Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Isla
The sleek black car glides to a stop outside my Chelsea loft. I can’t move. Can’t breathe. Can barely think past the weight of Eli’s stare burning into my memory.
“Miss Carrington?” The chauffeur’s voice cuts through my daze.
Earlier, in Edward’s study, Eli’s fingers had drummed against his thigh—that same nervous rhythm he used to tap against my skin.
“Just... give me a minute.” My voice comes out rough.
The chauffeur’s eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror. Something like understanding flickers across his face before he looks away.
I grip my portfolio tighter, trying to ground myself in the present. The leather is cool under my fingers, familiar. Real. Unlike the ghost of Eli’s touch that won’t fade.
“Shit.” The curse slips out as memories flood back. The way his voice dropped when he said my name. How his shoulders tensed when Carter announced the project requirements. The flash of something raw in his eyes when they met mine.
“Miss Carrington.” The chauffeur’s voice stops me. “Mr. Alderidge asked me to ensure you arrived safely.”
Of course he did. Still trying to control everything.
“Thank you.” I grip my portfolio tighter, needing to escape. “I can manage from here.”
My heels click against the pavement as I step out. The spring breeze whips around me, carrying the scent of rain and blooming cherry blossoms. I breathe it in, letting it clear my head.
But as I walk toward my building, each step feels weighted. Like I’m trying to shake off a ghost that’s already sunk beneath my skin.
My phone buzzes. Drake’s name flashes on the screen, along with three missed calls.
I let it ring. I’m not ready to explain how one look from Eli Alderidge stripped away five years of carefully constructed walls.
How his presence still affects me, even now.
How tomorrow I’ll have to face him again, pretend we’re nothing more than colleagues, when every cell in my body remembers what it felt like to be his.
The ghost of his touch lingers on my wrist as I punch in my building code, haunting me with memories I thought I’d buried. Memories that have no place in the life I’ve built without him.
I slam the door behind me, letting the sound crash through my loft.
But the silence that follows hits harder—too big, too empty, too full of spaces where memories can hide.
The city lights stream through the windows, casting long shadows across my drafting table, turning the scattered blueprints into abstract art.
My fingers are already dialing Drake before I can spiral deeper into thoughts of Eli’s face, his voice, the way he?—
“Jesus Christ, Isla!” Drake’s voice explodes through the speaker. “Where the hell have you been? I’ve called like a hundred times!”
“I know, I—” My heels click against the hardwood as I pace. “I just couldn’t... not right after...”
“After what? And why do you sound like you’ve seen a ghost?”
A laugh bubbles up, slightly hysterical.
“Because I have. Edward fucking Alderidge orchestrated this whole thing from beyond the grave.”
“Wait, what?” The frantic energy in Drake’s voice cuts through my daze. “What happened in that meeting?”
“They made Eli COO.” I sink onto my couch, the leather cool against my skin. “But there’s a catch. He can only keep the position if we work together on the Artisan Hotel project.”
“Holy shit.” Drake’s sharp intake of breath carries through the line. “That manipulative bastard.”
“Yeah.” I run a hand through my hair, tugging slightly. “Five years of carefully maintained distance, gone in one afternoon. And now...”
“Now you have to see him every day.” Drake’s voice softens. “How are you holding up? Really?”
“I’m...” The words stick in my throat.
How can I explain that one look from Eli stripped away years of carefully constructed walls? That his presence still affects me, even now? That tomorrow I’ll have to face him again, pretend we’re nothing more than colleagues, when every cell in my body remembers what it felt like to be his?
“That bad, huh?” Drake’s knowing tone makes me close my eyes.
“Worse.” I press my fingers to my temples. “And get this—Carter had this whole speech prepared. Like Edward planned every detail, right down to the moment I’d walk back into that study.”
“Of course he did. That man never did anything without twelve backup plans.” Drake pauses. “Listen, I actually need to tell you something?—”
I barely hear him. My mind is still stuck in that study, in the suffocating weight of Eli’s stare pinning me in place. The room had smelled like aged leather and expensive cologne, but beneath it, I could still pick up the faint trace of him. His scent. His presence. It still gets to me.
I swipe a hand over my face, trying to banish the memory.
But it lingers. His voice, deeper now but still sharp enough to cut.
The way he looked at me, like I was something he couldn’t decide whether to hate or want.
His fingers had curled against the desk—that same nervous tell he used to have, tapping against my skin late at night when he thought I was asleep.
Like muscle memory neither of us can break.
A shiver runs down my spine. Five years, and he still?—
The laptop screen flickers to life, electric blue cutting through the dark.
“Drake?” My voice shakes slightly. “Please tell me you’re doing that.”
“Doing what?”
And that’s when IRIS’s voice fills my apartment, changing everything.
“Welcome back, Miss Carrington.” IRIS’s voice fills my apartment, warmer than I remember. Almost... pleased? “Your security access has been fully restored.”
“What the—” Drake’s sharp intake of breath matches my own. “Is that who I think it is?”
I stand slowly, moving toward my desk. “IRIS? How long have you been... active?”
“Since Mr. Alderidge’s passing, I’ve maintained monitoring protocols for all family members and key personnel.” A pause. “You were never removed from that list, Miss Carrington.”
“Creepy much?” Drake mutters.
“I heard that, Mr. Thorne.” IRIS’s tone carries a hint of amusement. “And may I say, congratulations on your new position. Your credentials are quite... impressive.”
“Wait.” I grip the edge of my desk. “You two know each other?”
“We’ve had some interesting encounters during the interview process,” Drake admits. “She’s not exactly your typical corporate AI.”
“I prefer to think of myself as uniquely qualified to assist.” IRIS’s response holds a note of pride. “Speaking of which, Miss Carrington, there are several files regarding the Artisan Hotel project that require your immediate attention.”
My screen fills with documents—blueprints, permits, and years of correspondence between Edward and various board members.
“How did you...” I start.
“Your clearance was never revoked, merely dormant.” IRIS pauses. “Mr. Alderidge Senior was quite insistent about that.”
“Jesus.” Drake’s quiet curse echoes my thoughts. “Isla, this is bigger than we thought. Edward didn’t just plan for you to come back—he made sure you never really left.”
The implications settle over me like a physical weight.
“IRIS?” My voice wavers. “How much do you know about what Edward was planning?”
“Enough to understand why he wanted both you and Mr. Thorne in place before the project began.” Her voice softens. “And enough to know that you’ll need each other for what’s coming.”
The streetlights blur past my window as I drive to Queens, each mile marked by IRIS’s warnings echoing in my head. The modest two-bedroom apartment where Mom still lives sits tucked between a laundromat and a bodega—a far cry from the mansions she used to clean.
The porch light catches the faded paint, the careful patches where Mom’s tried to keep everything looking respectable.
“Mom?” I catch her in a tight hug as she opens the door. “I got it. The biggest project of my career.”
Her smile lights up her tired face. “Mi vida! Tell me everything.”
I pull out my phone, bringing up the renderings. “The Artisan Hotel. Sustainable luxury, right in the heart of?—”
The smile vanishes as she sees the location. Her hand trembles as she touches the screen, all color draining from her face.
“Mom?” My excitement dims. “What’s wrong?”
“You shouldn’t be involved in this project.” Mom’s words hit differently now, weighted with something darker than just maternal concern. “That land... there’s history there. Bad history.”
“I worked so hard to keep you in that prep school.” Mom says her face drawn with worry. “Extra shifts, cleaning three houses a day sometimes. But you earned every bit of that scholarship.”
“Mom—”
“No, listen.” She grabs my hands, her fingers rough from years of cleaning chemicals. “People like us, we don’t get second chances. Not with families like the Alderidges. When opportunities come...”
A siren wails in the distance. Mom flinches, her eyes going distant.
“What aren’t you telling me about the project site?” My heart pounds against my ribs. “Mom, please.”
“I used to clean there.” The words come out heavy. “Before... before everything changed. Before the accident.”
The truth hangs between us, unspoken. All those careful plans I’d made, the sustainable designs that could change everything?—
“This project could make my career.” I sink into her worn couch, the springs creaking familiarly. “The kind of opportunity that opens every door.”
“Or closes them all.” Mom’s voice cracks. “I’ve watched you fight for everything, mi vida. Columbia, your career, your reputation. I just... I can’t watch you lose it all.”
“Is that what this is about? You think I’ll fail?”
“No.” She sits beside me, taking my hands again. “I think you’ll succeed. And that terrifies me more. Success means visibility. Questions. The kind we’ve spent your whole life avoiding.”
I stare at our joined hands—hers weathered from work, mine smooth from drafting tables and keyboards. Every opportunity I’ve had was bought with her sacrifice.
“I can’t walk away.” The truth settles like stone. “Not from this. Not after everything you gave up to get me here.”
“I know.” Mom’s smile is sad but proud. “You never could back down from a challenge. Just like when you insisted on taking that summer job at the library instead of letting me pay for your books.”
The night presses against the windows, but here in Mom’s apartment, surrounded by the scent of her arroz con gandules and the gentle hum of the ancient air conditioner, I find my resolve.
I squeeze her hand. “This time I’m not just fighting for myself. I’m fighting for every kid who thinks they can’t make it because of where they came from.”
“Just promise me you’ll be careful.” Mom touches my cheek.
“Success has a price in their world.”
The words land like a physical blow, knocking the breath from my lungs. I know my mother. She doesn’t say things like this lightly. My fingers clench around my phone, nails pressing into my palm. A slow, creeping cold spreads through my chest.
“What kind of price, Mom?”
She exhales, her shoulders rounding like she’s been carrying this weight too long.
“The kind you don’t see coming until it’s too late.”
Her gaze flickers to the project plans still open on my phone. The color drains from her face, and when she looks back at me, there’s fear there. Real fear.
“Some things, mi vida, should stay buried.”
As I drive home later, her warnings echo in my head. But this time, they fuel my determination. The Artisan Hotel won’t just be my shot at the big leagues—it’ll be proof that talent and hard work can open doors that privilege usually keeps closed.
Even if one of those doors leads straight back to Eli.