Chapter 6. Argentina

6. Argentina

“Passengers, please fasten your seat belts. We’re cleared for takeoff,” the flight attendant said, her calm, polished voice cutting through the cabin.

It still didn’t feel real.

Stephan Rowan had handled everything with his usual precision. It was reassuring in a quiet way. I pulled my seat belt tighter until the cool metal dug into my palms. Just a week earlier, I’d been pacing my apartment, overwhelmed by doubts about the racetrack project. And now I was here, strapped into a plane, chasing an opportunity I couldn’t afford to let slip away.

It all traced back to one conversation with Alister.

“Mara, this is your chance,” he’d said, steady and sure. “It’s huge, yeah, but you should take it. Walk away and you’ll regret it forever. Even if you mess up, you learn. So say yes.”

“The pressure feels like too much, Ali,” I’d admitted, my hands twisted nervously in my lap.

“Pressure makes diamonds,” he shot back without hesitation. “Say yes.”

Something clicked after that. I nodded, letting his confidence seep into me. That night, I packed until sunrise.

The engines roared as the plane raced down the runway. I rested my forehead against the window, the glass cool against my skin, and watched New York shrink into scattered lights and fading twilight.

Stephan and Lara had offered me a seat on their private jet. Their daughter, Zara, had grown impossibly attached to me over the past week, her tiny arms reaching for me the moment I arrived. I adored her. I really did. But the jet felt personal. I needed space, and room to think.

The flight itself was long. I dragged my suitcase through customs, surrounded by rapid Spanish and the tired shuffle of travelers.

The moment I stepped outside, the heat hit me. It was nothing like New York’s cool spring breeze.

I loaded my bags into the car Stephan had arranged. The driver gave a brief nod as I slid into the backseat.

As soon as airplane mode turned off, my phone buzzed nonstop with at least ten messages from Ali, all some version of "Did you land? Call me." His worry softened the exhaustion weighing on me, and I called him.

“Ali?” I said when he picked up.

“Mara! Did you land safely?” Relief poured through his rough voice.

“Yeah. On my way to the hotel,” I said, glancing at the sprawling skyline. “Everything’s good.”

“Call me once you’re settled,” he said. “You have enough money?”

“I’m fine, and you already made sure of that. And my paycheck’s coming soon,” I reminded him. He’d practically dragged me through stores the week before, stuffing my arms with clothes, then slipped me extra cash.

“Alright,” he muttered, still unconvinced. “I’m just a call away.”

“I know. I’ll talk to you later,” I said as the car rolled up in front of a sleek, glass-fronted hotel.

“Love you, Mara.”

“Love you too,” I replied, stepping out into the heavy night air.

A staff member greeted me at the entrance and escorted me up to my room on the fifth floor. It was a bright and elegant room with hardwood floors and a massive window overlooking the city. I dropped my bags onto the carpet and drifted toward the glass, resting my hands against its cool surface as I took in the lights below.

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Earlier, on the way to my room, I’d passed Lara and Stephan in the hallway. Zara was fast asleep in Lara’s arms, tiny curls damp against her forehead.

“Hey, Ximara,” Lara had said with a warm, tired smile. After a week of late nights and long meetings, I’d asked them to keep things informal outside of work.

“Hey, Lara,” I’d replied, then nodded at Stephan. “Hi, Mr. Rowan.”

“Off the clock, it’s Stephan,” he’d said with a grin. “Don’t leave me out.”

“Alright, Stephan.” The name felt odd coming from my mouth. Knowing how he’d built Rowan Architects from the ground up and seeing the way he loved Lara and Zara made it easy to respect the boundaries he kept so clearly drawn.

“Zara’s completely out,” Lara whispered, brushing a curl from her daughter’s cheek. “Otherwise, she’d be reaching for you.”

“She needs the rest,” I’d said softly.

“You should rest too,” Stephan added, his voice shifting back into business mode. “We will meet you in the conference hall in two hours.”

“Understood,” I’d replied.

Back in my room, I changed out of my travel clothes and stepped into the shower. Hot water poured over my shoulders, loosening the stiffness from the long flight. I stayed there longer than necessary, letting the steam calm my nerves.

Afterward, I pulled on the tailored blazer and slacks Ali had insisted I buy. My reflection looked composed and professional, but my hands shook slightly as I fixed my hair. I couldn’t tell if it was nerves or excitement.

I spread my sketchbook and notes across the desk and focused on the racers’ dressing rooms. They needed industrial textures, bold reds against steel grays, and lockers.

A knock at the door snapped me back to the present.

A staff member in a crisp uniform told me everyone was ready for me downstairs.

I texted Ali that I'd call him later, grabbed my portfolio, and headed for the conference hall.

The room was impressive with high ceilings, a massive oval table, and documents laid out. Stephan and Lara sat among franchise owners and officials, authority settling around them like a second skin. Lara gestured for me to sit beside her, and I slipped into the chair without a word.

Across the table, several seats sat empty.

More people still coming?

Stephan stood. “Gentlemen, our reports confirm what we already know: we’re strong in innovation. We’ll turn your venue into something bold and efficient.”

Mr. David, an official with steely eyes and a razor-sharp jaw, leaned forward. “We’re impressed, Mr. Rowan. The work is solid. But we need clarity as of who’s responsible for what?”

“Of course,” Stephan replied smoothly. He gestured to a lean man holding a clipboard. “This is Liam Steven, our chief engineer- one of the best in New York. He’ll oversee the track structures, stands, and everything structural.”

Liam offered a brief, professional smile, earning a low ripple of approval around the table. Stephan moved on just as easily, introducing Jack next, a civil engineer with a quiet, observant intensity. Jack nodded once, the kind of man who absorbed every detail before speaking.

Then Stephan’s expression softened, his tone shifting enough to be noticed.

“And this is Lara Rowan,” he said, warmth in his voice. “My wife and one of our lead designers. She’s overseeing the visual design of the track and stands.”

“Good evening, gentlemen,” Lara said, her voice smooth and inviting, a polite smile settling easily on her face. Several of the men returned it. Lara had that effect without a hint of arrogance.

“And next,” Stephan continued, turning his gaze toward me, “Ximara Adler. Our interior designer. She stood out almost immediately and impressed us within weeks. She’ll be designing the racers’ and staff's dressing rooms.”

I managed a calm smile, though my throat felt painfully dry. A line of male gazes swept over me. I tightened my grip on my portfolio, grounding myself.

“Mr. Rowan,” one of the owners, Mr. Turner, interrupted, “the designs must suit the racers’ preferences. They can be… particular.”

“Already accounted for,” Stephan replied, nodding toward me. “Ximara will meet with them directly. She’ll gather their input and tailor the designs to fit.”

Mr. Turner leaned back, satisfied. “Good. They’ll be arriving shortly, including the main racers. There’s more to discuss with them.”

My pulse jumped.

The racers?

Adrenaline mixed with a wave of nausea hit me. I forced my breathing to steady as Stephan wrapped up the meeting. Tomorrow, we’d tour the entire track.

Back in my hotel room later, I dove straight into work. Sketches covered the bed in a chaotic spread. Three complete concepts took shape, each with its own personality: clean and minimalist, raw industrial, and a bold, color-driven design. Jet lag blurred my vision, but I pushed through until my eyes burned and my fingers ached.

Sometime after midnight, I finally collapsed.

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Morning hit hard and hot by the time we reached the racetrack. It was massive, with steel, asphalt, and raw potential stretched as far as the eye could see. The curves of the circuit shimmered in the heat.

I wandered through the pits on my own, sketchbook in hand and a borrowed tape measure swinging at my side, taking it all in. My pencil moved fast, reimagining the space from the ground up: matte-black lockers, leather-trimmed benches, and bold streaks of red cutting through gray.

I settled onto a crate near the pit wall, head bent low over my sketchbook, shading in a storage nook for gear. Everything else faded away until it was just paper, graphite, and possibility.

Then—

“Nice room.”

The voice came from behind me. Warm in a way that sent a shiver straight up my spine.

I startled so badly my pencil scraped across the page, leaving a jagged line. My heart slammed in my chest as I spun around, clutching the sketchbook tight.

Arthur Vance.

He stood there like he’d walked straight out of every racing magazine I’d ever pored over. Dark hair tousled by the wind. A hint of stubble along his jaw. A faint, knowing smile tugging at his mouth. His jacket looked worn-in, like something he’d pulled on after a hundred races.

Every other thought in my head disappeared.

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