Chapter 1
AYLA
I looked out the floor-to-ceiling windows of my office and smiled.
From this vantage point, it felt like the world was practically at my feet.
Which it technically was, seeing as I designed and owned half the buildings on the Upper East Side.
I could see the cars, the people of Manhattan walking along the street.
My eyes zeroed in on a couple walking into a restaurant opposite my office building.
The man adjusted her scarf, kissed her on the forehead, before taking her hand and leading her in.
A text lit up the screen, it was from Susan.
Your dry cleaning is in the closet, and I made sure to confirm tomorrow's schedule. Goodnight, Miss Thatcher.
I didn't respond.
I heard my office door open before I heard anything else. Only one person would come here this late. Only one person would walk down the hall, take the first right turn, and walk in without knocking.
"Ayla." Dan's voice filled my office. I didn't need to turn around to see the smile on his face. "Burning the midnight oil again?"
I wanted to roll my eyes, but I didn't. The only reason I still entertained his presence was because of his stake in my company. Dan didn't have a decent bone in his body. His only redeemable quality was his eye for good business. That's how he stayed so rich.
"It's not midnight," I said before turning around.
Dan leaned against the doorframe, silver hair swept back, navy suit tailored to perfection.
He pushed off it and moved around the space, touching architectural models I'd told him time and time again to keep his hands from. I suppressed my annoyance.
He finally stopped and looked at me. "Have dinner with me." It wasn't a question. It never was with him.
I gave him a once-over. Dan was like a fly. He liked to buzz around, get as close as possible just to test his limits. And when I swatted him away, he remained for all of five minutes before trying again.
And not only was Dan not my type, but I also never mix business with pleasure. "No."
"You said that last week."
I slid one of the files into my bag. "And I'll say the same thing when you ask next week. My answer hasn't changed."
He chuckled and stepped closer. The subtle scent of sandalwood followed him. "Come on, Ayla. We've been doing this dance for four years. I'm not getting any younger."
"Neither am I. Go hit on someone else."
He laughed. We both knew he was going to do just that. "You know that's not why I took a chance on you, right? Investing in you was the right choice."
I finally looked at him. He approached me six months into my first job at Montgomery, and I didn't think twice before accepting his offer. My mother urged me to stay out of loyalty, but I've never been good with sentiment. People follow their own interests — that's just how it works.
Deep down, Dan knew nothing was ever going to happen between us. I thought this was his way of keeping things interesting for himself. A little harmless flirtation to remind himself he still had it. I couldn't really blame him for that.
"And I've made you three hundred million dollars since then. Consider us even." I lifted my bag onto my shoulder. "Goodnight, Dan."
He held my gaze for a beat too long before his lips curled into his signature smile. "One of these days, Ayla."
"No, Dan," I said. "Never." And I meant it.
I waited until the elevator doors slid shut before I moved. Men. They always think they can get whatever they want, and can't quite figure out what to do with themselves when they can't.
I checked my emails on the way down to the ground floor. Next week's schedule was packed, and on top of that, there was the Ashcroft project. The old man was easily the most difficult client I ever worked with, but I felt certain the new design would finally crack that permanent scowl of his.
"Finally. I thought you'd sleep up there."
Jessica Fletcher leaned against the lobby desk, arms crossed, looking like she had all the time in the world. My Director of Planning and Development. Dan fought me on hiring her — too young, too naive, he said. I disagreed. Four years later, I was still right.
"Why are you still here?" I asked.
She smiled, dark hair tucked carelessly behind one ear, pencil skirt wrinkled, blazer slung over her bag. "Come get drinks with me. There's a nice rooftop bar on 58th."
I pretended to consider it. Jessica was the closest thing I had to a friend, though I wasn't sure either of us would ever use that word. We didn't share secrets or discuss our weekends, our relationships — well, my relationships were personal, and I preferred it that way.
"I'm tired," I said.
"You're always tired." Her smile widened. "Please? Gabby was supposed to come, but she got called out of town for work."
"I'm going home, Jess. You should too." I took a step. But Jess moved to block me.
"One drink. You can judge everyone's fashion choices and leave. And, you're also always alone in that ridiculous penthouse of yours."
I tried not to grin. I did enjoy judging people's fashion choices, and I could definitely use a drink. But going out with Jess could be crossing that line, letting her into my life, giving her the chance to stab me in the back.
But Jess had a girlfriend; there was no boyfriend to steal.
I sighed. "Fine. One drink."
She squealed and followed me through the revolving door. George was already coming around the Bentley to open the back door. "Evening, Miss Thatcher."
I slid in and handed him my bag. Jess followed. "Jess, can you give George the address?"
As she leaned forward to describe the bar to him, a notification lit up the screen. An email from Edward Ashcroft. I resisted the urge to roll my eyes and opened it anyway. Same as the other fifteen emails he sent over the past day — he wanted something futuristic, something never seen before.
I typed back, letting him know I had a new design ready. Then I pulled up Susan's thread and told her to set up a meeting with Edward the next day at 3 PM.
By the time I worked through the rest of my emails, the city had shifted around us, midtown fading into the quieter stretch of 58th. The car rolled to a stop.
I looked up, grabbed my bag from George, and stepped out.
"Are you seriously bringing that?" Jess nodded at the Birkin in my hands.
I grinned. "You told me to judge fashion choices. That's exactly what I plan to do."
George held the car door as we stepped out. The security at the entrance gave a polite nod and held the door open for us.
The bar was exactly what I expected — exposed brick, Edison bulbs, the kind of space that called itself contemporary and meant it as a compliment. Not crowded either. Mostly men in slim-fit suits who thought finance was a personality trait.
Jess and I settled into a white couch in the far corner. A waiter appeared almost immediately. Jess ordered something pink and frozen. I asked for whiskey.
"So," Jess said, spinning the tiny umbrella in her drink. "When's the last time you actually did something that wasn't about work?"
I took a sip of my whiskey. "I'm here, aren't I?"
"That's not what I mean and you know it. Come on, look around. There have to be at least two or three worth your time."
I let my gaze drift across the room. A man at the bar caught my eye and smiled. Blonde, good jawline, Armani suit, Jack Nichlaus Day-Date on his wrist. My eyes dropped to his hand. Wedding ring.
I looked away. Married, and still looking. It never failed to amaze me how easily some people wore their vows.
"See, this is exactly what I mean," Jess continued. "That guy was cute. You didn't even—"
"He's married." I took a sip of my drink.
"What about him?" She gestured toward a man standing a few feet away. He noticed us looking and smiled.
I looked back at my glass. "Not my type."
"Is anyone your type?"
I drained my glass. Loyal was my type. But I never found that, and I stopped looking years ago. "I'm leaving." I stood, pulled two twenties from my bag, and dropped them on the table. "Enjoy your evening, Jess."
I didn't wait for her response. I made my way back down to the street and into the car. George drove me home in silence. I took the elevator up to my apartment and locked the door behind me.
I didn't turn on the lights immediately.
I stood in the doorway and let the city glow through the windows.
I designed this space myself. CNBC once described it as a masterpiece of architecture.
Nestled on Billionaire's Row, the apartment covered over 7,000 square feet, with a glass-enclosed terrace, an infinity pool, and panoramic views stretching from the Hudson to the East River.
Central Park sat directly below, dark and sprawling against the glittering grid of the city.
It was perfectly quiet.
I poured myself a glass of wine and settled into my white leather couch.
A notification lit up the screen, it was from my sister, Meg.
I opened it. It was a photo of her grinning into the camera, dark hair falling over one shoulder, wearing an oversized NYU sweatshirt.
She stood in front of what looked like a dorm room, a corkboard full of photos covering the wall behind her.
College is CRAZY. Also, I met someone. His name is Jace, and he's a philosophy major. Don't laugh.
Another photo appeared. It was of Meg and a lanky boy with brown eyes and a terrible fashion sense. They were at a coffee shop, his arm draped casually over her shoulders.
I stared at the image for a moment. She looked happy. Genuinely happy. Nineteen years old and still untouched by the world. Three years younger than I was when I learned better. She would learn too, eventually. Everyone did.
You look lovely.
I typed back, and didn't mention the boy.
I set my phone face down on the cushion beside me, finished my drink, and went to bed.
The next morning started like every other.
I dressed in a beige turtleneck, charcoal slacks, and black ankle boots, then pulled my red hair into a low twist at the nape of my neck.
I grabbed my bag and headed out. George was already waiting in the lobby.
I handed him my bag and walked ahead to the car.
I was three steps from it when a small body slammed into my legs.
"Lily, careful!"
I looked down. A little girl stared up at me, blinking. Dark hair in pigtails, enormous pink bows that matched her equally pink dress.
"Can I touch your hair?" She tugged at my sleeve.
Her father appeared before I could answer, slightly out of breath, a sparkly backpack hanging off one shoulder. He shot me an apologetic smile. "I'm so sorry, she's a handful."
I gave him a polite nod, climbed into the back seat, and George pulled away from the curb.
Susan was already at the entrance when I arrived, holding out my coffee. I took it without breaking stride, and she fell into step beside me as we headed up.
"Leave this in my office," I said, handing the coffee back as I pushed the conference room door open.
The meeting was already underway when I walked in. I took my seat at the head of the table without a word and let the team move through their updates — projects, completions, outstanding issues. Susan slipped in partway through, set my tablet down in front of me, and took the seat next to Jess.
I picked up the tablet just as a notification lit up the screen, it was Edward Ashcroft confirming this afternoon. I set it face down and looked up.
Jason was already pulling up the next slide.
"We've been contracted for a mixed-use development outside Pittsburgh.
" He pointed at the screen. "Six stories, 10,500 square feet — former residential, already sold to the client.
The complication is the property next to it.
" He let that sit for a second. "A bookstore. Pages and Prose."
My eyes locked onto the screen. Jason zoomed in, and my chest tightened before my head caught up. It was the same window display filled with handwritten staff recommendations, the same wooden bench out front, worn at the edges, where I once sat for hours without looking up.
"Where exactly?" I asked.
"Aspinwall, Pennsylvania. The owner refused every offer so far, but with the right approach—"
"I'll handle it."
Every head turned toward me.
Jason blinked. "I'm sorry?"
I met Jason's eyes across the table. "I'll oversee this project personally."
The room went quiet. Even Jess. I rarely took on projects directly anymore — that was what I had department heads for, and everyone around that table knew it.
"With all due respect, Miss Thatcher," Jason said carefully, "this is a relatively small development. Surely your time would be better spent—"
"My time is mine to allocate, Jason."
He swallowed and nodded. "Of course. I'll have everything on your desk by end of day."
"Do that." I stood and smoothed my slacks, turning to Susan before she could ask.
"Clear my schedule for the next month."
I hadn't been back to Aspinwall in six years.
This time, I would tear down every brick of that bookstore myself.
Click Here to Continue Reading Mine to Lose