The Architect Nikki Sloane Novels & Stories

By the time we were led over to the styling chairs, Sloane had already pulled up vacation rentals on her phone, flipping through them like a seasoned travel agent. “Okay, hear me out,” she said, holding her phone up to show me a glasshouse with a pool that overlooked the desert. “This one has an outdoor bathtub. I need an outdoor bathtub in my life, Kim.” I laughed. “You sound like you’re running away from something.” “Aren’t we all?” she smirked. Then she leaned back in her chair and glanced at me sideways. “Speaking of which... how was yesterday? At Alexander’s place?” I tried to play it cool as my stylist combed through my hair. “It was fine. We studied and talked a little. Nothing huge.”

“I have to get to work. I forgot a meeting. Still holding the back of Diana's neck, Michel pulled the thin woman tightly against his body and devoured her lips in a powerful kiss. “I'll see you tonight. Michel released Diana, allowing her to break free as he nodded. - What do you do? Nick asked. Diana turned to look at where the young man was. — I'm building a hotel downtown. “You are Diana Bonet. - Shara said raising her voice with emotion. “I saw your picture in one of those glossy architecture magazines. You designed the hotel, didn't you? Diana agreed. - I'm an architect. It was my first big project. Michel flashed a bright smile. “Smart and handsome. - I gotta go. I'm already late for a

"I think they'd like that. The architect who understands. Who survived." The following Monday, I return. The five women are there. Moving in. Unpacking. Diana introduces me. "This is Seraphina Ashford. The architect who designed this building. She's also a survivor." The women look at me. Some recognize the name from news coverage. From the trial. One woman, Maria, about my age, steps forward. "You're the one whose husband tried to shoot her." "Ex-husband. Yes." "He's in prison now?"

she whispered. For a brief moment, the decade of rivalry and bitterness faded. They were just two architects standing in the dust, breathing in the smell of old stone and infinite possibilities. But then, Elias’s phone chirped—a sharp, digital intrusion—and the professional mask was back in place instantly. "Draft the preservation proposal for the archway," he said, already turning back to his tablet. "If you can prove to me it’s structurally sound by Friday morning, I’ll find a way to keep it. If not, the wrecking ball comes in on Monday. No exceptions."

Nick's POV I met someone. Her name was Nora and she was an architect who had a small practice in the town we had moved to. I met her at a community planning meeting that I attended because Barlow, my client, had asked me to represent the company in a discussion about the old industrial district being redeveloped.

Julian planted the remaining shaped charges from the orphanage vault on the four central support columns while Sloane provided a wall of lead and steel. As the charges hissed, Sloane looked up at the solar where Viktor was watching, his expression one of clinical curiosity. "You're a monster, Viktor!" Sloane yelled. "I'm an architect, Sloane! And every great building needs a foundation of blood!" Julian grabbed Sloane’s waist, hooking his rappelling line to a chandelier. "Mark!"

What if— “Oh, fuck! Were you the one who sent the proposal for the Country Club?” Kino Sloane asked. “Yes. I am.” “Sorry, Mr. Bennett. I need to review these first. Our designers, Kinsella Sloane and her team, are kind of busy with our line up right now. I’ll see if I can present this to them soon.” He seemed to be sincere with his words.

Not the heavy boot of a mercenary, but the light, rhythmic step of someone who knew how to move in the dark. ​"Stay behind the press," Damian commanded, his hand reaching for the heavy iron handle of the proofing press a makeshift club if necessary. ​A figure emerged from the rows of trees. It wasn't Pietro. It was a woman, dressed in a sharp, slate gray suit that looked absurdly out of place in the rustic Italian countryside. She held a small, portable scanner in one hand and a silenced pistol in the other. ​"Aara Vance," she said, her voice like glass grinding on silk. "My name is Sloane. I represent the 'Clean Slate Initiative.' We believe the Great Audit was a mistake a chaotic disruptio

Then she said: "Sloane is going to end this." "Yes," I said. "Good," she said simply. We said goodbye. I put my phone down. Looked at the city. And thought about a woman on the fourteenth floor of a building on Lexington Avenue who had walked into a boardroom four months ago and negotiated the terms of an arrangement and had been building something ever since that nobody who had tried to stop her had been able to stop. Victor Ashwood had spent fifteen years positioning himself. He had fifty days left. And Sloane had a week.

I asked. Nick let go of my hand, "like as a slave or you as my boss?" I let out a laugh, leave it up to Nick to say such a thing. "I could use an architect, and you are the only person I know and trust. You see, I have this crazy idea in my head. I saw this land space and just thought. Why not build on that piece of land? Maybe turn it into a gated community, I have asked, and the governor gave me the go ahead if I can acquire it. I just need a time." I brought forward.