“The lines are delicate,” I say, dramatically brushing my hand over the surface of the dining table. “The delicacy is understated but it’s sensual and classy too. It elicits something on you, doesn’t it? And, best of all, the size is adjustable.” I demonstrate by folding the ends of the table, carefully sliding them into the barely noticeable partitions on the center.

“IIn a studio apartment, you have to know how to leverage size,” I continue. “And with a table like this, we can quickly find a lot of room in our small studio apartment, can’t we? I’d go as far as say we’d have enough room to tango.”

That draws a few laughs, and I throw Austin a quick glance, the frown on his face making me smile even more. There are bags under his bloodshot eyes, and even though he’s still impeccably dressed, I can tell that he spent the whole night trying to finish his project. For all his talk of superiority and confidence, he’s starting to falter.

And the world is made right once more.

I was feeling a bit down after that night in his apartment, but there’s nothing quite like winning a battle to lift your spirits. And even though Austin and Willis still have to present their dining table, I think I’ve done enough to secure the lead this time around.

“Well, that was an interesting presentation, Tess,” Taylor tells me, joining the audience as everyone gives me a round of applause. “We’re all very impressed, as always. Now, Willy, the stage is all yours.”

As I return to my seat, a spring in my step, Willis clears his throat and jumps out from his seat. As he stands in front of both the board and the audience, he nervously runs one hand through his hair, a cowlick immediately showing on his prissy hair.

“I think you’re going to enjoy what I brought here today,” he starts. For the first time in the competition, he actually sounds confident. I’m curious to see what someone like him feels confident about. Dashing toward his table, still covered in the usual white sheet, he then turns toward the audience.

“Have you ever thought ‘gee, I need to unwind after a stressful day’? And then you get home, sit inside your studio apartment and realize that there’s nothing for you to do? Well, today I bring a solution to that.” With a quick gesture, he pulls the sheet back to reveal—

Oh, is he actually being serious right now?

“I call it the dinner-pong table!” He declares rather dramatically, waving one hand at his green table. It folds on the center, and has white markings all over it. Fishing a net out from his pocket, Willis stretches it across the center of the table and then one of his helpers’ hands him a red ping-pong racket.

I place my hand over my mouth, trying to stop myself from bursting out laughing. Is this his idea of a classy dining table for the most expensive building in New York?

But he’s not done yet.

“But what if you don’t have a spouse or friend to play with?” He continues, and then rushes around the table, releasing a few latches underneath it. Pushing up one half of the table, he then races back to his initial position and fishes a small ball from his pocket. “Then no worries! Because the dinner-pong table supports a single player!”

To demonstrate, he bounces the ball off the table and swats it with his racket. It hits the raised half of the table, and then bounces back to him. For the next thirty seconds, the whole room sits in silence as Willis plays ping-pong against himself, his expression of pure concentration almost admirable.

“That’s...impressive, Wally,” Taylor tells him, reaching behind him and laying one hand on his shoulder, forcing him to stop. That distracts Willis, and the ball actually bounces back against his forehead—but that doesn’t stop him from trying to swat it anyway. He swings on his heels fast, bringing the racket up and around, and Taylor ducks under his arm right on time.

I watch the rest happen in slow-motion.

Willis’s fingers slowly become looser around the handle of the racket, and the damn thing flies across the conference room in a wild arch, straight toward the board. Everyone ducks, but the VP isn’t fast enough—the racket hits him straight in the face, and blood starts gushing from his nose a split second later.

“OUT!” The vice president roars, going up to his feet as he clutches his bloody nose. “NOW!”

“But,” Willis stammers, “I still haven’t talked about the drawers!” In a nervous rush, he starts opening the drawers hiding under his table. Then he starts removing a fucking mountain of board games from inside them, stacking them on top of the table.

“I think that’s enough, Waldo,” Taylor tells him gently, patting him on the back. “He’ll calm down later,” he adds, pointing with his thumb toward the VP. “But for now I think it’s best you leave. It’s Austin’s turn anyway.”

Dejected, the poor guy drags his feet out of the conference room, his eyes downcast.

“What the actual fuck?” I hear Austin whisper to himself, shaking his head as he walks past me. He buttons his jacket up, then heads toward the front of the room, ready to do his presentation.

“Thank you, Taylor,” he says with a quick nod, then moves straight toward the Oakmont corner. Without any introductory speech, he simply reveals his table and then turns his attention back to the audience.

“Solid,” he slaps down his hand on the tabletop. “And powerful.”

Well, shit. Not a dramatic entrance, but he’s sure as hell his being dramatic about the table. Although, to be fair, he absolutely nailed it with his choice of adjectives—his table seems to be the most robust in the whole room, and its straight lines add a certain powerful element to it. It would look right at home in the house of someone that fancied himself powerful. Which covers, of course, most billionaires in the world.

I remain confident, though. Despite seeing a glimpse of Austin’s genius on his work, I can already think of a few improvements to what he did. I can tell that he only came up with it at the eleventh hour. As such, he probably had to rush through the project, and didn’t have the time to sand off the rough edges.

“Very well,” Taylor says with an appraising nod. He turns toward the board, all members busy scribbling down on their notepads, and then he walks up to confer with them. A few seconds later and he turns around, hands on his hips as he stares at each and every one of the competitors.

“Austin,” he starts, and my heart picks up the pace. Am I going to lose this one? “Your design left quite an impression on everyone. Despite that, we can only award you five points. Ms. Armstrong win this round.”

Fucking right I win this round.

25 to 20, and I’m just getting started!