Chapter four

CHAPTER FOUR

It was Pitch day.

I stood in the Martinez Architecture conference room at 7:45am, fifteen minutes early, wearing my best armor: a tailored black suit that I hoped said “take me seriously,” heels that added three inches to my height, and my hair pulled back in a sleek bun that meant business. My presentation was loaded and ready. My notes were organized.

I could do this even if my hands were a little shaky.

The conference room was all glass and steel, with a view of lower Manhattan that usually made me feel powerful just made me feel exposed. The presentation screen dominated one wall. A long table sat twelve people comfortably. By eight o’clock, it would be filled with the people who would decide my future.

My father arrived at 7:50, coffee in hand, and pulled me into a quick hug. “Ready, mija?”

“As I’ll ever be.”

“You’ve got this. I’ve seen your work. It’s good.” He pulled back, his expression serious. “But I want you to know, whatever happens today, I’m proud of you. For coming back. For competing. For not asking for special treatment.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

The senior partners filtered in, three men in their fifties who had been with the firm for decades. They nodded at me, professional and neutral. Fair, at least.

Marcus arrived at 7:58, because of course he did. Perfectly timed to make an entrance. He wore an expensive suit, carried a leather portfolio, and shot me a smirk that said he thought he had already won.

“Martinez. Ready to concede defeat and save us all some time?”

“Not particularly. But feel free to drop out if you’re having second thoughts.”

His smirk widened. “This is going to be fun.”

At exactly 8:00am, the video screen flickered to life.

Dominic Ashford appeared on screen, seated in what looked like a home office, bookshelves behind him, He wore a crisp white shirt and dark tie, every inch the billionaire businessman. Professional. Distant. Like he hadn’t almost kissed me six days ago.

“Good morning, everyone,” he said, his voice clear through the speakers. “Sorry I couldn’t be there in person. Unavoidable conflict.”

It was a lie, and we both knew it. He couldn’t be in the same room with me. Couldn’t trust himself, or maybe couldn’t trust me not to give us away with a look or a word.

“Let’s get started,” my father said, taking his seat at the head of the table. “Marcus, you’re up first.”

Marcus stood, connected his laptop to the screen, and launched into his presentation with the confidence of someone who had never doubted himself.

And damn it, he was good.

His slides were slick and professional. His concept was all clean lines and modern efficiency,gut the outdated Art Deco elements, replace them with contemporary materials, maximize rentable square footage. He had financial projections showing increased revenue, data about what modern tenants wanted, comparisons to other successful renovations.

“The past is past,” he said, advancing to a slide showing a sleek, minimalist lobby. “Ashford Tower is a prestigious address, but it’s living in 1929. Let’s make it relevant for today. Let’s make it a building people actually want to work in, not a museum piece they’re forced to tolerate.”

The partners were nodding. Taking notes. Looking impressed.

My stomach sank. He was winning them over.

Marcus clicked to his final slide, projected revenue over five years, return on investment, tenant retention projections. “This renovation will pay for itself in seven years and generate substantial profits thereafter. That’s what matters. Not sentiment. Not nostalgia. Results.”

He sat down looking insufferably pleased with himself.

On screen, Dominic’s expression was carefully neutral, but I caught the slight tightening around his eyes. He hated it. I could tell.

“Thank you, Marcus,” my father said. “Very thorough. Isabella? You’re up.”

I stood, my legs only slightly unsteady, and connected my laptop. My first slide appeared. not a rendering, not data, but a photograph. The Ashford Tower lobby as it had looked in 1929, full of Art Deco glory and jazz age glamour.

“This is Ashford Tower,” I began, and I didn’t use my notes. I had practiced this speech so many times in the past week that it lived in my bones now. “Not as it is, but as it was. As it was meant to be.”

I clicked to the next slide, a photo of the current lobby, stripped down and corporate.

“Somewhere along the way, we forgot what made this building special. We prioritized efficiency over beauty. Function over soul. And in doing so, we turned something legendary into something merely adequate.”

I advanced to my concept renderings, the lobby restored to its original Art Deco magnificence, but with modern technology seamlessly integrated. Geometric patterns in brass and marble. Period appropriate lighting fixtures with LED technology. Original elevator doors polished to gleaming.

“This building isn’t a problem to be solved,” I said, looking directly at the camera, at Dominic. “It’s a love letter to an era. And my proposal is simple: honor that letter. Restore what was lost. Celebrate what makes Ashford Tower unique instead of trying to make it look like every other glass box in Manhattan.”

I clicked to the next section, the ballroom.

“During my research, I discovered something remarkable. Hidden between floors fifty one and fifty two is an entire level that was sealed off during the 1980s renovation. An Art Deco ballroom with original murals. A speakeasy style bar. A stage for live music.”

The room went silent. Even Marcus looked surprised.

“This space still exists. The murals are intact. The woodwork is preserved under decades of dust. And I propose we restore it, create an exclusive event space unlike anything else in the city. A modern speakeasy that honors the building’s prohibition era roots. A destination, not just a rental property.”

 “Ashford Tower doesn’t need to be relevant,” I said, echoing Marcus’s words but twisting them. “It needs to be legendary. It needs to be the building that people talk about, that they dream about renting. Not because it has the highest ceilings or the fastest elevators, but because it has soul.”

I clicked to my final slide, a rendering of the tower at night, lit up and glorious, with the ballroom glowing on the fifty first floor like a jewel.

“This isn’t just renovation. It’s resurrection. And it’s what Ashford Tower deserves.”

I sat down, my heart hammering, and waited.

The partners were silent, looking at each other. My father’s expression was unreadable,proud, maybe, but conflicted.

On screen, Dominic’s face had gone very still. He stared at the final rendering for a long moment before looking directly into the camera, directly at me.

Then Marcus spoke, and his voice was poison.

“Very pretty,” he said, slow clap echoing in the conference room. “Really. Masterful emotional manipulation. But let’s talk about reality.” He leaned forward. “This is nepotism dressed up as vision. She found one hidden room and suddenly she’s a genius? We all know why she’s really here, Victor wants to hand his princess a trophy project.”

“Marcus—” my father started, but Marcus wasn’t done.

“She’s been playing in London for two years while real architects were doing actual work. And now she waltzes back, finds some dusty old room, and we’re supposed to give her a nine figure project?” He turned to me, his smile cruel. “Tell me, Bella, does Ashford know you’re using his dead wife’s memory as a sales tactic? Because I’m pretty sure Vanessa’s love of speakeasies was mentioned in your research notes.”

The room went deadly silent.

I felt the blood drain from my face. How did he know about Vanessa? That wasn’t in any of the public documents.

On screen, Dominic’s expression was murderous.

“That’s enough, Chen.” His voice came through the speakers like a whip crack, cold and furious. “You will not speak to Ms. Martinez that way. And you will not invoke my wife’s name to score points in a presentation.”

Marcus had the grace to look slightly uncomfortable, but he didn’t back down. “I’m just saying what everyone’s thinking—”

“No,” Dominic cut him off. “You’re not. What you’re doing is showing everyone exactly why you shouldn’t lead this project. Because leadership requires respect. Collaboration. The ability to see beyond your own ego.” He paused. “The ballroom was Vanessa’s favorite discovery. She spent hours researching its history, planning how to restore it. She would have loved Ms. Martinez’s vision. And she would have despised yours.”

Marcus’s face went red.

“Isabella’s proposal honors the building’s soul while modernizing its systems,” Dominic continued, his voice steel wrapped in ice. “It creates something unique in a city full of generic renovations. It’s exactly what I wanted when I chose Martinez Architecture for this project.”

He turned to my father, and his expression softened slightly. “Victor, she’s your project lead. If that’s nepotism, I don’t care. She’s earned it.”

My father looked between Marcus and me, then at the senior partners, who were all nodding slowly.

“I agree,” he said finally. “Isabella, congratulations. The Ashford Tower renovation is yours.”

Marcus stood so violently his chair nearly toppled. “This is bullshit.”

“This meeting is over,” my father said firmly. “Marcus, my office. Now.”

Marcus stormed out, and the partners followed more slowly, murmuring among themselves. My father paused to squeeze my shoulder. “Proud of you, mija. You earned this.” Then he was gone, chasing after Marcus.

I was alone in the conference room with just Dominic’s face on the video screen.

“Congratulations, Ms. Martinez,” he said formally, but his eyes were warm. “I’ll expect you at the tower Monday morning. Eight am sharp. Don’t be late.”

“I won’t be.”

Then he reached forward and ended the call, and the screen went black.

I sat there for a moment, trying to process everything. I had won. I had actually won. On merit, with a vision I believed in, against someone who had underestimated me.

But Marcus’s words lingered,  Does Ashford know you’re using his dead wife’s memory as a sales tactic? 

I hadn’t been. Had I? The ballroom was genuinely the right choice architecturally. The fact that Vanessa had loved it was just… coincidence. Context. Right?

My phone buzzed. A text from my father.

 Marcus is throwing a fit. Says he’s calling his cousin Celeste to “discuss the situation.” Be careful, sweetheart. This might get ugly. 

I returned to my apartment at 6pm, exhausted and exhilarated and terrified all at once. A package sat outside my door, sleek black box with a silver ribbon.

Inside was a necklace. Vintage Art Deco, clearly expensive, with geometric patterns in platinum and diamonds that caught the light like captured stars. And a card in handwriting I had memorized,

 For the speakeasy. You’ll need the right accessories. —D 

My hands shook as I fastened it around my neck. It was beautiful. Intimate. The kind of gift that meant something. It made me confused, what did Dominic mean by it,

My phone buzzed.

 My penthouse. Tonight. 9pm. We need to discuss the project. 

Then:

 Wear the necklace. 

I looked at myself in the mirror, the necklace cool against my skin, my eyes bright with anticipation. I knew we weren’t going to discuss the project. We were going to discuss everything we had been avoiding for two years.

And this time, there would be no interruptions. No phone calls from my father. No running away.

Just truth, and desire, and whatever consequences came with it.