Miracle in Midtown (Part 3)

The boardroom on the 88th floor of The Helix was decorated in what interior designers call "power minimalism"—all sleek surfaces, uncomfortable chairs, and a view that reminded everyone present just how far they could fall, which, given the current trajectory of their investment, seemed increasingly likely.

"Gentlemen, ladies," began Walter Kensington III, majority shareholder and chairman of the Helix Investment Group. "We are facing what the youngsters in PR call a 'challenging optics situation.'"

Six other board members sat around the enormous glass table, their reflections looking back at them with the same expressions of barely contained panic. Miranda Chen, head of asset management, tapped furiously on her tablet. Jackson Reynolds, the building's architect, stared moodily out the window at his creation—a building that was supposed to redefine the Manhattan skyline but instead had become a $1.8 billion punchline.

"Challenging optics?" Elliot Blackstone, a hedge fund manager whose voice always sounded like he was gargling with gravel, threw his pen across the table. "Walt, we're hemorrhaging money. We've got religious fanatics camped out in our lobby. The New York Post is calling us 'The Heavenly Helix,' and not in a good way. And now we've got a drunken window washer claiming divine visions on the 47th floor—the exact floor we're about to retrofit because the glass is warping from design flaws!"

"Actually," Reynolds muttered, "the glass is not warping. It's an intentional optical illusion created by the—"

"Can it, Reynolds!" Blackstone snapped. "Your 'intentional optical illusions' are why we can't lease half the building. Tenants get vertigo looking out the windows!"

Walter cleared his throat, his silver hair catching the morning light in a way that his PR team had once described as "trustworthy illumination."

"I believe," he said with practiced calm, "that we may be looking at this situation... incorrectly."

Miranda Chen looked up from her tablet. "The Archdiocese of New York has released a statement saying they 'take all claims of divine apparition seriously' but are 'proceeding with caution.' They've appointed an investigative committee. Their press release actually used the phrase 'alleged miracle at The Helix Tower.'"

"Alleged miracle," repeated Marjorie Williams, the board's oldest member and the only one who remembered the last three real estate crashes firsthand. "Do you know what happened to that sandwich shop in New Jersey where someone saw Jesus in a grilled cheese?"

"They sold the sandwich on eBay for $28,000," offered Raj Patel, their CFO.

"No, after that. The place became a tourist trap. Lines around the block. They're still in business fifteen years later."

Walter Kensington's eyes narrowed, the gears of opportunism turning behind his carefully Botoxed forehead. "Are you suggesting what I think you're suggesting, Marjorie?"

"What if," said Marjorie, leaning forward, her ancient pearl necklace clacking against the glass table, "our PR problem is actually a PR solution?"

The room fell silent as the implication rippled through the air like expensive cologne.

"You can't be serious," Jackson Reynolds finally managed. "You want to market a divine apparition? In my building?"

"Your building that no one wants to occupy," Blackstone reminded him.

Raj Patel, ever the numbers man, was already calculating. "Religious tourism is a multi-billion dollar industry. Santiago de Compostela... Lourdes... Fatima..."

"The Helix," Walter completed the thought, testing how it sounded. "Manhattan's newest sacred site."

"We'd need the window washer to play along," Miranda pointed out. "What's his nam