Chapter two

At 3am, I gave up on sleep.

My phone glowed on the nightstand, taunting me. Three texts from James that I had ignored.

 Drink tomorrow? 

 Come on, don’t be stubborn. 

 I flew across the Atlantic for you. 

I should feel guilty. James was a good guy, handsome, successful, age appropriate and not my father’s best friend. Everything that made sense on paper. But sense had nothing to do with the way my heart still raced thinking about those five seconds in Dominic’s arms.

Then I saw it. A text from an unknown number, time stamped at 2:47am.

 We need to talk. Not here. Not now. But soon. 

No signature, he knew I didn’t but I didn’t need one. 

I stared at the message until the screen went dark, my finger hovering over the keyboard. Part of me wanted to type back something reckless:  Your place or mine? When? Why not now?  But the rational part,the part that sounded alarmingly like my father,told me to delete it and go back to pretending.

I locked my phone and set it face down.

The problem with insomnia is that it gives you too much time to remember things you had rather forget. And lying there in the dark, I couldn’t stop my mind from drifting back to two years ago.

       

It was supposed to be a happy weekend. Sarah Chen’s wedding,Lily cousin, one of our closest friends from Columbia. I had come home from London for it, excited to be maid of honor, excited to see everyone.

The reception was at the Plaza, elegant and romantic, exactly like Sarah had always dreamed. I had danced with groomsmen and drunk too much champagne and laughed until my face hurt. By 2am, I had needed air, so I had slipped out to the hotel’s garden terrace.

That’s where I found him.

Dominic sat alone on a stone bench, still in his suit but with his tie loosened and his jacket discarded. A bottle of Macallan sat beside him, half empty. I had never seen him anything less than perfectly composed, but that night he looked almost… broken.

“Mr. Ashford?” I had approached cautiously. “Are you okay?”

He had looked up at me with eyes that didn’t quite focus. “Bella. Shouldn’t you be dancing?”

“Shouldn’t you?”

“Can’t dance with ghosts.”

That’s when I understood. I had heard my father mention it earlier, today was the anniversary of Vanessa’s death. Ten years since the car accident.

I should have walked away. Should have called my father, instead I sat down beside him.

“Want to talk about it?” I had asked softly.

“Nothing to talk about.” But then, after a long silence: “I can’t stop seeing it. The crash. Her car wrapped around that tree. The police said she was going ninety on a residential street. Ninety miles per hour because we had fought and she was angry and I had let her drive away.”

His voice had cracked, and suddenly this powerful, composed man was falling apart in front of me.

 “It wasn’t your fault,” I had said, meaning it. 

 “Wasn’t it? We fought about something so stupid I can’t even remember what it was. And I let her leave. I let her—” 

 Without thinking, I had reached for his hand. He had gripped mine like a lifeline, his fingers rough and desperate. 

 “I’m sorry,” he had whispered. “I shouldn’t be… Christ, I haven’t talked about this in years.” 

 “Maybe you should have.” 

 We had sat there for what felt like hours but was probably only minutes, hands linked, the garden quiet around us. Then he had looked at me, really looked at me, and something had shifted in his expression. 

 “When did you grow up, Bella Martinez?” 

 My heart had stuttered. “I’ve been grown up.” 

 “I know. That’s the problem.” 

 Then he had been kissing me. 

 Softly at first as if he was testing the waters, and then faster, desperate and  wrong in every possible way. His hands in my hair, mine fisted in his shirt, ten years of grief and loneliness pouring out of him into me. I had kissed him back just as fiercely, years of secret having a crush on him finally finding release. 

 It had been perfect, everything I had never let myself imagine. 

 He had pulled away gasping, horrified, instantly sober. 

 “Jesus. Bella, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to—” 

 “Don’t apologize.” 

 “Your father—” 

 “Doesn’t need to know.” 

 But the damage was done. The next morning, he had acted like nothing had happened. Polite. Distant. And when I had tried to bring it up, he had cut me off coldly. 

 “I was drunk and grieving. It meant nothing.” 

 I had left for London a week later, and he had never called. 

******

The memory still stung. I rolled over, punching my pillow, trying to get comfortable. But sleep wouldn’t come, and neither would the ability to stop thinking about Dominic’s text message.

 We need to talk. 

About what? About how he had held me tonight like I was precious and dangerous all at once? About the hunger in his eyes before he had locked it away?

Finally, at dawn, I drifted into an uneasy sleep.

******

I woke to the smell of coffee and my mother’s voice calling up the stairs, “Bella! Breakfast! Your father has news!”

I dragged myself downstairs, still in pajamas, to find both my parents at the kitchen table looking insufferably pleased with themselves. My father was practically vibrating with excitement.

“Good morning, mija! Sleep well?”

“Not really,” I admitted, pouring myself coffee.

“Well, this will wake you up.” He pushed a document across the table toward me. “Remember Richard Hartley? Your boss in London?”

“Of course.”

“He’s retiring. Wants to spend more time with his grandchildren in Scotland. But before he goes, he wants to finalize something we’ve been discussing for months, a merger between his boutique firm and Martinez Architecture.”

I blinked, trying to process through the fog of exhaustion. “That’s… that’s huge, Dad. Congratulations.”

“It gets better.” His grin widened. “Richard specifically requested that you head up the New York office. Says you’re the best young architect he’s worked with in twenty years.”

Coffee sloshed over the rim of my cup. “What?”

“There’s a condition, of course,” my mother interjected, ever practical. “You need to prove yourself on a major project first. Richard wants to make sure you can handle the pressure and the politics of a flagship renovation.”

My father nodded. “Which brings me to the second piece of news. We landed the Ashford Tower renovation. Biggest project in the firm’s history, sixty story Art Deco landmark, complete restoration and modernization. Budget is nine figures.”

My stomach dropped. “Ashford Tower. As in…”

“Dominic specifically requested our firm.” My father’s pride was unmistakable. “Said he trusts Victor Martinez above anyone else to honor the building’s history while bringing it into the twenty first century. It’s the vote of confidence of a lifetime, mija.”

I set down my coffee cup carefully. “That’s wonderful.”

“Here’s where it gets interesting.” My father leaned forward. “I’m not just handing you the project lead position. Marcus Chen wants it too.”

“Marcus?” I had met Marcus Chen, Ava’s cousin exactly twice, (once at a firm holiday party, once at a presentation.) Brilliant architect, thirty two, ambitious to the point of ruthlessness.

“He’s been with us for three years, done excellent work. This would be his big break, same as you.” My father’s expression turned serious. “So I’m making it a competition. You both have one week to develop a vision for the Ashford Tower renovation. Next Friday, you’ll present to me, the senior partners, and Dominic. Best pitch wins the project.”

“Dad, that’s—”

“Fair,” he said firmly. “I won’t be accused of nepotism, Isabella. You’ll win this on merit or not at all.”

My mother squeezed my hand. “You can do this, sweetheart. We believe in you.”

I nodded, mind already racing. One week to create a pitch that would determine my entire future. One week before I had either be working alongside Dominic Ashford every single day, or watching Marcus Chen do it instead.

I didn’t know which outcome terrified me more.

After breakfast, I headed out to the garden for air. That’s where Marcus found me.

“So. The prodigal daughter returns.”

I turned to find him leaning against the pergola, designer sunglasses hiding his eyes, stubble perfectly maintained at that fashionable three day length. Handsome in an obvious way, he knew exactly the effect he had on people.

“Marcus. Congratulations on making it to the final round.”

“Please.” He pushed off the pergola, strolling toward me with the confidence of someone who had never questioned his place in the world. “We both know this is about Daddy wanting to give his little girl a trophy project. The pitch is just for show.”

Heat flared in my chest. “If you really believed that, you wouldn’t be worried.”

“Worried?” He laughed. “I’ve been doing actual architecture while you’ve been playing in London. Real projects. Real clients. Not just riding your father’s reputation.”

“My master’s from the Bartlett speaks for itself.”

“Does it? Or does it just speak to how much Victor Martinez donates to his alma mater?” He stepped closer, deliberately invading my space. “Here’s some advice, princess, go back to London. Let the adults handle the real work. You’ll save yourself the embarrassment of losing to me in front of everyone.”

Every instinct screamed at me to fire back, to put him in his place. But I had learned something in London, the best response to a bully was confidence.

“See you at the pitch meeting, Marcus,” I said coolly. “Try not to disappoint everyone with recycled ideas.”

His smirk faltered, just for a second. “You have no idea what you’re up against.”

“Neither do you.”

I walked away before he could respond, but my hands were shaking. Marcus was exactly the kind of architect I had been competing against my whole career, men who thought talent was measured in testosterone and saw women as obstacles to be bulldozed.

But he had made one critical mistake, he had underestimated me.

My phone buzzed. Another text from the unknown number:

 Don’t let Marcus get in your head. You’re better than him. 

Then, a moment later,

 I shouldn’t have said that. Forget I did. 

I stared at the messages, my heart doing something complicated in my chest. Dominic was watching. Paying attention. Rooting for me even though he shouldn’t be.

I typed back before I could stop myself,

 Too late. I never forget anything when it comes to you. 

I hit send and immediately regretted it.

Three dots appeared, then disappeared. Appeared again. Disappeared.

Finally,  That’s what I’m afraid of.