Release Me

off my game completely.
    I stop worrying long enough to sign in at the security desk, which is really more of a console, sleek and efficient. Two guards sit behind it, one typing something and the other efficiently taking and scanning our drivers’ licenses.
    “All checked in,” the guard, whose nametag reads
Joe
, says. “You’re cleared to the penthouse,” he adds, handing us each a guest badge.
    “The penthouse?” Carl repeats. “Our meeting’s at Stark Applied Technology.” The company is one of many owned by Stark and housed in this building. Tech companies, charitable foundations, companies that do things I probably haven’t even thought about. I glance down at the list of business names on the backlit console. All of them, I realize, are somehow related to Stark International.In other words, all of them are related to Damien Stark. Whatever I thought I knew was wrong; I have no concept of the wealth and power that Mr. Damien Stark commands.
    “Yup, all the way up,” Joe is saying to Carl. “On Saturdays, Mr. Stark takes meetings in the penthouse conference room. Use the last elevator bank on the end. Here’s your card key to access the penthouse.”
    My nervousness returns in the elevator. And this time it’s not just about seeing Damien. It’s about the presentation, too. I latch onto that. Work nerves are much better than sex nerves.
    As Joe had said, we arrive at the penthouse quickly and smoothly. Carl and I are standing near the elevator doors when they open, with Brian and Dave behind us guiding the rolling cases that house all of our presentation materials. At first, I can only stand and gape. I’m staring at a stunning, yet comfortable, reception area.
    One wall is made entirely of glass and presents a magnificent vista of the hills of Pasadena. At least a dozen Impressionist paintings line the other walls, each simply framed so as to keep the focus on the art and not the package. Each is individually lit and together they present an array of nature scenes. Verdant fields. Sparkling lakes. Vibrant sunsets. Impressive mountain ranges.
    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