Chapter 1
ATHENA
The suitcase I drag behind me catches on every little pebble along the way. It feels like an analogy for my life. A metaphor for tripping along the obstacles in my existence. Pressing onward even when life itself wants to put you down, wants you to give up.
Every time the suitcase jerks, I clench my teeth tighter and tug the bag free. There’s no way I’m allowing it to ruin this week. The week that might change everything.
A few other people join me out of the train station, dragging suitcases up escalators exactly like me.
A girl shoots a look over her shoulder at me, pressing her lips together into a supportive smile.
She knows what it feels like to lack the money for an expensive cab ride and prefers the challenges of taking the train.
For a moment, it feels like we’re in this together, but she veers off the station into a nearby hotel and I lose the quiet partnership.
I’m the only one dragging a suitcase for several blocks.
This area is too fancy to have public transport, the train station I came from being the closest one to the event.
I take a deep breath and ignore the looks as I make my way to the hotel where the congress will happen.
The sun burns the top of my head, but I keep my focus ahead as I sweat beneath the long sleeves.
Normal people would have come in a tank top and then changed into an appropriate outfit. Not me. There’s no way anyone will ever catch me in a short sleeve, especially not in this place. Not in a place where my name precedes me, and not in the way I want it.
The closer I get to the address, the bigger the number of taxis parked and drivers helping people down.
We’re an hour away from the limit of checking into the congress, and it looks like everyone’s here.
The sight of people carrying art tubes and folders like me makes my heart swell.
It feels so good to be in a place where everyone enjoys the same thing as you.
Everyone here is an architect like I’ve been for the past four months.
Barely graduated, yes, but architecture has always been a part of my life.
When I was younger, I swore I wouldn’t let Mother force me into the family business.
Turns out I love architecture. I’m good at this, and I want to make my own name, no matter how famous my mother already is.
I’ve looked into changing my name, but unless I get married, the bureaucracy of changing it makes me almost forget how badly Mom always treated me.
She either conceived me against her will or just because she wanted a doll to obey her every wish.
I’m the poster child for negligent and abusive rich parents, and now that I’m twenty-four and graduated, I want to create as much distance as I can from my mother.
She’s given me life and for that I’m grateful, but I want to walk on my own two feet. I know I can do great things this way if only I’m given the chance. And this conference might be the chance I’ve been missing.
I enter the grand hotel, crossing the lobby in my sneakers and the noisy suitcase.
The air conditioner hits me with a chilly breeze, making me shiver beneath the long sleeves.
My skin is soaked in sweat. The first thing I’m going to do once I’m in my room is have a nice, long bath.
Since I want to grow on my own, I accepted my first job in a tiny company that pays little but doesn’t care about my name.
They’re giving me a real shot at showing my worth.
With the wages I’m making, I pay my loans—the ones I didn’t let Mom pay for—and a tiny studio close to a subway station.
My apartment is too small for a tub, and I’m daydreaming about the hotel’s one, even if it might be a bit icky.
“Hello,” I greet the person behind the counter with a big smile. “My name is Athena. I’m here to check into the congress.”
“Of course,” the woman replies, smiling back at me. “May I check your ID and confirmation code?”
I let go of my suitcase and put my drawing folder over the counter.
With my hands now free, I can dig into my purse for my ID and the confirmation code on my phone.
I pass both to her, then notice my folder is half-open, threatening to explode with the many drawings inside.
I might be working on too many projects at the same time, but there’s a big contest in this congress and I want to put my best work in.
The deadline is tomorrow evening, and I still haven’t chosen what I’m submitting.
A design for a museum, the one theme being organic.
I have so many ideas, so much I want to show the world.
I can only hope I make the right choice.
“Athena Menken?” the clerk asks, checking the picture on the ID. My last name makes a shiver race down my spine. Oh, no, I was hoping she wouldn’t say it out loud. “Yes, I see your name here. I’ll have your forms ready in a second, and then I’ll hand you the keys.”
Sneaking a glance over my shoulder, I peek at the people behind me in the lobby, either waiting for elevators or standing in lines for check-in.
Just as I feared, everyone’s looking at me.
They lean closer together, whispering behind their hands.
Dread fills my stomach like late-night dinners.
This is what I hate the most about my last name.
“Menken? Like Vera Menken?”
“She must be the daughter.”
“I bet she’s only here because of Mommy.”
“Of course she is. Keep it in the family, right?”
“It must be so good to have everything you’ve ever wanted.”
“Nepotism.”
They say it behind their hands, in staged whispers I can hear all the same.
My cheeks grow warm, the heat multiplying with the one I was already dealing with.
I gasp for air, my chest tightening. This is exactly what I try to avoid at all times.
People think I have it easy because I’m my mother’s daughter, but they have no idea.
I reach for my arm, closing my hand around it.
They have no idea the things she’s done to me.
I’m so distracted by their hatred, their poisonous words, I miss the folder slipping from the counter.
It comes toppling down in slow motion, my gaze following the sheets of paper spreading, flying off.
A gasp lodges itself in my throat as I reach out, trying to stop the accident, but I’m not fast enough.
The folder hits the ground, the sheets spreading in a wide circle around me.
“Damn it,” I whisper, then get to my knees to pick them up.
No one helps me. The people standing in lines and waiting for elevators turn away, still whispering, none of them deigning to assist me.
My face gets even warmer if possible, and my eyes water in shame.
I hate this. I love being in a place filled with people who love architecture, but I hate how they see me and think they know me.
Hard steps thunder closer and a man in black kneels next to me.
He goes about picking up the sheets, no questions asked.
I’m so moved by his actions that I can’t say a word.
He’s faster than me, and we get to our feet once we’ve collected all the drawings.
My fingers tremble when he hands me the ones he picked up.
“Thank you,” I say, looking up at him. And that’s when it all stops.
The man standing there is unlike anyone I’ve ever seen.
He’s a perfect mix of fierce angles and smooth beauty.
A hard jaw, but a gentle nose. Steel-gray eyes, but soft-looking, full lips.
The buzz cut of his dark hair is almost military-looking, though the top part is on the longer side, and his chocolate skin looks silky smooth.
He’s all contradictions, a big, burly man in an elegant black suit and tie.
My jaw hangs. I have to snap it shut. He’s handsome and impressive, and I can’t take my eyes off him.
His brow seems to soften as his gaze meets mine. He gives me a once-over and I can’t believe for a second he finds me pretty. No one ever does. “Not a problem,” he says in that smooth baritone voice. It sends new goosebumps riding down my arms. He shoots out a hand. “Christopher Webber.”
My jaw drops again. “Christopher Webber? From The Architect publication?” And I take his hand in mine. His meaty fingers curl around mine, warmth shooting up my arm. I grip his hand harder, but I doubt he notices it.
A small smile curves his lips. “Never thought someone would read my editorials.”
“Of course I do. They’re my favorite part.”
“I’m impressed anyone reads any part of the magazine. People nowadays buy them as decoration pieces.”
I twist my lips, keeping laughter at bay.
“The pictures are very artistic. I understand people want to keep them as decoration, even when I use them for study. Your prefaces are an essential part of the whole. You always have a thorough knowledge of how to connect all the parts of the magazine. I adore seeing themes and patterns, and you seem like a natural at that.”
His brows shoot up his forehead, and he gives me another once-over. Is he surprised the chubby girl knows what she’s talking about? He wouldn’t be the first. Christopher releases my hand. I didn’t even notice I was still holding it.
“Have you checked in? I would love to take you for coffee.”
Heat spreads from my cheeks to my neck. I wonder how silly I look, with my cheeks flushed and my forehead shiny with sweat. “I would love to. I just have to?—”
“Ms. Menken?” the girl behind the desk calls me, sliding a form and a pen in my direction. “Here’s the check-in form. Could you read it and sign it, please?”
“Of course.” And I turn to make quick work of the form as my heart races in my chest. Christopher Webber is so well known even people out of the field have heard of him.
He’s become a celebrity on the internet after he went on a reality TV show.
The people who had been whispering about me now talk about him in a much lighter tone.
And he’s interested in me. There’s no denying how he looked at me now.
He saw something he liked, even when that’s such an alien experience for me.
With my helicopter mother and how hard I have to work, I never had the time or the interest in men.
They never seemed to have an interest in me, anyway.
I finish signing off my name and grab the keys. “There.” I turn to look at Christopher. “I’m only putting my suitcase away, and we can go for coffee,” I tell him, but when I meet his gray eyes, I know he’s changed his mind.
His hard jaw clenches, a crease popping between his brows.
He leans back from me as if he’s half a second from running away.
I shove my fingers through my hair, wondering what’s wrong…
but it’s obvious, isn’t it? He heard my name.
The receptionist said it. She called for Ms. Menken, and he heard it.
And just like everybody else in this lobby, he doesn’t think I belong in this place.
“You know what, Ms. Menken?” he says in that baritone voice of his, then checks his watch. “I’ll have to pass that. With all due respect.”
“Of course,” I reply, my shoulders sagging. A new kind of sadness wraps around my heart. That was the fastest hope ever to be smothered. “I understand.”
“I hope you have a good conference,” he says as if he doesn’t intend on ever seeing me again, then does a one-eighty and races to the elevators. He slips into one just as its doors close. Lucky him, we won’t have to ride up together.
A knot in my throat makes it hard to swallow. I collect my suitcase and folder and make the shameful, lonely path to the elevator. Now, everyone’s also making fun of me being ditched by Christopher Webber. Amazing.
I thought we had a connection, but it imploded the second he heard my name. Just peachy. Romance is another area of my life my mother has ruined for me. Holding back tears, I find my way into my room, then fill the tub for a bath. It doesn’t even feel that great anymore.
I never enjoyed being a Menken, but it’s especially bad today.