The art gives a soft, welcoming quality to the polished reception area, as does the coffee bar that stands off to one side, silently inviting guests to help themselves, and then take a seat on the black leather sofa. A smattering of magazines covers a coffee table, the topics ranging from finance to science to sports to celebrity. Off to the side, a foosball table adds a bit of whimsy.
A reception desk dominates the room, its surface cleared of everything except an appointment calendar and a phone. At the moment, it is unmanned. I’m wondering if Damien doesn’t keep a receptionist working on Saturdays when a tall, lithe brunette appears in the hallway leading off to the left. She smiles at us, revealing perfect teeth. “Mr. Rosenfeld,” she says, holding out her hand. “I’m Ms. Peters, Mr. Stark’s weekend assistant. I’d like to welcome you and your team to the penthouse. Mr. Stark is very much looking forward to your presentation.”
“Thank you,” Carl says. He looks a little intimidated. Behind me, Brian and Dave are a cacophony of shifting feet and rustling clothes. They are definitely a little intimidated.
Ms. Peters leads us down a wide hallway to the right and into a conference room so huge that NFL teams could practice there. It’s then that I realize that the penthouse office takes up a full half of the top story. The elevator rose in the center of the building, and the side we’re on is roughly shaped like a rectangle, with the reception area in the middle, the conference room on one side, and Stark’s office on the other.
But that means that there is an entire half a story behind us. Does Stark’s office flow into that space as well? Is some other CEO subletting from Stark?
I’m not sure why I’m so curious, but I am, and so I ask Ms. Peters about the building’s layout.
“You’re right,” she says. “The office area of the penthouse takes up only half the square footage. The rest of the space constitutes one of Mr. Stark’s private residences. We call it the Tower Apartment.”
“Oh,” I say, wondering how many residences Damien Stark has. I don’t ask, though. I’ve already pushed the bounds of nosiness.
Ms. Peters points out the hidden wet bar built into one wall. “It’s fully stocked. Help yourself to orange juice, coffee, water, soda. Or if you need it to calm your nerves, you’re more than welcome to have something stronger.” She says the last with a smile, her voice full of humor. But honestly, at the moment I’m thinking that a double shot of bourbon might be just the ticket.
“I’ll leave you to set up,” Ms. Peters says. “If you need anything, just buzz me. Mr. Stark is finishing a call. I expect he’ll join you in ten minutes.”
It turns out to be twelve. Twelve long minutes during which I alternate between working feverishly to set up our showcase and worrying nervously about how I’ll react when I see him again.
And then the twelve minutes are over and Damien is striding into the conference area. The moment he enters the space, the air shifts. This is his territory, and though he doesn’t say a word, power and authority seem to cling to him, and the two men who enter behind him are little more than afterthoughts. Every movement is controlled, every glance has purpose. There can be no doubt that Damien Stark is the one in charge, and I feel a strange little surge of pride that this exceptional man not only wanted me, but has touched me so intimately.