Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Eli
I slip into the Design Studio at six-thirty, desperate for its familiar calm before she arrives.
Morning light slices through the windows, bathing everything in merciless gold, yet does nothing to soothe the restlessness beneath my skin. I trace my fingers along the polished edge of the conference table, measuring the precise distance where she’ll sit. Opposite me. Too far. Too close.
God, I haven't seen her in years, and now the wait for her consumes me—a hunger that claws beneath my skin.
Coffee abandoned on my desk, I stare at Manhattan waking below. I’ve rehearsed this meeting in my head a dozen times since yesterday. Professional. Controlled. Unaffected.
A lie I tell myself as my fingers find my cufflinks, adjusting them for the third time in ten minutes.
“Isla Carrington is in the building,” IRIS alerts me.
My body tenses at the quiet notification, a betrayal I can’t suppress.
Xander appears in the doorway, watching me with that careful assessment he reserves for unpredictable variables.
“You look like shit,” he says, folding his arms as he leans against the wall.
“Thanks. I was going for devastated but professional.”
“Missed the mark. Landed somewhere between hasn’t slept and might crack under pressure.”
He straightens one of my models, a small adjustment that speaks volumes about his concern. “Want to talk about it?”
“Not particularly.”
“Good, because you need to hear this instead.” His tone shifts, CEO mode activating. “Whatever happened five years ago? It doesn’t matter today. This is about proving you can lead. That you deserve COO, regardless of Father’s games.”
“Easy for you to say. Your arranged marriage actually worked out.”
“Because we chose to make it work.” His gaze sharpens. “The question is, what are you going to choose?”
Before I can answer, I feel it—that imperceptible shift in the air that signals her approach.
The fine hairs on my neck rise before I even hear her footsteps.
Xander notices, his expression softening slightly.
“Remember,” he says quietly, “you’re not just Eli who loved her anymore. You’re Elliot Alderidge, future COO. Act like it.”
“Right.” I adjust my cuffs again, ignoring the familiar ache in my chest. “Professional. Focused. I can do this.”
“Of course you can.” Xander heads for the door, then pauses. “Just... try not to look at her like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like she still has your heart in her pocket.”
I don’t answer, because we both know the truth.
The door opens.
The years of distance collapse like paper walls in flame. Every careful layer of forgetting, every practiced defense—all meaningless the moment she steps inside.
Her scent reaches me first. Then her presence. My body remembers what my mind tried to bury.
Time hasn't dulled a thing.
She hesitates, just for a second, one hand still on the door handle. The light filtering through the panoramic windows catches in her hair, illuminating hints of copper. The citrusy scent of her perfume reaches me, and my pulse stutters like a goddamn rookie.
“Eli.” Her voice is soft, careful. Not the confident Isla I expected.
“Isla.” Her name tastes foreign and familiar at once on my tongue.
She moves forward, shoulders squared, gaze trained on the conference table. A lifetime ago, she would’ve walked straight to me. Now, there’s an invisible wall between us, and neither of us dares to cross it.
“You look...” I catch myself, forcing my voice into something neutral. Don’t be that guy. Don’t be obvious. “...well.”
“So do you.” She’s poised. Measured. But when she finally meets my eyes, I swear I see something flicker—just for a second. A hesitation. A thought she doesn’t want me to read. And then it’s gone, her mask back in place.
She gestures to the architectural models.
“Should we review before everyone arrives?”
“Right. Yes.” I clear my throat, turning toward the display. “The sustainable features overview.”
She’s standing close. Too close.
I hear the faint intake of her breath, feel the shift in the air as she reaches for the same model I’m adjusting.
Her fingers skim mine, and I feel it like a live wire, the current rushing through me. My grip tightens involuntarily before I force myself to let go. Professional. Focused. But fuck—how does a five-second touch feel like a goddamn wrecking ball?
She pulls back first. Too fast. Like she felt it too.
I clench my jaw and drag my focus back to the project. This is just business.
“Stakeholders are arriving,” I warn, hearing footsteps approaching.
The conference room fills quickly, quiet murmurs and coffee cups creating a familiar rhythm. I keep my attention on the models, pretending not to be hyper-aware of Isla’s presence.
“Good morning, everyone.”
Her voice shifts—professional, steady, not the same Isla who used to whisper my name against my skin.
My hands still on the model. A fraction of a second, but Xander catches it. He covers smoothly.
“Morning, Ms. Carrington. Please, join us at the table.”
She slides into a seat across from me, copper hair neatly twisted, posture exuding confidence. She looks like she belongs here. And yet, all I can see is the memory of her in my Columbia sweatshirt, bare feet tucked beneath her on my dorm room floor, tracing design sketches with a lazy smile.
I pull up the timeline projections on the display, forcing my attention back to the matter at hand.
The meeting runs like clockwork.
Isla speaks, and I pretend not to notice the subtle tremor in her fingers when she turns a page. I present the data, and she nods at the right times, keeping a perfect poker face. We’re both masters of pretending.
Everything is regulated—until our hands brush again.
We reach for the same model. I swear I see her fingers hesitate. My pulse kicks up, and I wonder if she can hear it, feel the static thickening between us.
Then—
“Mr. James Wolfe is requesting entry,” my assistant announces.
The room shifts. The moment is gone.
I inhale sharply, locking every unruly thought back in place. Isla’s fingers retreat. The meeting continues.
But for the first time in years, I feel completely off my axis.
“His input would be valuable for the historic fa?ade integration,” Mrs. Wu notes, though something in her tone suggests caution.
“Of course,” I say, because there’s really no other option. The preservation requirements are too crucial to risk offending him.
“Show him in.”
Wolfe enters with the quiet confidence of someone who’s spent decades in rooms like this. His silver hair catches the morning light, tailored suit marking him as old money—the kind that doesn’t need to announce itself.
“Mr. Alderidge,” he says, extending his hand. His grip is firm, measured. “Quite the ambitious project you have here.”
“We’re excited about integrating sustainable innovation with SoHo’s historic character,” I respond, gesturing to the architectural models.
“The preservation of the cast-iron fa?ade is a key priority.”
“Indeed.” His steel-gray eyes scan the room, lingering briefly on Isla before returning to me. “Though I must admit, some of our board members have... concerns about such modern elements in the historic district.”
“The Artisan Hotel will enhance the neighborhood’s character,” Isla interjects, her voice steady. “Our design celebrates the original architecture while bringing it into the future.”
Wolfe’s smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Ambitious and passionate. Your father always did have an eye for talent, Elliot.”
Something in his tone makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up, but I maintain my professional smile.
“We’ve assembled the best team possible.”
“Clearly.” He moves to examine the models more closely.
“Tell me about these sustainable features. I’m particularly interested in how they’ll affect the original structure.”
I launch into an explanation of our preservation plans, hyper aware of Isla’s presence as she adds technical details. The meeting continues, but something has shifted.
Mrs. Wu watches Wolfe with an unreadable expression, making careful notes. Xander’s posture has subtly straightened—his boardroom stance, the one he uses when sizing up potential threats.
“Fascinating approach,” Wolfe says finally, straightening his cuffs. “The Heritage Board will watch this project’s development with great interest.” His gaze sweeps the room once more. “Very great interest.”
A chill runs down my spine, and I find myself adjusting my own cuffs—a tell I need to control. The professional mask stays firmly in place, but underneath, every instinct is suddenly alert.
The meeting wraps up with polite nods and handshakes. As the room clears, Isla lingers at the digital display, her fingers moving through project renderings with practiced grace. I try not to stare, but muscle memory betrays me—I still know every micro expression that crosses her face.
“The structural integration looks solid,” she says without looking up. “But we should review the sustainability metrics before the Ethics Committee meeting next week.”
“I’ll have the data compiled.” My voice sounds steadier than I feel. “We can go over it tomorrow if you’re free.”
She nods, professional distance perfect. But I catch the slight tension in her shoulders, the way her fingers pause for a fraction of a second on the screen.
“Tomorrow works. 9 a.m.?”
“Nine it is.”
Xander clears his throat from the doorway.
“Eli, the board’s waiting for your quarterly projection report.”
Right. Because running a billion-dollar company doesn’t pause for personal crises.
“I’ll be right there.”
Isla gathers her tablet and drawings, every movement exact. As she passes, a hint of her perfume—something citrus and clean—catches me off guard. For a moment, I’m back in the Design Studio at Columbia, watching her sketch late into the night, her copper hair falling loose from its clip...
“Eli?” Xander’s voice snaps me back. “The board?”
“Coming.” I straighten my tie, reset my expression. The morning sun has shifted, casting new shadows across the architectural models.
I switch off the drafting lamp and head for the door.
One meeting down. Countless more to go. But today proved one thing—Isla Carrington isn’t just a ghost from my past. She’s here. And she’s going to ruin me all over again.
The board meeting drags, but I can’t focus on the quarterly projections. All I see is the way Isla’s fingers trembled when they brushed mine. The flex in her throat when she swallowed. The careful distance she maintained—professional, perfect, and utterly false.
I’ve spent five years convincing myself I was over her. Building walls she tore down with a single touch.
Pathetic.
“Eli?” Xander’s voice cuts through my thoughts. The boardroom has emptied; I didn’t even notice. “You want to tell me what that was?”
“What what was?”
“You haven’t heard a word we’ve said for the last hour. And you agreed to Roberts’ outrageous budget increase.”
I straighten, jaw tight. “I’ll fix it.”
“That’s not the point.” He settles against the edge of the table, studying me. “One meeting with her, and you’re already?—“
“I’m fine.” The words come out harder than intended. “It was just unexpected.”
“Bullshit.” Xander rarely curses. When he does, it means he’s genuinely concerned. “You knew she was coming.”
“Knowing and seeing are different things.”
He watches me for a long moment, then sighs.
“You can’t do this again, Eli. Not with everything at stake.”
“Do what, exactly?”
“Let her get under your skin. Let her affect your judgment.”
“She doesn’t?—“
“She does.” His voice drops. “I saw how you looked at her. How you still look at her. Like nothing’s changed.”
“Everything’s changed.” I turn to the window, needing distance from his too-perceptive gaze. “She left, Xander. Five years ago. Without a word. Without a reason.”
“And yet, one touch, and you’re right back where you started.”
The accusation hits its mark. I don’t deny it. Can’t deny it.
“I can handle it.”
“Can you?” He straightens, smoothing his tie. “Because we’ve got two hundred million riding on this project. And Father made damn sure neither of us can walk away.”
“I know what’s at stake.”
His voice softens. “It’s not just the company, Eli. It’s you. She broke you once. I won’t watch it happen again.”
The protective big brother. Always watching out for us, even when we don’t want him to.
“I appreciate the concern,” I say, forcing a smile that doesn’t reach my eyes. “But I’ve got this under control.”
He studies me for a long moment. “Just... be careful. This isn’t just about Phase Two.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Father didn’t do anything without reason. There’s more here than we’re seeing.”
With that cryptic warning, he leaves me alone with thoughts I’ve spent time trying to bury.
Isla Carrington. Back in my life by my father’s design.
I should hate him for it. Should hate her for walking away. Should hate myself for still wanting her after all this time.
Instead, I find myself staring at tomorrow’s calendar entry.
9 a.m. Sustainability review.
And God help me, I’m already counting the hours.