The words hollow me out. My pulse hammers. I should get up.
I should run.
But I don’t.
“Work isn’t about feelings,” I say, forcing the words flat. “So whatever you think you’re feeling—swallowit.”
His jaw ticks once. Then, like a wall slamming down, his tone hardens.
“Let’s go over what you sent.”
I wait for a beat as he watches me. “You didn’t read what I sent in the email?”
“I reviewed it. I didn’t read it. Iexpecteda presentation, punctualityat lunchso you could recap.”
“Right, okay.”
I nod, take a breath and reach for the folder even though my hands are still trembling slightly. I hand it to him, pointing to the page I marked in yellow.
“I cross-referenced the zoning archives with historic registries and noticed a clause that stood out,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady.
He takes the file. Doesn’t look at me. Just flips through it and skims.
I watch his eyes flick back and forth, cold, detached.
But I see it.
That flicker.
A pause.
I press on, “There’s a line in the supplemental zoning clause; section 3.4b. It was quietly filed five years ago but never activated, likely overlooked. If it’s tied to environmental reinvestment or community innovation, the city will fast-track variances.”
He doesn’t react. Just keeps flipping pages.
“I double-checked it with the property tax logs. The Parker Building qualifies. You could bypass most of the red tape if you file before the quarter closes.”
I stop talking, realizing how fast I’m rambling.
He says nothing.
The silence thickens.
I shift in my chair.
“Sorry, I know that’s not really enough. I just saw the discrepancy when I was going through the investor packet, and I thought it might help—”
“You thought?”
His voice cuts me off.
Quiet.
Sharp.
I blink. “Yes. I-I thought that even if you’re not final on what you want to use the building for this could still fast track your renovation.”
He finally looks up.