“Of course I remember, and absolutely not. I’m already worried people will think I got the job because of you. If I get it, I want it to be because I earned it.”
“People will always talk,” he says simply. “Architecture’s competitive as hell. As long as you know you got there on your own merit, that’s what matters. Screw what anyone else thinks.”
The sincerity in his voice catches me off guard. I smile, but guilt twists in my chest. I want to reach for his hand again. I want to trace the curve of his mouth when he smiles like that. And it hits me — brutally — that I’m the one who slammed the door on whatever was happening between us.
“I do have one condition, though,” Henry says, rounding his desk again.
“Condition?” I ask, wary.
“As a thank you for all your work — and to celebrate what we’ve achieved — I’d like you to attend the Architect Awards ceremony with me.”
My brain short-circuits.
“Oh, I—”
“Not as a date,” he adds quickly, seeing the flicker of panic on my face. His tone is professional, but there’s something softer underneath. “Just… as my guest.”
What he doesn’t know is that the idea of itbeinga date makes my stomach twist with something suspiciously close to excitement. I want to go with him — not as his assistant, but ashis.
“Yes,” I say.
“Yes?”
“Yes, I’d love to go with you.”
He smiles — genuine and warm — and my chest aches.
We manage to get through the meeting, but my brain is hopelessly distracted. Every time he leans forward or his sleeve rolls up, my focus vanishes. There’s this stupid, giddy energy between us, like we’re both pretending not to notice how charged the air has become.
When the meeting finally ends, it’s well past seven. I should leave. I don’t. I linger too long, smiling too wide, and by the time I get home, my cheeks actually ache.
Collapsing face-first into my pillow, I groan into the quiet and whisper the words I’ve been trying not to admit all week.
“I really like Henry Chase.”
Twenty Five
Henry
Iofficially hate weekends.
They don’t involve seeing Matilda.
By Saturday morning, I’ve realised I’ve become dependent on my daily dose of her — her bold, ridiculous outfits, her infectious laugh, even the coffee she brings me every morning. Hell, eventhattastes better when it’s from her.
So I drag myself to the gym to burn through the restless energy, then decide to stop by my dad’s. I’ve got his invite for the awards ceremony, though I already know he’ll find some excuse not to come. I understand, but it doesn’t make the sting any softer.
I try not to dwell. Dwelling leads to that familiar pit — the kind that creeps up when I stop moving long enough to think. I’ve never been one for sharing feelings. It’s a learned defence mechanism. I didn’t need therapy to figure that out.
The problem with bottling everything up, though, is that it fills you slowly, drop by drop, until one day the weight drags youunder. I’ve been there before — twice — and I can feel the pull again. Between Dad’s health declining and whatever the hell I’m feeling for Matilda, I’m treading water harder than ever.
But this time… I don’t want to throw my feelings away.
Maybe it’s the self-destructive side of me talking, but I want to hold on to them — toher.
I’m just waiting for the fallout.
I genuinely meant it when I invited her to the awards ceremony. It was supposed to be a simple thank-you. But when she told me she was applying for the residential position, something in me shifted. If I’m going to lose her, I at least want her to know the real me before she goes.
