Nobody told Brennan to stop.
By five thirty, Iris had completed the Eastwood Heights memo.
Claire reviewed it silently.
Then reread three pages.
“This is good.”
“Thank you.”
“I mean really good.”
Iris nodded.
Claire hesitated.
Then:
“About Brennan.”
Iris waited.
Claire lowered her voice.
“He doesn’t usually spend this much time on this floor.”
“Lucky me.”
Claire almost smiled.
Then became serious.
“He gets bored.”
“That’s the explanation?”
“No.”
Claire rubbed her forehead.
“It’s not an excuse.”
“Then why are you telling me?”
“Because if you push back publicly, it gets worse.”
Iris stared.
“For who?”
Claire looked away.
“That’s exactly the problem.”
That night, Iris sat in her studio apartment in Harlem staring at her father’s contact on her phone.
The apartment was small because she insisted on paying the rent herself.
One main room.
Galley kitchen.
Tiny bathroom.
Old radiator.
The building was owned by someone entirely unrelated to Irving Holdings, another condition Iris had imposed.
If she was going to live on an entry-level budget, she wanted it to be real.
Grant texted at 8:17.
First day?
Iris typed:
Educational.
Three dots appeared.
That sounds ominous.
She stared.
Could tell him.
Could end it.
Instead:
Work is interesting.
Grant sent:
Call if needed.
She put the phone facedown.
Then opened her laptop.
Raymond Beck, vice president of acquisitions, had posted an optional intern research assignment that afternoon.
Brooklyn waterfront redevelopment.
Preliminary review.
Iris downloaded the public materials before leaving.
She began reading.
She stayed awake until nearly two.
The proposed acquisition covered an old industrial waterfront parcel undergoing conversion to mixed-use residential and commercial development.
Purchase and redevelopment exposure exceeded three hundred million dollars.
Iris checked zoning.
Flood maps.
Transportation access.
Community objections.
School capacity.
Comparable valuations.
Environmental notices.
She loved this part.
Not the glamour.
The contradictions.
Real estate always told two stories.
The brochure.
And the file.
By seven thirty the next morning, Iris was back at her desk.
At nine fifteen, she carried a bound preliminary report to Raymond Beck’s office.
Beck was fifty-six, quiet, and had worked for the company nineteen years.
He wore glasses low on his nose and still printed financial models because, according to him, “spreadsheets become more honest on paper.”
He looked at the cover.
“You did this?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Last night.”
He opened it.
Read the first page.
Then the second.
His expression changed.
“You found the waterfront zoning covenant.”
“Yes.”
“Our initial outside memo missed that.”
“I thought it affected the retail buildout.”
“It does.”
He flipped farther.
“Transit-capacity risk.”
“Yes.”
Beck looked at her.
“Who trained you?”
Iris smiled slightly.
“A very demanding landlord.”
He assumed she meant a former boss.
“May I keep this?”
“Of course.”
“I’m sending parts to the acquisition team.”
“Okay.”
“And Iris?”
“Yes?”
“Good work.”
That one sentence nearly erased the previous day.
Nearly.
She left Beck’s office.