Chapter 3 #3
We volley back and forth, the rhythm building—serve, return, the sharp crack of the ball against wall, the squeak of shoes on polished floor.
Fletcher plays aggressive, trying to catch me off-guard with unexpected angles.
I play calculated, waiting for him to overcommit before exploiting the opening.
At 10-8, my lead, Fletcher catches his breath between points. "You're playing angry today."
"I'm playing to win."
"Same thing with you."
He's not wrong. I play everything like it matters, because it does. Even a midday racquetball game against my business partner is an opportunity to prove something—to him, to myself, to the part of my brain that never stops calculating who's ahead and who's falling behind.
I win the first game 21-18. Close enough that Fletcher can't claim I wasn't trying, decisive enough that there's no question about who's better.
"Best of three?" he asks, wiping sweat from his forehead with his shirt.
"Obviously."
We grab water, catch our breath for two minutes, and reset. The second game follows the same pattern—intense rallies, neither of us giving an inch, the score climbing in tandem until I pull ahead at 15-13 and don't let him close the gap.
Final score: 21-15.
"You're a bastard," Fletcher says, breathing hard, hands on his knees.
"You're just slow."
"I'm measured."
"That's what slow people call it."
He laughs, shaking his head. "Sarah's right. You're unbearable when you win."
"Sarah's never seen me lose."
"Neither have I, actually. It's deeply annoying."
We head for the locker room, both of us sweating through our shirts, the post-game endorphin high settling in. This is the part I need—the physical exertion, the competition, the brief escape from the relentless pace of development schedules and investor meetings.
The locker room is nearly empty, just us and one other guy at the far end who's on his phone. Fletcher heads for the showers. I grab a towel, sit on the bench, and check my own phone.
Two emails from Marcus. One from my legal team about the Vertex contract penalties. A text from James confirming drinks tonight..
Fletcher emerges from the shower, towel around his waist, hair dripping.
"So. How was the Hamptons this weekend? That big shindig your parents throw every year?"
I don't look up from my phone. "Same as always."
"That bad?"
"It's a garden party with two hundred people I mostly don't care about, making small talk about developments and market trends while pretending we're all having a wonderful time."
"Sounds delightful."
"It's tolerable." I set my phone down.
"Saw Ted Donovan from Blackstone. He's looking at financing options for a project in Brooklyn. Might be worth a conversation."
"Ted's solid. Anyone else interesting?"
"The usual suspects. David Morrison from Goldman. Katherine Vance—she's running that new private equity fund focused on real estate. My father spent half the night holding court about Sterling Commercial's Brooklyn project."
Fletcher grabs his clothes from his locker.
"And you?"
"I made an appearance. Said hello to my mother. Shook my father's hand. Left after twenty minutes."
"Twenty minutes? That's generous for you."
"Diane asked me to come. I came."
Fletcher pulls on his shirt. "You talk to Rowan?"
"No."
"At all?"
"We nodded at each other across the tent. That's the extent of our interaction."
He doesn't push, which I appreciate. Fletcher knows the history—knows Conrad wanted me to take over Sterling Commercial, knows I walked away and built something competing directly with the family firm, knows the rift that created isn't something that gets fixed over canapes and champagne at garden parties.
"Well," Fletcher says after a moment, "at least you showed up. That's something."
"Diane seems to think so."
He sits on the bench across from me, lacing his shoes.
"Speaking of showing up—how's the Sterling Tower project? I saw that email this morning about Vertex."
Right. Back to business.
"The design team bailed for a Dubai contract. Effective immediately."
Fletcher winces. "That's brutal timing."
"It's manageable. I've got Marcus compiling a shortlist. I'll review it this afternoon, make a decision, and move forward."
"Timeline still viable?"
"Six months to model unit installation. December investor tours. It's tight, but doable if I find the right designer this week."
"This week?" Fletcher raises an eyebrow.
"That's aggressive."
"The Steinberg Group made their next funding tranche contingent on having a confirmed designer. I told them I’ll have a new team by Friday."
"So you have three days."
"I have three days."
Fletcher shakes his head, grinning slightly.
"You know most people would panic in this situation."
"I'm not most people."
"No. You're really not."
He finishes tying his shoes, stands, grabs his gym bag from the locker.
"Drinks tonight at The Henley. 7pm. James is coming. You should actually relax for once."
"I relax."
"You compete. There's a difference." He slings the bag over his shoulder.
"But seriously. Come tonight. Sarah's driving me insane with nursery paint samples. I need adult conversation that doesn't involve the merits of 'Gentle Cream' versus 'Whisper White.'"
"Those sound like the same color."
"THAT'S WHAT I SAID." He laughs.
"See you at 7. And Knox?"
"Yeah?"
"Find a good designer. Don't just settle for whoever's available. This project deserves the best."
"I know."
He leaves, and I'm alone in the locker room. I sit there for a moment, towel around my neck, looking at nothing in particular.
Fletcher's right. This project deserves the best. Which means the shortlist Marcus is compiling better have someone on it who can execute vision without compromise, who understands that luxury doesn't mean cold, who can deliver on a six-month timeline without cutting corners.
I stand, head for the showers, let the hot water work through the tension still lingering in my shoulders from the game.
By the time I'm dressed and heading back to the car, it's 1:47 PM. Victor is waiting at the curb with the Bentley.
"Back to the office, Mr. Sterling?"
"Yes. And I'll need the car again at six-thirty tonight."
"Of course."
I settle into the back seat, pull out my phone, and text Marcus.
Knox: How's that designer list coming?
His response is almost immediate.
Marcus: Just finished. Ten firms. I’ll have it on your desk this afternoon.
Knox: Good. I'll review it this afternoon.
I pocket my phone and look out the window as Victor navigates through midday traffic.
The afternoon moves like it always does—fast, relentless, no breathing room between one thing and the next.
I'm back at the office by 2:15, still riding the post-racquetball endorphin high, but there's no time to sit with it. Marcus has already lined up the rest of my day in fifteen-minute increments, each block color-coded on my calendar like a military operation.
Lunch is a salad Marcus ordered from the place downstairs—grilled chicken, mixed greens, something with vinaigrette that I eat at my desk while reviewing contract amendments for the Queens project.
I taste none of it. Food is fuel, nothing more, and right now I need fuel to get through the next four hours.
At 2:30 PM sharp, my PR team calls. Melissa, the account director who's been trying to get me on magazine covers for the past three years.
"Knox. Hi. I'll keep this brief because I know you're busy."
"Appreciate that."
"Manhattan Magazine wants you for their October issue. 'The Developers Reshaping New York.' It's a cover feature. Full spread, interview, photo shoot at one of your properties. It's incredible exposure."
I lean back in my chair, already knowing my answer.
"No."
"Knox—"
"The building is the story, Melissa. Not me. If Manhattan Magazine wants to feature Sterling Tower, I'll give them access to the site, the renderings, the vision. But I'm not doing a photo shoot."
There's a pause on the other end. She's heard this before.
"They specifically want you. The developer behind the vision. Readers want to know who's building these spaces."
"Then they can read the architectural plans. My answer is no."
Another pause. "Can I at least tell them you'll think about it?"
"You can tell them I appreciate the interest, but my position hasn't changed. The work speaks for itself."
We end the call. I know she'll try again in a few months with a different publication, a different angle. The answer will be the same.
I don't need my face on magazine covers. Rowan does that—loves the press, the profiles, the validation that comes from being recognized. I build buildings. That's enough.
By 2:47, I'm on a call with the Dubai investors, walking them through timeline adjustments for a project that's been delayed by permitting issues. They're frustrated. I'm diplomatic but firm—delays happen, we adapt, the final product will be worth the wait.
The call runs long. When I finally hang up at 3:30, I have eighteen minutes before my CFO arrives to review Q3 projections.
I use the time to return emails. Approve a vendor contract. Review updated renderings for a Brooklyn townhouse conversion.
At 3:50, Sarah—my CFO, appears in my doorway with her laptop and a stack of financial reports.
"Ready?" she asks.
"Let's do it."
We spend the next forty minutes deep in numbers—revenue projections, development costs, cash flow analysis for the next two quarters.
Sterling Tower is on track. The Brooklyn project is slightly over budget but still within acceptable margins.
The Queens ground-breaking is scheduled for September, permits approved, financing locked.
Everything is moving. Everything is on schedule.
By 4:37, she's gone, and I'm alone in my office with the familiar hum of the city outside my windows and the weight of a hundred decisions still waiting to be made.
Marcus appears shortly with a file in his hand.
"The designer list," he says, holding a leather folder.