Chapter 33
GRIFFIN
You okay?
@tianawithlove
no.
@built2last
Want to talk about it?
@tianawithlove
not really.
@built2last
Okay.
@tianawithlove
that’s it?
@built2last
You said you didn’t want to talk about it.
@tianawithlove
most people would push.
@built2last
Do you want me to?
@tianawithlove
no.
@built2last
Then I won’t.
@tianawithlove
you’re annoyingly reasonable
@built2last
I’ve been called worse.
@tianawithlove
I doubt that.
@built2last
You’ve literally called me a serial killer.
@tianawithlove
in my defense, your profile is suspicious.
@built2last
In my defense, your shelf is still crooked.
@tianawithlove
low blow.
@built2last
Want a distraction?
@tianawithlove
depends.
@built2last
Favorite movie.
@tianawithlove
that’s your distraction?
@built2last
I’m trying my best, Trouble.
@tianawithlove
The Princess Diaries.
@built2last
Really?
@tianawithlove
don’t judge me.
@built2last
I wasn’t expecting that.
@tianawithlove
what were you expecting?
@built2last
Something involving a notebook and emotional devastation.
@tianawithlove
that’s sexist.
@built2last
Why? It’s my favorite movie.
@tianawithlove
LMAO bullshit.
@built2last
At least I made you laugh. Feeling better?
@tianawithlove
a little.
@built2last
Good.
@tianawithlove
why do you care?
@built2last
Because you seem sad.
@tianawithlove
I am...
@built2last
Can I do anything to help?
@tianawithlove
you’ve already done enough. thank you.
By nine-thirty a.m., I have redlined the same drawing six times.
There is nothing structurally wrong with it.
The east-facing glass wall is clean, the sightlines are exactly what I wanted, the cantilever over the lower terrace is aggressive without being ridiculous, and the transition between the old brickwork and the new steel frame is probably the best damn thing I’ve designed in months.
Still, I stare at it, black pen hovering above the page while the conference room buzzes around me with voices I’m only pretending to hear.
At the far end of the table, Henson is doing what Henson does best, which is charming an entire room of people into thinking he isn’t steering them exactly where he wants them to go.
He is leaning back in his chair with his ankle crossed over his knee, one hand wrapped around a coffee cup, looking less like the co-founder of one of the most successful construction firms in Seattle and more like someone who wandered in from a golf course with a trust fund and a good idea.
It works for him.
Worth sits beside him, expression calm, attention sharp in the way that always makes clients sit a little taller.
He hasn’t said much in the last ten minutes, which means he is either letting Henson handle the softer parts of the conversation or calculating how much money someone is about to waste by ignoring our recommendations. Possibly both.
“And what we’re really looking for,” Mrs. Calloway says from across the table, tapping one manicured finger against the glossy proposal packet in front of her, “is a space that feels elevated but intimate. Luxury without being cold. Timeless, but still memorable enough that donors feel like their names are attached to something important.”
All the words blur together until I’m not thinking about the east-facing glass wall anymore.
I’m thinking about Tiana in my house this morning, in an oversized sweatshirt and leggings.
About the way she didn’t look at me unless she had to.
The fact that I have touched every soft, trembling inch of that woman, have had her under me, around me, clinging to me like I was something she trusted to hold her, and now I can barely say good morning. Fucking coward.
I press the tip of my pen against the page hard enough to leave a dot of ink.
“Griffin?” Worth’s voice cuts through the room.
When I lift my head, every set of eyes at the table is on me.
“Do you want to answer Mrs. Calloway about her concerns?”
I set my pen down and slide the elevation forward. “The current concept already does what you’re asking for. The issue is that you’re trying to make the building prove its value from the street instead of letting people feel it once they’re inside.”
Mrs. Calloway blinks.
Henson’s mouth curves.
“This project is personal to your foundation,” I continue, shifting the packet so the lower-level floor plan faces her.
“You’re building a private family retreat center, not a hotel lobby with a donor wall.
The people walking through these doors are not coming because they want to be impressed.
They’re coming because they’re exhausted, overwhelmed, and probably carrying more than they know how to put down.
If the first thing they see is a two-story atrium designed to announce how expensive everything is, they’ll feel like guests in a museum. ”
The room goes quiet.
I drag my thumb along the edge of the page and tap the interior courtyard.
“But if we pull the entry sequence inward, lower the ceiling height here, open the sightline to the garden instead of the donor installation, and let the building breathe around them, then it becomes a place that receives people instead of performing for them.”
Mrs. Calloway studies the plan.
Her husband, who has spent most of the meeting nodding in silence, leans forward. “That sounds… less grand.”
“It is,” I say. “That’s why it works. This isn’t a vanity build,” I say, keeping my voice even. “At least, it shouldn’t be. You want timeless? Build something honest.”
A beat passes. Then Mrs. Calloway sits back and looks at Worth. “Is he always this direct?”
Worth’s mouth barely moves. “Only when he likes the project.”
Henson smiles. “You should see him when he hates one.”
That breaks the tension.
A few people laugh, including Mrs. Calloway, but I barely register it because my phone is face down beside my notebook, and even with the screen hidden, I know Tiana’s profile is there.
Ever since we had sex, and after how I proceeded to handle the situation with all the emotional grace of a man setting fire to his own house, she has stopped giving me anything in real life.
Tiana is polite now. Professional and distant. It makes my skin feel too tight.
She tells me what I need to know about Sylas, asks logistical questions when she has to, and otherwise moves through my house like she is trying not to leave fingerprints on anything.
But online, with him, she is different. With @built2last, Tiana still talks.
More than she did before, actually.
It’s like all the words she has stopped giving me in person have been rerouted to the stranger with no face and too much access to her thoughts.
She sends him little updates about her day, jokes when she is annoyed, vents when she is tired, and at night, when the house is quiet and I’m lying in bed staring at the ceiling, my phone lights up with pieces of her I don’t deserve.
Tiana has even initiated something more a couple of times with @built2last, and I was too much of a weak coward to say no.
I know the longer it goes on, the worse it becomes.
“Griffin.” This time, it’s Henson.
I blink and realize the meeting has shifted without me. The clients are speaking with Worth now, Mrs. Calloway nodding along as he explains phasing, budgets, and donor timelines.
Henson leans closer to me, lowering his voice. “Are you having a stroke, or are just we doing the tortured architect thing today?”
I turn my head toward him. “What?”
“You’ve been staring at that column detail non-stop.”
“It’s a bad detail.”
“It’s your detail.”
“Then I’m disappointed in myself.”
“That tracks.” He tilts his head, studying me. “You look like shit, by the way.”
“Gee, thanks.”
I reach for my coffee, mostly to give my hand something to do, but it’s cold by the time it hits my mouth.
Henson’s gaze drops to my phone. I move it away before he can see anything, which is probably the least subtle thing I could have done.
His eyebrows climb and he grins.
I hate that grin. It has gotten him out of bar fights, boardroom consequences, and at least one engagement he never should have agreed to in the first place.
“Oh,” he murmurs.
“No.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
I look back at the plans. “Focus on the meeting.”
“I am focused. I’m focused on whatever has our lead architect looking like he slept in a guilt drawer.”
“I’m fine.”
Henson’s smile widens. “That’s exactly what men say before they ruin their lives for a woman.”
Worth, without looking away from Mrs. Calloway, says, “Lower your voices.”
The meeting drags on for another twenty minutes. When they finally leave, Mrs. Calloway shakes my hand with both of hers.
“I wasn’t sure about you at first,” she says.
“Most people aren’t.”
Her laugh is light, but her eyes are serious. “You understand the heart of our project.”
I nod because I don’t know what to do with that, and because lately, people keep giving me credit for having a heart when I have spent the last week proving I don’t know what to do with one.
The second the conference room door closes behind the clients, Henson spins toward me in his chair. Worth stays seated at the head of the table, eyes on me.
“So,” Henson says.
“No.”
“Interesting. I haven’t asked a question.”
“The answer is still no.”
“Strong opening. Defensive. Hostile. Definitely woman-related.”
I stack the elevations and slide them into my leather folio. “We just landed a fourteen-million-dollar project. Maybe try celebrating that.”
“We will celebrate that when you stop looking like someone keyed your soul.”
Worth leans back in his chair and folds his hands over his stomach. “Nanny troubles?”
My spine tightens, and I exhale through my nose, standing from my chair. “I’m going to my office.”
“Fantastic,” Henson says, pushing back from the table. “I’ll come with you.”
“No, you won’t.”
Worth rises, too, because apparently my office has become the location for an intervention I did not agree to attend.
I leave the conference room anyway, followed by the two men who know me best and still ignore my body language, tone, and every visible warning sign to fuck off.