Chapter 42 Sam
Chapter forty-two
Sam
Four months of work comes down to a single vote at nine o'clock this morning.
I watch the red numbers tick down above the elevator doors, trying to pull air past the knot of anxiety sitting under my ribs. A simple Go/No-Go decision. That’s all it is. A decision that determines if everything I’ve done since September actually matters, or if it was a colossal waste of time.
My phone buzzes against my palm in rapid succession.
Priya
You've got this.
Nadia
Go show them what competence looks like.
Liv
Knock 'em dead.
I type back a quick I'm fine, even though my pulse is hammering against my throat.
I close my eyes and count backward from five. The elevator dings. The doors slide open.
I step outside and nearly walk straight into Tom.
My hand flies to my chest. "Tom! You scared me."
He grins. "Sorry. Morning."
"What are you doing here?"
"Escorting you to your office."
I blink at him. "You didn't have to do that."
He steps closer. His voice drops. "I know. But I couldn't do this in front of your office."
His arm slides around my back as he effortlessly tips me backward into a dramatic, sweeping dip. I let out a soft gasp of surprise, my hands instinctively flying up and sliding into his hair as his mouth covers mine.
I kiss him back, pulling him closer as the world tilts sideways. I forget where I am. I forget what building this is. I forget that I have a presentation in seventy-three minutes that will determine whether the last four months meant anything at all.
When he finally pulls back, I sway slightly.
His hand is still resting gently on my waist. "Still nervous?”
I blink. Once. Twice. My brain is trying to reconnect to my body. "I—what was I nervous about?"
The corner of his mouth lifts. "That's what I thought."
The knot in my chest has loosened. Not gone, but manageable. I can breathe again.
Tom steps back, lets his hand drop. "You're going to be incredible."
I nod. I don't trust my voice yet.
He gestures toward the door. "Subway?"
"Yeah," I say, "Subway."
***
"I'll take any questions you have."
I click to the final slide, lower the remote and look around the room. The floor-to-ceiling windows face east, and the sun cuts straight across the polished table, throwing hard shadows across the printed binders stacked in front of each Committee member.
I stand at the head of the table, waiting.
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."
"I have—"
"Nothing," Richard interrupts. "You have nothing that can't wait. Go home."
I nod. I don't argue.
We walk out together. At the elevator bank, Richard pauses and glances back. "Good work, Sam."
I take the elevator down alone.
***
I drop my bag on the floor next to my desk and sink into my chair.
The adrenaline is gone. My shoulders slump forward, and a heavy, bone-deep exhaustion settles into my spine. I stare at the blank screen of my phone, trying to make my fingers work.
I open a new group chat. Tom, Priya, Nadia, Liv.
It's a GO! ??
The responses come instantly.
Priya
I KNEW IT
Nadia
CALLED IT
Liv
Told you. Competence wins.
Tom
Proud of you.
I smile at the screen. My eyes are stinging. I blink hard and type back.
Drinks tonight? 6 PM? Fair warning—I'm too exhausted for more than one.
Priya
We'll take it.
Nadia
Where?
I name the bar two blocks from my apartment.
Tom
I'll bring Wren if that's okay.
I pause.
Perfect.
I set my phone down and lean back in my chair.
***
"Over here!"
Nadia's voice cuts through the crowded, loud hum of the bar. I weave past a waitress carrying a tray of pints and find her and Priya tucked into the big corner booth.
I slide onto the cracked leather bench, my coat still on. A second later, Liv appears out of the crowd, setting a pink pastry box in the middle of the table without ceremony. "The Margit and Tristan said congratulations," she says. “and Margit told me to remind you about the wall.”
I laugh. It comes out louder than I expected. "Of course she did."
Tom walks in at 6:10 with Wren trailing behind him. She's wearing her leather jacket and boots, hair pulled into a messy braid. She spots me and grins.
"There she is," Wren says. "The woman of the hour."
Tom sits beside me. His knee presses against mine under the table. I don't move away.
Priya raises her glass. "To Sam, for proving Castellano wrong and showing the Committee what actual competence looks like."
We clink glasses. I take a sip of wine.
The conversation shifts—Nadia is dramatically recounting a first date with a guy who brought his mother along because she "happened to be in town visiting," Liv is explaining the absolute horror of getting a phone call from her own mother asking for advice on setting up a Tinder profile, and Wren is laughing so hard she has to set down her beer.
Under the noise, Tom leans in close. His voice is low enough that only I can hear. "You were incredible today."
I glance at him. "You weren't there."
"I watched you build that presentation in the war room on four hours of sleep," he says. "I know it's true."
I squeeze his hand under the table. He squeezes back.
The fatigue is starting to settle into my bones now. My shoulders feel like they weigh twice what they do. I lean back against the booth and let the conversation wash over me.
At 7:45, Priya checks her phone and winces. "I have an early site walk tomorrow."
Nadia nods. "Same. Client call at seven."
Liv stands and pulls on her coat. "You did good, Sam. Really good."
The three of them gather their things. I stand and hug each of them in turn. Priya holds on an extra second. "Proud of you," she says quietly.
"Thank you," I whisper back.
They leave together, pushing through the door into the cold night with a chorus of goodbyes.
Wren finishes her beer and sets the glass down. She looks at me, then at Tom. "I should get going too. Subway's calling."
She stands, pulls on her jacket, then leans down and hugs me. "He's different with you," Wren says quietly, close to my ear. "Steadier. Thank you."
I pull back, startled. "I—"
But she's already smiling, already stepping away. "See you around, Sam."
She waves at Tom and walks out.
Tom and I sit in silence for a moment. The booth feels bigger now.
"Ready?" he asks.
I nod. "Yeah."
We walk out into the cold. I lean against Tom's side, heavy with wine and exhaustion, and he wraps an arm around my shoulders.
"You did it," he says.
"We did it," I correct.
"No." His voice is firm. "You did this. My photos helped, but this was yours."
I don't argue. I don't have the energy.
We reach my building. The stoop is lit by the streetlight, casting long shadows across the steps. I turn to face him.
"Thank you," I say. "For the kiss this morning. For being there tonight. For—" I pause. "For all of it."
Tom cups my face in his hands and kisses me softly. It's different from this morning—slower, gentler, no urgency behind it.
When he pulls back, he brushes his thumb across my cheekbone. "Text me when you're inside."
"I will."
He waits on the sidewalk while I climb the steps and unlock the door. I turn back once, wave. He waves back.
Inside, I kick off my shoes and drop my bag by the door, pull on an old t-shirt, and climb under the covers. As I pull the blankets up, I can still feel the faint pressure of Tom's thumb brushing across my cheekbone.
I pick up my phone one last time.
I'm inside. Goodnight.
The response comes three seconds later.
Goodnight, Sam. Sleep well.