Chapter 5. The Letters

5. The Letters

I stood in my office, my hand still wrapped around the strap of my bag, listening to the air conditioning cycle on and off. It took a moment to realize what had stopped me.

There was an envelope on my desk. It hadn’t been there when I left.

The paper was plain, set neatly at the center of my workspace; my name was written across the front in careful, deliberate script.

Ximara Lyris Adler.

I hadn’t left anything behind. I was sure of that. And no one had come into my office while I was gone. I always locked the door. Always.

I didn’t move right away. The longer I stared at it, the more out of place it felt, like a prop placed slightly off-mark. Finally, I set my bag down and crossed the room. The envelope was cool beneath my fingers. I slid a nail under the flap and tore it open.

There was no signature, initials, or identifying mark at all. Just a single sheet, folded once.

I scanned it quickly at first, then again, slower this time.

Congratulations on your promotion. You earned it through your hard work, not luck. That distinction matters.

My chest tightened. I turned the paper over, and again it was blank. I checked the envelope; there was no logo, watermark, or trace of perfume or ink smudge. Anything that gave away the identity of the person who sent me the letter.

Victoria didn’t write like this. This wasn’t encouragement but This was written to be found alone, maybe to scare me.

For a moment, I considered the absurd possibility that someone had mistaken my desk for someone else’s. The thought barely lasted.

I folded the letter and set it aside instead of throwing it away. I told myself I’d ask about it later. I drew in a slow breath and sat down.

Interior Manager. The title hovered in my mind, as if it might slip away if I looked at it too directly. I rested my palms on the desk, grounding myself in the smooth surface beneath them.

From a sketchbook and a borrowed couch in North Carolina to this. Alister is going to be so happy when I tell him.

The walk home stretched longer than it should have. No cabs passed my side of the street, and after the third one sped by full, I stopped trying to flag them down.

I merged into the evening crowd instead.

My portfolio knocked softly against my hip as I moved. That was when I noticed the distance behind me wasn’t changing. I heard footsteps following me.

I slowed. The footsteps slowed with me.

My shoulders tightened. I told myself it was nothing, that this was New York and patterns happened whether you invited them or not. Still, my pulse climbed, quick and insistent.

I turned sharply.

Faces blurred past me, and I couldn't tell if I was imagining someone following me or if it actually happened. Someone bumped my shoulder and muttered an apology without stopping. Whoever had been there a moment ago dissolved into the crowd.

I exhaled, embarrassed by the tightness in my chest. Get a grip, I told myself. You had a long day.

By the time my building came into view, my legs ached, and my blazer clung uncomfortably to my back. Ali stood near the entrance, deep in conversation with a man I recognized immediately from his posture alone.

The neighbor. I didn't know Ali knew him. I slowed down and caught just in time to hear him speak.

“Oh yes, that new club; people your age are raving about it.” His voice was lower than I expected.

“Yes, it seems like—” Ali glanced up and spotted me. His face lit instantly. “Mara!”

I smiled automatically, relief blooming at the sight of him. Behind Ali, the neighbor turned slightly, as if already aware of my presence.

Something in my chest stuttered before settling again. He didn't even turn around; he nodded to Ali and stepped toward the apartment next door.

Of course.

I hadn’t expected Ali to know him, let alone speak so easily with him. “Hey,” I said softly as Ali ushered me inside.

The cool air washed over me, raising goosebumps along my arms.

Ali studied my face with far too much insight. “You have news,” he said. “That smile gives you away.”

I laughed, the sound loosening tightness in my chest. “I got promoted. Senior Interior Manager.”

He stopped walking and turned to me fully. “Mara.”

When he hugged me, I let myself lean into him. “I’m proud of you,” he said, patting my head like he always had. “You worked hard for this.”

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Later, sleep refused to come. My mind replayed the day in fragments, starting from finding the envelope and then someone following me in the crowd. Was it all just a coincidence? I found it hard to believe so.

I was restless. So I picked up my sketchbook and went out on the balcony. I flipped to a blank page, pencil poised, waiting for my thoughts to catch up with me.

They did not. Instead, there was music drifting in. Unfinished acoustic guitar. The kind of tune that sounded like it had been written in bits and pieces and never really resolved.

I glanced sideways. The neighbor was on his balcony, his back to me, one arm propped against the wall as he played. He wasn't performing; he had no idea he had an audience, me. His fingers worked with quiet precision, coaxing something raw from the strings.

I closed my eyes without meaning to. Then the music stopped.

A sharp, frustrated, low exhale came next. I opened my eyes just as a woman came into view, blonde, pale, and sculpted so perfectly she looked unreal in the light from the balcony. She wore delicate lingerie that felt intentional rather than accidental.

She pressed herself against him, sliding her fingers beneath his shirt. His body went rigid. Not pulling away. Not responding either.

Despite the fact that their conversation was silent and private, my stomach tightened. I snapped my sketchbook shut. "Unbelievable," I muttered, louder than intended. I went inside and slammed the door of the balcony shut.

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The next morning I got to the office earlier than usual.

The office appeared deserted before the day began, with desks just waiting to be occupied. I unlocked my cabin, already planning the tasks I wanted to complete before anyone else arrived.

I paused as another envelope landed on my desk. It was the same size, white paper, and handwriting.

My stomach tightened, slower this time, like a knot being pulled rather than tied. I closed the door behind me and stood there longer than I needed to, listening to the click of the lock settle in.

I took the letter and opened it.

The words were few, familiar in tone, and personal. I read it, and it contained more words of admiration for me, and I was convinced that someone was keeping a close eye on me, or that someone was playing a trick on me.

I folded the paper carefully and placed it in my drawer.

I told myself that I would deal with it later.

Work helped. It always did. Meetings ran into each other, sketches littered tables, and conversations circled back to color and texture. Being busy made it easier not to think about the envelope on my desk.

But the letters continued to arrive every morning over the next few days.

When I arrived, they were sometimes already waiting. Other times, I'd return from a meeting to find one neatly positioned where my keyboard should have been. Some made me uncomfortable in ways I couldn't articulate. Others I found were kind to me. I hated myself a bit for that.

Finally, I asked the security guard, trying to sound nonchalant. He frowned, as if he were really confused. He mentioned that a few had been dropped at the front desk. No name was given. There were no instructions. He’d assumed they were something personal. I stopped asking after that.

I didn’t throw the letters away. I didn't go back and re-read them either. I stacked them neatly in my drawer, the pile growing thick enough that I had to push it back to close the drawer.

A month passed. Somewhere along the way, their presence became a fixture in my life.

By the time Stephan’s assistant appeared at my door, I had almost forgotten about the letter tucked away in my drawer.

“Stephan and Lara would like to see you.”

I nodded, standing up and smoothing my blazer. “Sure.”

“Good afternoon, Mr. and Mrs. Rowan.”

“Good afternoon,” Stephan replied, already leaning back in his chair.

“Please, sit,” Lara said warmly.

I did, folding my hands in my lap. In the corner, Zara stirred in her crib, her bright blue eyes blinking open before settling again. For a brief, inexplicable moment, my chest ached.

“Oh—diaper time,” Lara laughed softly. She lifted Zara with ease. “I’ll be right back.”

The door closed behind her, leaving me alone with Stephan.

I instinctively filled the silence with, "I submitted revised designs this morning; I'm still refining, but I'm pleased with the direction."

"I've seen them," he explained.

He didn’t elaborate. He just looked at me. Steady and thoughtful. As if he was waiting to see what I would do with the space he’d left.

A little later Lara returned, taking her seat and nudging Stephan with a teasing grin. “Stop intimidating her.”

He huffed a soft laugh. Then Lara turned to me, her expression softening. "Ximara, your work is outstanding. It demonstrates confidence. You don’t overreach.”

“Thank you,” I said, managing a smile.

Stephan leant forward. "We have a bigger offer for you."

My pulse quickened.

"A new contract," he explained. "You have two options: stay where you are or lead this project."

He described the racetrack renovation, its scope, and the energy they hoped to capture. As he spoke, my mind raced ahead of him, sketching out possibilities like movement, flow, and anticipation.

The coincidence seemed too convenient. I didn't think twice about it. I've never done anything that felt right.

"You'll have time to decide," Lara said softly. "One week."

"I won't need that long," I said before stopping myself.

Stephan smiled briefly in satisfaction. "If you accept, you will have to pack for a month and a half."

I blinked. “It’s not here?”

"No," he replied lightly. "Change of venue at the last minute."

“Where?” I asked.

“Argentina.” The word permeated the space between us.

Argentina. Something tightened in my chest.

I nodded slowly. “I understand.”

As I left the office, my mind felt strangely quiet.

Back in my cabin, I opened my desk drawer without thinking. Perhaps this opportunity will allow me to escape them.

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