Gone Was His Jasmine

At an Architecture Awards ceremony in New York, the ballroom of a luxury hotel located in Midtown Manhattan was filled to the brim with business elites. They fashioned themselves in all varieties of luxury name brands.

Ethan stood underneath the spotlight with a deep-set look in his eyes, eyes that easily mesmerized countless Ivy League girls. He surveyed the floor before crowning the design of Sophie Vanderbilt as the winner of the competition.

I gripped my champagne glass so tightly that my knuckles turned white. Soon, the crowd rose into a standing ovation.

This was my fifth year as a ghost architect. It was also the final year of the laborious contract I had signed with Moore Architects. The contract signed was “Terms of Promotion for Senior Partnership.”

My boyfriend, Ethan Moore, was the head juror of the competition. He had crowned the twenty-three-year-old Sophie Vanderbilt, the daughter of a real estate tycoon, with an impressive score of 92.8. Just like that, he propped her on the stage and practically shoved me off a cliff.

Sophie stepped off the stage in a regal haute couture gown designed by Valentino. Her Jimmy Choo high heels clicked against the tiles while she advanced straight towards me.

“Oh my god, Arya, I’m so sorry…” Her sparkling blue eyes shone innocently as she spoke, suggesting greater talent in acting than architecture.

“I never expected to win,” she lamented.

Then, Ethan approached us with a hand tucked in his suit pocket. He stated proudly, “Sophie, when has a winner ever lowered themselves to apologize?”

He paused briefly to sweep a look over me, but he did not let his gaze linger.

“Arya, she’s a newcomer. Let her have it. You know how important this is for the firms’ funding. There’s always next time for you.”

They stood as a pair over me.

Sophie smiled radiantly with Ethan’s arm hovering protectively behind her. Standing together, they looked like the picture-perfect power couple stamped on the cover of a magazine.

I stared intently into Ethan’s eyes, trying to see if there was any resemblance of guilt or aversion in his eyes. However, I could not find it.

He had truly forgotten what happened during the winter five years ago when he desperately needed money for his startup. At the time, my grandfather, who was my only relative back then, was diagnosed with a heart condition in California. The medical bills were exorbitant and piled up faster than I could blink. That was the lead-up to me desperately signing that six-year-long, exploitative contract with the firm.

If I managed to win an international award within six years, the firm would award me with five hundred thousand dollars and grant me a partnership to boot. Otherwise, I would have to resign and reimburse the firm for all the “investments” they had poured into me over the years.

With the contract, I managed to put together a miracle and secure both Ethan’s capital for a startup and money for my grandfather’s medical bills.

I had staked everything on this gamble. In the final year contract, it was a mere 0.1 point gap decided by Ethan, who shattered my hopes—92.8 points against 92.7 points.

I realize that reality was not a feel-good Hollywood story. Moore Architects would not give me another six years. My sixty-three-year-old grandfather was running out of time as well.

There wasn’t going to be a next time, Ethan.

With the camera pointed at us, I took a step back and pulled the most presentable smile I could muster.

“Congratulations, you two.” I paused briefly before finishing my sentence with a clear mark of sarcasm. “Your relationship as mentor and mentee is very inspiring and touching.”