Chapter 3 #2
"We're finalizing that this week. I had Vertex Design Group lined up—Amanda Cho was leading the team. They breached contract this morning for a conflicting opportunity in Dubai. I'm vetting replacements now."
Richard's expression sharpens slightly.
"This morning?"
"This morning. But I build contingencies into every timeline. We'll have a replacement by end of week and design concepts within two weeks."
"That's aggressive," Anna says.
"That's necessary. December isn't negotiable."
They exchange glances—the kind of silent communication that happens between people who've worked together long enough to read nuance.
"We appreciate the transparency," Richard says.
"But we'll need confirmation on the designer before we move forward with the next tranche of funding. Fifty million is contingent on seeing this project properly resourced."
"Understood. You'll have confirmation by Friday."
We spend the next forty minutes walking through financials, projected ROI, market comparisons against similar Tribeca developments.
Anna asks about cost per square foot. One of the analysts wants to see absorption rate projections.
I have answers for all of it—this is what I do, this is the work I've put in before this meeting ever happened.
By the time we wrap at 9:20, I can see the interest solidifying into commitment.
"We'll be in touch by the end of week," Richard says, shaking my hand at the door.
"Assuming you have that designer locked down."
"I will."
They leave, and I return to my office. Marcus is waiting.
"How'd it go?"
"Fine. But I need that designer list as soon as possible."
"I'll prioritize it," he replies firmly.
I check my watch. 9:47 AM. Tom Barrett wants his fifteen minutes about site delays, and then I need to get to Tribeca to walk the Sterling Tower space myself. The day is already moving fast, and the designer crisis is still unresolved. I pull up the Sterling Tower file and get back to work.
By 10 AM, I'm standing in the middle of what will eventually be Sterling Tower's fifteenth floor, and all I see is potential wrapped in steel and concrete.
The construction site is organized chaos—workers in hardhats navigating scaffolding, the screech of metal cutting through metal, the smell of fresh concrete mixing with summer heat baking everything under a cloudless Tribeca sky.
July in the city is relentless, the sun glaring off glass and steel until the whole site radiates heat.
Tom Barrett, my project manager, meets me at the construction elevator with blueprints rolled under his arm and sweat already darkening his shirt collar.
He's been with me for five years, ran major builds in Chicago before I recruited him, doesn't waste my time with problems that don't need my direct input.
"Steel deliveries are running two weeks behind," he says as we step into the industrial elevator that'll take us up to the upper floors.
"Supplier claims it's logistics, but I think they're juggling multiple projects and we're getting bumped in priority."
I scan the progress as we rise. The building's skeleton is taking shape—steel beams forming the structure of what will be fifty-six luxury residences, window frames installed but not glazed yet. We're at the halfway point, floor fifteen of thirty, and the pace is solid.
"Two weeks puts us behind schedule."
"Not if we compress installation on the back end. I've already talked to the glazing contractor about adding a second crew. We can make up the time if we move fast."
The elevator lurches to a stop. We step out onto raw concrete, the floor open to the sky where the roof will eventually be.
"Cost for the second crew?"
"Hundred and twenty thousand. But it keeps us on timeline."
I do the math instantly. A hundred twenty to stay on schedule versus the cost of delays cascading through every subsequent phase of the build—mechanical, interior finishing, staging. Easy decision.
"Approved. Make it happen."
Tom makes a note on his tablet. "Also, we need to finalize mechanical placements for the penthouse units before we can close up walls. HVAC, plumbing, electrical—everything needs exact positioning."
"Where are we on that?"
"Waiting on your designer. Can't finalize infrastructure without knowing furniture layouts, where built-ins go, all the details that determine where mechanical systems run."
Right. The designer I don't have anymore.
"I'm handling that this week."
"This week as in you'll have someone by Friday?"
"Friday."
Tom raises an eyebrow but doesn't push. He knows better than to question my timelines.
We walk through the space—the raw floors, exposed ductwork overhead, window openings that frame views of the Hudson River and the New Jersey skyline beyond.
The building is taking shape exactly as I envisioned it, steel and glass rising from the Tribeca streets, claiming space in one of Manhattan's most competitive real estate markets.
"Penthouse level," Tom says, gesturing upward.
"You want to see it?"
"Yes."
We take the construction elevator up another fifteen floors. When we step out onto the thirtieth floor, the view opens up—unobstructed views across the river, the Statue of Liberty visible in the distance, the full expanse of lower Manhattan spreading out to the east.
This is what people are paying eight million dollars for.
I walk to where the penthouse master suite will be. Fifty-five hundred square feet of raw space, concrete floors, steel beams overhead, window openings that will eventually be floor-to-ceiling glass.
"This space needs to feel warm," I say, looking out at the view.
"Luxury, yes. But livable. Not another sterile showroom that looks good in photos and feels cold in person."
"That's a designer problem," Tom says.
"Everything's a designer problem until I find the right one."
Tom grins slightly. "Picky?"
"Selective."
My phone buzzes. I pull it out—text from Fletcher.
Fletcher: Still on for noon? Courts are reserved. Prepare to get destroyed.
I almost smile.
Knox: I don't get destroyed. See you at noon.
Fletcher: We'll see about that.
I pocket the phone and turn back to Tom.
"What else?"
We spend the next twenty minutes walking the lower floors, discussing window installation timelines, reviewing lobby finishes, checking progress against the schedule I have memorized down to the day.
The amenity floors—twenty-eight and twenty-nine—are framed out, space allocated for the gym, pool, spa, sauna.
Everything is moving. Nothing is standing still.
By 10:52, I've seen what I need to see.
"Good work," I tell Tom.
"Keep the pressure on the steel supplier. I want that delivery commitment locked down by Wednesday."
"You got it, boss."
I leave the site, hardhat in hand, and head for the street where Victor is waiting with the Bentley at the curb. The sun is brutal, heat shimmering off the pavement, but the car's interior is cool and dark when I slide into the back seat.
"Back to the office?" Victor asks.
I check my watch. 11:03 AM. Racquetball at noon. I need time to change at the club.
"The Printing House. I've got a game."
Victor nods and pulls into traffic, navigating through Tribeca's narrow streets toward the West Side Highway.
I lean back against the leather seat and close my eyes for thirty seconds. The designer situation is a problem, but it's solvable. Marcus will have that list by this afternoon. I'll review it, make a decision, and move forward.
The Printing House is exactly what it sounds like—a converted printing factory in the West Village that's been transformed into one of Manhattan's premier athletic clubs.
All exposed brick and industrial beams, floor-to-ceiling windows, and amenities that cater to people who can afford the five-figure annual membership.
I've been a member for six years. It's close to the Tribeca site, has excellent courts, and the locker rooms are never crowded at midday.
Victor drops me at the entrance at 11:52.
"I'll be nearby when you're ready, Mr. Sterling."
"Thanks. Probably an hour."
Inside, the front desk recognizes me immediately.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Sterling. Court three is reserved for you."
I head straight for the locker room, change into athletic shorts and a moisture-wicking shirt, lace up my court shoes. The familiar pre-game routine—stretching my shoulders, rolling my wrists, the mental shift from business mode to competition mode.
Fletcher's already on the court when I arrive, warming up with practice serves that hit the front wall with satisfying cracks.
He's in his early forties, built like someone who played lacrosse in college and never quite let go of the athlete mentality.
His wife Sarah is six months pregnant, which he mentions approximately every third conversation, usually with a mix of excitement and terror.
"There he is," Fletcher calls out, grinning.
"Thought maybe you'd chicken out."
"When have I ever chickened out?"
"There's a first time for everything." He tosses me the ball.
"You're serving first. Try not to embarrass yourself."
I catch it, test the weight.
"You're going to regret that confidence."
"We'll see."
The game starts fast. Fletcher's competitive, always has been, and he's good enough to make me work for it. We've been playing together since business school—Yale, nearly twenty years ago—and we know each other's patterns, strengths, weaknesses.
I serve hard, low, aiming for the corner. The ball ricochets off the front wall at an angle that forces Fletcher to scramble. He gets to it, returns it high. I'm already positioned, waiting, and I send it back with enough spin that it dies in the corner.
"One-zero," I say.
"Lucky shot."
"Skill."