Chapter 20 Aidan
AIDAN
Ipick Iris up at midday on Saturday, outside her apartment in Queens.
She waits on the icy sidewalk in her usual wool coat, baby-blue beanie on her head, and jeans tucked into tall brown boots.
The boots she wore in Marco’s. An overnight bag hangs off one arm, and in her hands, she holds two coffees.
It’s technically not even a workday, and she still got me one.
I pull up to the curb beside her, but she doesn’t step forward. It’s not until I roll down the passenger window and lean across to call out her name that she realizes it’s me.
“Sorry,” she murmurs, flustered as she slides into the passenger seat. “I didn’t…” She shakes her head. “Nice ride.”
I pull away from the curb, considering the car through her eyes.
It’s a nautical-blue Mercedes-Benz E-Class I bought a few years back.
Sleek, professional, and reliable. Understated class.
My father always drove a Mercedes, and the day I could afford my own felt like a quiet victory.
I keep the leather interior immaculate and the dashboard clean, but as Iris jams the to-go cups into the cup holders, I sense it may not remain that way.
“Ooh,” she says, wriggling in the seat. “My butt is toasty.”
“Seat warmers.” I stifle a smile as we pull onto the Long Island Expressway. I never use the passenger seat-warmer, for obvious reasons, but it was weirdly nice to turn it on today.
She tugs off her beanie, tousling her caramel waves. It’s just as well I have to hold the steering wheel, otherwise I’d reach over and run my fingers through those silky strands.
Her eyes sweep over the interior of the car, wide as they take in the streamlined dash, the digital navigation map inching forward as we fly along the expressway.
“I’m starting to really understand the difference in our salaries,” she says dryly, and it pulls at something inside me. The same something that bitterly resents what John’s doing to her.
“I wish you’d let me pay you back for the drafting table,” I mutter.
She cuts me a look. “I wish you’d stop bringing it up.”
I grind my teeth, saying nothing. So damn stubborn.
She’s quiet as we drive, gaze skimming over the cold, slate-gray world outside, dulled by low-hanging clouds. I sip the coffee she brought, trying not to steal glances at her. Trying not to wonder what she’s thinking.
I distract myself by thinking about the lighthouse project.
I did a little research last night, and it looks pretty weather-beaten.
From what I can gather, the town wants to preserve it but lacks funds, so our job is to draw up restoration and adaptive reuse plans so they can apply for grants.
A noble mission, no doubt, but hardly my area of expertise.
“I’ve never seen you in jeans,” Iris murmurs quietly, interrupting my thoughts.
I can feel her gaze on me, and I shift in my seat, self-conscious. She’s right. It’s always suits at the office, even that night when I dropped by her apartment, because I came straight from work.
But today, I couldn’t be fucked with the suit.
Maybe I should, given we’re meeting a potential client, but some tiny part of me rebelled at the idea of putting on a suit on a Saturday.
Maybe it’s a small fuck you to John, after he gave me yet another time-wasting assignment.
Something to wrench back some control when it feels like he’s putting me through the damn wringer.
Instead, I chose dark jeans and a forest-green crewneck cashmere sweater.
My watch glints in the soft interior light, and I notice Iris’s gaze catch on it, before straying over my torso.
When she bites her bottom lip, I have to look away.
It hadn’t occurred to me that she might like the way I look out of a suit, but I’m not going to lie—it feels pretty fucking good.
I catch myself, shaking off the thought.
Work. Focus on work.
Iris has the same thought, because she says, “I’m surprised you agreed to this lighthouse project. It seems… out of your wheelhouse.”
I slide her a look. “You know what my wheelhouse is, do you?”
She lifts a shoulder. “After you made such a big deal about the Bushwick studios, I looked through your portfolio. Some impressive projects in there.”
I nod. She’s not wrong. I’ve worked on some amazing places, for some notable clients. All work that’s meant to impress, but sometimes it’s hard to feel the difference it really makes.
“The lighthouse is… different,” Iris adds, and I grunt a sardonic laugh.
“I didn’t exactly have a choice.”
Worry flits across her brow. “Oh. Fuck. I didn’t mess up another meeting, did I?”
I soften. “No,” I say, resisting the urge to add her sweet nickname. Of course, she assumes she’s at fault. “John thought…” I pause, wondering how much to share, then decide fuck it. “He thinks I’m distracted lately, and could use something to get me back on track.”
Iris fiddles with the lid on her coffee cup as she absorbs this, and I’m grateful when she doesn’t press me on what, exactly, has been distracting me.
“He also mentioned it would be a good way to prove I’m ready for partner,” I mumble, but it sounds ludicrous even to my own ears.
I’ve done that a hundred times over already, on far more prestigious projects, but if I don’t believe that, then I’m not sure what I’m even doing here.
What I’ve been doing all these years. And that’s not something I can unravel right now.
“Once this is done, I’m sure John will finally deliver on his promise,” I add, more to reassure myself than anything else.
Iris hums quietly, as if wanting to say something and holding back. Eventually, she asks, “Is that your… thing? The thing that hasn’t turned out how you want?”
I furrow my brow, glancing at her. “What do you mean?”
“The day we met…” Her gaze darts to mine, then away. “I asked if you’d ever worked really hard on something that still hadn’t turned out the way you wanted, and you said yes. Is becoming a partner at the firm your thing?”
I watch the lane markings slide under the car, a blur of white against blacktop.
I’d forgotten that question she’d asked me—and my too-honest answer—but it comes back to me now.
The way she’d looked that day, so disheartened.
A feeling I’ve known too well these past few years, wondering if my work would ever satisfy John.
“Yes,” I admit.
She’s quiet for a beat. “Why?”
“Why, what?”
“Why is partnership so important to you?”
I falter at the question, taken aback. In truth, I’ve never stopped to ask it of myself. Partnership has always just been there, this goalpost in the distance, drawing me forward.
“It’s the next natural step in my career,” I say, but I know it’s not the whole truth.
When I look at Iris again, she’s studying me with raised brows, like she doesn’t quite believe it. I sigh, forcing myself to really think about the answer. What comes out next surprises me.
“I guess it became a goal for me after my father died.”
“Oh,” she says quietly. “I’m sorry.”
I nod my thanks. “It was eight years ago,” I mumble, as if that explains my lack of emotion. “Heart attack.”
Iris gazes at me with her hand to her heart, eyes shining. After another beat, she says, “Tell me about him.”
“About Dad?” I let the thought sit for a moment, changing lanes to pass a semi-truck. “He was a renowned architect who created some of the most iconic buildings on the modern New York skyline.”
Iris cocks her head. “Like what?”
“Ever heard of the Stratus Tower?” Even without being an architecture student, I figure she’ll be familiar with it.
A 75-story mixed-use luxury high-rise tower in Midtown, with a glass and steel facade and dramatic vertical lines most New Yorkers recognize, it’s featured in multiple architecture magazines, becoming an iconic part of the city’s skyline.
“My father was the lead architect on that.”
“Wait.” Iris twists to face me squarely. “Stirling Brooks? He’s your father?”
I let out a lungful of air, nodding.
“Holy shit,” she whispers. “I never connected the name.”
Maybe that should annoy me, but it doesn’t. If anything, it’s a relief to know her view of me hasn’t been through the same lens everyone else sees me through. The son of an architect, trying to follow in his father’s footsteps, and floundering.
I sneak a glance at her, wondering if she’ll view me differently now, but she only gives a slow shake of her head.
“No wonder you’re aiming high. I thought my father was a lot to live up to.”
“John’s done some impressive work,” I tell her, as if she doesn’t already know. “He was a close friend of my father’s for years. Been mentoring me ever since Dad died.”
Iris nods, eyes moving over my face. “What was he like as a dad?”
I slide her a questioning look, silently asking why she’s so interested, and she gives me a sheepish smile.
“Sorry,” she mumbles. “I’m being nosy. Never mind.”
But as she turns to gaze quietly out the window again, I realize how much I want to tell her. I want to share things with her that I’ve never shared with anyone.
“He wasn’t warm,” I murmur. “More concerned with his career above all else.” It occurs to me how much this descriptor fits myself, and I continue, wanting to explain.
“He had a vision for his career, the legacy he wanted to leave. I always admired how much he fought for that. How he refused to quit. And when Mom left…” I catch myself just in time, swallowing the words.
But Iris doesn’t miss them. “Left?” she asks softly.
I hesitate, then nod. “She left when I was sixteen. Couldn’t handle Dad working so much.”
“Did you split your time between her and your dad?”
I shake my head, jaw tightening. This is the part I never understood. Maybe Dad was career-obsessed, but what about us? She never fought for Sophie and me. She just walked away from us all.
“No,” I say, voice hoarse. “We tried at first, but she moved out to the West Coast and got married not long after. It was easier…”
“Oh, Aidan,” Iris whispers. When I glance over, her eyes are glistening with emotion.
It pierces a place deep in my chest, making my pulse stumble.
I’ve never told anyone this story before, least of all a woman I’m attracted to, and I’m not prepared for Iris’s response.
For the way it feels to have someone listen, maybe even see the pain that lingers underneath everything I do to keep my life in order.
And I’m especially unprepared for how hard it hits me.
I force my gaze to the road.
“It taught me a valuable lesson,” I say, gripping the steering wheel as I remind myself of the one fact that seems to keep slipping my mind lately. “I knew that if I wanted success like my father’s, it required sacrifice.”
But as I say the words, I think of how I’ve felt lately, around Iris. How hard I’ve fought it, despite the ache I feel to be with her. How I’ve never let myself have anything that could distract from my work, and I’m only now realizing it might have cost me more than I ever expected.
“Is that really what you believe?” Iris asks quietly.
I should answer, should reinforce that yes, it’s a sacrifice worth making, but I can’t bring myself to say the words. Not when I’m unsure I believe them anymore.
“It must have been hard,” she says after a while. “Your mom walking out.”
Sophie flashes into my mind. “It was hardest on my sister,” I say. It wasn’t so bad for me. I was already sixteen by the time Mom left, but Soph was only ten. Those were her formative years without her mom.
I look over to find Iris’s face alight with interest. “You have a sister? Younger or older?”
“Younger. Six years.”
A smile curls along Iris’s lips. “What’s she like?”
I huff a quiet laugh. “She’s a lot like you, actually. Messy. Easily distracted. A little chaotic.”
Iris frowns. “That’s how you see me?”
I cringe. Shit, I hadn’t meant to be quite so candid. I don’t want to lie to her, but I also don’t want her to think I view her in a negative light. Not when it’s so far from the truth.
“It was at first,” I confess. “But you’re also incredibly resourceful and creative.” I pause, wondering how much to say. “And you feel things very deeply. I noticed that the day we met.”
Iris drops her gaze, cheeks pink as she picks at a piece of lint on her jeans, not saying anything.
“Soph is exactly the same,” I add gently. “And I wouldn’t change her.”
It’s as close as I can get to telling Iris how much I like those traits in her. That even the things that used to frustrate me now make me smile. They’re who she is.
“After Mom left,” I continue, “Sophie fell apart for a while. It crushed me to see her so miserable. I promised I’d never let anything happen to her again.”
Iris watches me, saying nothing, but it’s the kind of look that suggests she hears the things I’m not saying. Things I don’t intend to say.
Clearing my throat, I attempt to steer the conversation away from myself.
“Tell me about your mom,” I say, turning onto Sunrise Highway.
Obviously, I know John’s married—Judy, I think his wife’s name is—but he talks very little about her, much like he did about Iris.
She never comes to work events, never visits the firm.
Iris sighs. “There’s not much to tell.”
“Are you close to her?”
She snorts. “No.” When I don’t respond, Iris continues.
“Mom is… I don’t know. We’ve never been close.
Never did the mother-daughter stuff you’re supposed to do.
She’s never been as hard on me as Dad is, but she never stepped in when he criticized me.
She’d just shrink into herself and try to keep the peace. ”
This doesn’t surprise me, not with the way I’ve seen Iris do exactly that. It’s been painful to watch John slowly chip away at his daughter, but it’s probably nothing compared to all the stuff I haven’t seen. A lifetime of crushing her spirit.
And knowing her mom never stood up for her… My grip tightens on the steering wheel. For the first time, the parallels between John’s family and that of my own come into focus. Judy may not have left physically, but it sounds as though she checked out a long time ago.
My heart aches as I gaze at Iris. She’s gone through her entire life with no one on her side, no one being there for her when she needs them. The more I learn about her, the more I want to be the one to shield her from the world. I know I shouldn’t. Not when there are a thousand reasons not to.
But I’m not sure how much longer I can convince myself they matter.