What I Made

Five years later.

Los Angeles felt like a city built out of glass, sunlight, and people far too confident to ever admit they were confused.

I stood in the twenty-third-floor boardroom at Jamesson Holdings, facing a presentation screen the size of a mortal sin, while Noelle Jamesson stared at the house renderings in front of her as if they’d been assembled in some ancient dead language.

Noelle was blonde, beautiful, and dressed in a cream suit that was clearly more expensive than her understanding of the project. She was the daughter of an American tycoon. An heiress. A social fixture. The kind of last name that opened doors before she even had to knock.

The problem was, this week her father had apparently decided it was time for his darling daughter to “lead something,” and unfortunately for me, that something was a major residential project in Malibu with a price tag high enough to make people pretend they had a great deal of patience for idiots.

My firm, Aster House, had been appointed principal architecture and interiors partner.

A polished way of saying: my team would be saving everyone once they started making emotional decisions with a nine-figure budget.

Noelle crossed her legs, looked at the site plan slide, then wrinkled her pretty nose.

“Wait,” she said. “So the guest house can’t just move a little closer to the cliff? The view is kind of the whole point.”

Beside me, Athena lowered her head to her iPad. That was the only sign she was stopping herself from saying something that would get us thrown out of the building. Maya, standing near the materials board, didn’t even bother hiding her slow blink. When Maya blinked like that, it meant she was calculating how long someone might survive if shoved off a rooftop.

I smiled calmly. “It can,” I said, “if your family wants the guest house to be the first thing sliding down in rainy season.”

Noelle blinked. “Sorry?”

I walked closer to the screen, picked up the stylus, and marked the contour lines. “This is the bluff setback. This is the stable zone. And this,” I said, circling the edge, “is the part of the site that looks beautiful on I*******m but tends to have ideas of its own once water gets involved.” I glanced back at her. “So technically, yes. Legally and structurally, absolutely not.”

“Oh.”

“Good news,” I added lightly. “We already shifted the glazing orientation so the guest suite still gets the Pacific view without turning the entire building into a suicide mission.”

“And without murdering the permitting timeline,” Athena said, finally looking up.

Noelle gave a small laugh, about half a second late. She was still trying to look like she understood.

I almost felt bad for her.

Five years ago, I probably would’ve gone home biting the inside of my cheek because I’d had to explain project basics to some rich girl who couldn’t tell limestone from plaster. Now I only saw the contract value, the construction timeline, and the likelihood that if I stayed patient for another thirty minutes, my firm would keep hold of this billion-dollar project.

I wasn’t Sasha Moretti anymore.

That name had died for me years ago, along with one night in Brera and two rings on a hardwood floor.

Now I was Sasha Rivera again. Thirty years old. Founder of the firm I built from nothing, out of a cramped rental office in West Hollywood with one broken printer, two best friends more loyal than most families, and morning sickness that had nearly made me throw up all over a tray of travertine samples.

I got divorced just days after I walked out of Rafael’s mansion. I didn’t even show up to court. The lawyers handled everything faster if I stayed out of sight, and at the time I was too busy sleeping on the office couch, fighting nausea, and figuring out how to move across continents without falling apart.

I didn’t take Moretti money. Not a single dollar.

I didn’t call my family in Colombia either, not to come get me, save me, or haul me home like some failed daughter. My pride was too expensive for that, and unfortunately, so was rent in Los Angeles.

So I worked.

Worked until my feet swelled. Worked while throwing up in job-site bathrooms and then walking right back out to discuss ceiling details like my body wasn’t actively protesting the existence of another human being inside it. Worked until my eyes went dry and my back felt nailed together.

Back then, Maya was the one who slept at the studio with me for three nights in a row, pretending it was a professional decision and not because she knew I couldn’t manage alone. Athena showed up at six in the morning with bagels, a laptop, and a thinly veiled threat to kill me if I tried lifting a materials box by myself. The three of us had survived our first semester of architecture school on too little sleep and oversized egos. Apparently, that had been a solid enough foundation for building a company.

Noelle cleared her throat, pulling me back into the boardroom. “So,” she said, spinning an expensive pen between her fingers, “the presentation actually makes sense now.”

“Glad to hear it,” I said.

She smiled, a little sheepish. For the first time, she looked younger than all her packaging. “My father said I should trust experts, but he says it the way other people say trust your dentist, which isn’t exactly inspiring.”

I gave a soft laugh. “Your father sounds charming.”

“Only in the Wall Street Journal.”

Maya snorted under her breath. Athena fake-coughed.

Noelle looked at the three of us, then stood up. “Okay. I’m in. Full support on the revised scheme.” She straightened her blazer. “Also, my family is hosting a birthday dinner tomorrow night. Big, annoying, impossible-to-escape kind of thing. You should come.”

I lifted an eyebrow. “Work invitation or social invitation?”

“Both.” Her smile this time was more genuine. “I think my mother wants to meet the woman who explained a retaining wall to me without making me cry.”

“That’s progress,” I said. “Usually I start by making people a little afraid of me.”

“I noticed.”

I didn’t even have to think about it. “Sure. I’ll come.”

Noelle held out her hand. “Great. Tomorrow night, then.”

I shook it, my smile set neatly in place.

Tomorrow night, apparently. Fine.

How bad could a rich family dinner really be?

+++

I parked my SUV in the spot out front at Aster House and sat behind the wheel for two seconds longer, hands still on the steering wheel, AC still running, sunglasses still perched on top of my head like I wasn’t ready to be a person again.

Los Angeles at this hour was so bright it felt almost cruel. Sunlight bounced off glass buildings, car hoods, pale sidewalks. Everyone looked busy, beautiful, and a little irritating.

Maya had just sent a photo from a boutique on Melrose with the caption: Athena says I need a new blazer. Athena is wrong. I need two. Athena, naturally, had replied with a photo of a brown leather bag expensive enough to fund an entire custom kitchen in Silver Lake.

I killed the engine, grabbed my bag, and got out. The car door shut with that heavy, expensive sound. A thin breeze stirred the hem of my white blazer. Above the glass front doors, the ASTER HOUSE logo glinted softly in matte bronze lettering.

I went in alone because my two best friends had chosen shopping like women with no structural-revision deadline breathing down their necks, and I no longer had the energy to look at another beautiful object today. Beautiful objects always wanted to be bought. I was already expensive enough for one day.

The Aster House lobby smelled like coffee, cedarwood, and an overworked printer. Bone-colored lime plaster walls. Stone and wood veneer samples shelved on the left. A travertine reception desk on the right. A scale model of the Malibu house sat beneath an acrylic cube. Keyboard clicks came from the studio area. The plotter hummed somewhere in the back. A second home, if second homes came with invoices and contractor drama.

Nina, my secretary, appeared from behind her desk holding an iPad and the expression of someone who had just survived a minor natural disaster.

She let out a long breath. “He won’t stop.”

I winced before I even asked. “How bad?”

Nina looked at me flatly. “On a scale of one to ten?”

“Please say six.”

“Twelve.”

I closed my eyes for a second. “I’m giving you a raise.”

“Double.”

“Don’t get greedy. I’m a single mother, remember?”

“You say that to the person who just watched your son ‘test gravity’ by throwing a brass handle sample at the ficus.”

I opened one eye. “Is the ficus alive?”

“For now.”

“Good. We’re all choosing small victories.”

Nina handed a few folders into my arms. “Gabriella’s in there. She said everything’s under control, which I think is a massive lie, but somehow it’s usually true.”

“That’s also my company motto.”

I started down the main hallway, my heels clicking over the pale oak floor. The glass door to my private office suite was already half open. From inside came a small, high-energy voice I knew very well, followed by the sound of something sliding across the rug.

I had barely reached the doorway when Maxime shouted, “Mommy!”

Then he appeared.

Rolling, literally rolling, across the rug toward me like the child had been created without any concept of moving in a straight line. His black hair was a mess. His light blue preschool shirt was already half untucked. Round cheeks. Tiny sneakers still flashing because the lights apparently hadn’t stopped blinking since this morning. And those blue eyes, damn it, were still the same eyes.

Four years, and sometimes I could still feel this small, strange disturbance in my chest when his face looked too much like someone I’d thrown an entire continent between us.

Then Max grinned, showing the little front teeth with that slight gap between them, and everything softened into something else entirely.

“What is this?” I asked, setting my bag on the sofa. “Why are you entering your mother’s office like a miniature tornado with a budget?”

“I’m not a tornado.” He was already wrapped around my leg now, hugging my knee. “I’m a race car.”

“Worse.”

I bent down and lifted him onto my hip. He smelled like kid sunscreen, apple juice, and chaos. Max immediately threw his arms around my neck and planted an enthusiastic kiss on my cheek that was slightly too wet.

Inside the office, Gabriella was half-lounging on the sofa by the window, one leg tucked underneath her, phone in hand. Her hair was twisted up in a giant sage-green claw clip. An oversized sweatshirt that said emotionally booked. Cargo pants. White sneakers without a single mark on them, which honestly felt like a professional achievement in itself considering her job was keeping up with Max.

Beside her sat a tote bag stuffed with wipes, organic snacks, a little set of toy cars, a pink mini first-aid kit, and a tabbed binder more organized than most contractor project files.

Gabriella looked up from her phone, calm as a digital monk. “For the record, before you look at me like that, he stopped thirteen seconds ago.”

“Amazing. We’ll celebrate later.”

“With a bonus.”

“Everyone wants a bonus today.”

Gabriella shrugged. “Inflation and Maxime Rivera. Two market forces no one can fight.”

I snorted. That was what I liked about her. Visually, she looked like what would happen if TikTok and a matcha latte had a child. But the woman could rearrange a preschool schedule, keep track of immunization appointments, cut grapes into safe-sized pieces, stop a supermarket tantrum in two minutes and thirty seconds, and email a pediatrician while still looking like she was building a P*******t board.

Two weeks into working for me, she’d said, “I can handle an active kid, a sleep-deprived mother, and a calendar that’s emotionally abusive.” Then she proved it.

Max patted my shoulder. “Mommy, I made a building.”

I looked over at the low table in the middle of the room. On top of it was a structure made out of sample boxes, material binders, and three specification books that had apparently been turned into a multi-story “building” with a plastic dinosaur on top.

I closed my eyes. “Sure”

Gabriella lifted a finger. “In my defense, the structure is surprisingly stable.”

“Don’t encourage him.”

“Gaby says I’m a visionary,” Max shouted.

“I said you’re committed to a concept,” Gabriella corrected, completely unapologetic.

Max turned to me, his blue eyes bright with that unfair combination of innocence and danger. “Mommy, look. It’s a dinosaur house.”

“Baby, that’s a two-hundred-dollar catalog of Spanish natural stone.”

“Now it’s a dinosaur house.”

I let out a slow breath. “Dios mío.”

It came out automatically. So did my hand, already straightening his little collar, tucking his shirt back in, and wiping some mystery smudge off his chin.

Max grinned. “You’re in Latina mode.”

“I haven’t even started. Don’t test me.”

He laughed, his little head dropping against my shoulder. Mischievous. Sweet. Wild. His face was a copy of an old sin I’d once thought was done haunting me, only smaller, rounder, and much more interested in animal-shaped crackers.

I lowered him gently to the floor. “Okay. Report. Why did preschool end this early, and why do you look like you just had espresso?”

Gabriella was already on her feet, grabbing a little Spider-Man water bottle from the table. “Early pickup. There’s HVAC maintenance at the school. And he had two mini pancakes, half a banana muffin, three slices of strawberry, and somehow still had enough energy left to challenge the coffee table.”

“I won,” Max said proudly.

“Of course you did. The coffee table had no will to live.”

I slipped off my blazer and tossed it over the back of my desk chair. My shoulders hurt. My feet did too. But there was something about Max’s voice that always made a bad day feel a little less offensive.

He tugged on the hem of my blouse. “Mommy.”

“Hmm?”

“You look pretty.”

I glanced at Gabriella. “See? This is why I keep him.”

Gabriella put on a bored expression. “I also told you you looked pretty when you walked in.”

“You were asking for a bonus. Different motive.”

Max lifted both arms, asking to be picked up again. “I’m hungry.”

“You’re always hungry.”

“I’m growing.”

I scooped him back up as I walked toward the little pantry in the corner of the office suite. Behind me, Gabriella was already pulling out the tablet, wipes, and snack pouch from her bag with the speed of someone who had seen war and decided she was ready for another round.

Max rested his cheek against my neck. “Mommy, can we watch the car movie tonight?”

“Depends.”

“Depends on what?”

“Depends on whether you stop turning Mommy’s catalogs into reptile housing developments.”

He went quiet for a second, thinking. “No promises.”

I laughed then. Really laughed.

Then I kissed his temple and held him a little tighter than I needed to. “Yeah,” I said softly. “That sounds about right.”