brilliant. The developer literally called us a dream team. And they just unanimously approved his work.
I look back at the screen. I am completely trapped by how good he is.
My thumb presses into the edge of the desk until it hurts. I scroll back to the CC line on the compliance report. Richard. Sloane.
This wasn’t just Tom making a reckless choice. This was my bosses seeing his stunt, deciding the photos were worth the legal risk, and intentionally hiding it from me.
They put him with me on purpose.
They saw a brilliant liability, handed him to the woman who never breaks protocol, and let me absorb the risk without telling me.
I click back to the hero shot.
This morning, I stood next to him while billionaires nodded at that photo. The room went quiet when it hit the screen.
Heck, even I looked at it and thought the same thing Aldridge did.
It's better than anything I could have captured.
I watched Aldridge stop tapping his pen. I let Tom take the question. I let the room believe we were a buttoned-up, airtight unit.
But my name is on the deck.
If he does it again—if he climbs something he shouldn’t, if he gets caught, if someone gets hurt—this won’t just be "the photographer took a risk."
It’ll be "Why didn’t Sam Morgan control her team?"
I need the Boss Babes' help.
Hypothetical. What do you do if someone is excellent at the work but ignores protocol?
Three dots appear instantly.
Nadia
Define protocol.
Site access. Pre-hire.
Liv:
Is this the photographer?
Nadia
Obviously.
Liv
Was it dangerous?
Sam
No.
Priya
Then stop building a case file in your head and ask him.
Priya is right. She usually is.
Priya
He’s still cute though, right.
Not helpful.
I set the phone face-down.
She's always right in the specific, annoying way that means she's identified what you've already half-decided and won't let you avoid it.
So why am I shopping around for another answer?
If I ask him and he shrugs—if he tells me the shot was worth it, if he laughs it off—then I know I can't trust him. I know he’s the kind of person who thinks rules are suggestions, and I know I’m going to spend the next six months cleaning up his mess.
And if I ask him and he has a good answer?
Then I have to decide if I believe him.
I pick up the phone, but I don't unlock it. I hit Print on my laptop.
The machine in the corner whirs to life. Chk-chk-chk. Paper slides into the tray. One page. Two.
I walk over and pick them up. The paper is still warm.
My phone buzzes against the wood of the desk. It’s loud in the quiet office.
Tom
Still on for tomorrow? 5:30 is early. Don't make me feel bad about the alarm.
I stare at the screen.
I shouldn't be smiling.
I stare at the screen. The tone is easy. Teasing. He remembers I run at 5:30. He remembers I hate missing it.
But the paper in my hand is proof of the one fact I've been ignoring since we almost kissed in the dark: he is still the guy who climbed a fire escape rather than wait for a key. My entire professional reputation is tied to a man who thinks rules don't apply to him.
I type back.
See you there. I'll bring the coffee.
I drop the phone in my bag. Then I take the printout. I fold it once. I slide it into the front pocket of my bag, right next to the site keys.
One is for access. The other is for evidence.
I zip the bag shut. The sound is final.
I'm not going to the site tomorrow to chase the dawn light. I'm going to confront him. I need to see if the man who defended my design in the boardroom is willing to be honest with me when nobody else is watching.
I pick up my bag and walk out.