I catchBea watching me from the corner of the conference room with her pen poised over her notebook and eyes sharp and focused. For a split second, something flashes across her face—admiration? Interest? Or maybe just my wishful thinking?—before she schools her expression back to professional neutrality.
I force my attention back to the investors, explaining how the affordable housing component creates sustainable community integration. My words flow smoothly even while my mind keeps drifting to her—to that almost-smile when I brought her coffee this morning, to the way she defended me to Ezra yesterday as if she were my biggest ally and not a gorgeous pain in my ass.
“The mixed-income approach actually increases property values over time,” I explain, gesturing to the projection. “We’ve seen this model succeed in three other urban developments.”
The oldest investor—Wilson, the one whom I need to convince the most—nods appreciatively. “Bold choice. Most developers would maximize luxury units for faster returns.”
“We’re not most developers,” I reply, letting confidence color my voice, feeling Bea’s gaze burn into me. “King Developers believes in building communities, not just profits, because we believe that it’s the future.”
It sounds like corporate bullshit, but I actually mean it. My buildings are the only thing I’ve ever created that make me feel like I’m worth something. Like maybe I’m not just the fucked-up little brother with anger issues who was left alone because his big brother always took the blame.
The meeting wraps up with handshakes and promises of follow-up calls. I watch the investors leave, their satisfied murmurs echoing in the hallway, and feel something loosen in my chest. The presentation went well—better than well. Wilson actually smiled when I explained the green space integration, and that man hasn’t smiled at anything since the Reagan administration.
“That was impressive,” Bea says, closing her notebook as she stands. Her voice is carefully neutral, but there’s something underneath it that makes me look at her more closely.
“Just doing my job,” I reply, loosening my tie. The conference room suddenly feels too small with just the two of us in it. Too hot for me to breathe.
She tilts her head, studying me with those sharp eyes that seem to see too much. “Is that what you call it? Because from where I was sitting, it looked like you were painting them a vision of something bigger than just another building.”
The observation startles me. Most people see the sales pitch, the smooth presentation designed to part investors from their money. But Bea heard something else—the genuine belief I have in what I’m trying to create.
“You were paying attention,” I say, moving closer without really meaning to. My body naturally gravitates to her.
“It’s my job to pay attention.” She steps back slightly, but not before I catch the faint flush creeping up her neck. “The Wilson Group wants to schedule a site visit for next week. I’ll coordinate with their assistant.”
Right. Work. Business. The safe territory we keep retreating to whenever the air between us gets too charged.
“Good,” I manage, watching as she gathers her things, maintaining that careful distance she’s been keeping all day. Whatever ground we gained last night, whatever shift happened in this office, she’s clearly trying to walk it back. I should be grateful to her for making this choice for us. This is safer, cleaner, and definitely less complicated. But something in me rebels against the careful walls she’s rebuilding.
“Wilson was impressed with your affordable housing model,” she continues, her voice all business. “And my father used to say that nothing can make Wilson part ways with money unless it triples his fortune.”
“It’s not about the property values,” I say before I can stop myself.
She pauses, looking up at me with genuine curiosity. “No?”
I run a hand through my hair, frustrated by my inability to explain something that feels obvious to me but probably sounds like nonsense to someone who grew up with everything just like me. But I also saw another side. My mom’s side and where she came from.
And then I remember that Bea doesn’t have a family trust anymore, and she might understand it more than anyone else.
“The affordable housing matters because people matter. Because building something that only serves the rich is—” I stop, feeling suddenly exposed.
“Is what?” she prompts, and there’s something in her eyes now, something that makes me want to keep talking even though I know I shouldn’t.
“Hollow,” I finish, the word rough in my throat. “It’s building something that looks impressive but has no soul.”
Bea stares at me, her lips parted slightly in surprise. For a moment, neither of us speak, and all I can do is stare in her big eyes.
“I didn’t think you cared about things like that,” she says finally, and her voice sounds softer than I’ve heard it all day.
“Most people don’t,” I admit. “My father certainly didn’t. He built monuments to wealth, nothing else. And that’s not what King Developers was supposed to be.”
“You don’t want to be like him,” she notes, and it’s not a question. The quiet understanding in her voice makes me want to tell her things I’ve never told anyone.
I lean against the conference table, studying her face in the afternoon light streaming through the windows. “Why does that surprise you?”
She considers this, fidgeting with the edge of her notebook. “Because when I first met you, you seemed like…” She trails off, shaking her head.
“Like what?” I press, genuinely curious what her first impression was, even though I can kind of imagine.
