8. Conor
CONOR
I adjust my tie for the third time in five minutes, pacing the length of the conference room as morning light streams through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
The view of Manhattan’s skyline would usually calm me, but today my mind is elsewhere.
The gleaming mahogany table is set with leather portfolios, water carafes, and notepads embossed with the Campbell Enterprises logo.
Everything is perfect, meticulous—just as it should be for the board meeting.
But it’s not the board members I’m anxious about. It’s her.
“Nicole,” I call to my executive assistant who’s arranging pastries on a side table. “The presentation materials are all set up?”
“Yes. Ms. Miller’s designs are loaded on the main screen, hard copies in the portfolios, and I’ve got backups on a flash drive just in case.” Nicole straightens her glasses, giving me a curious look. “You seem... tense.”
I stop pacing, forcing my shoulders to relax. “Just want everything to be perfect. These designs are revolutionary, and I need the board to see that.”
Nicole nods, but I can tell she’s not entirely convinced. She’s worked for me long enough to read between the lines. I check my watch—thirty minutes until the meeting, twenty until Betsy should arrive.
“I need you to do something for me,” I say, lowering my voice despite the empty room. “I need information on someone. Devon Cook.”
“Devon Cook?” Nicole’s brow furrows. “Is that a potential investor?”
“No.” I hesitate, choosing my next words carefully. "He’s Betsy’s ex. And a potential pain in my ass.”
"Oh.” Nic’s expression shifts from confusion to understanding. “And you want me to...?"
“Everything you can find. But be discreet about it.”
Nic tilts his head slightly. “May I ask why?”
I run a hand through my hair, a habit from childhood I’ve never quite broken. “He’s obviously an idiot who lost her, and I want to know what I’m up against.”
The words hang in the air between us. I hadn’t meant to be quite so transparent, but there it is—the truth I’ve been avoiding since that night at the bowling alley two weeks ago.
“I see.” Nicole’s voice is neutral, but there’s a hint of a smile at the corners of his mouth. “I’ll have a full report by tomorrow morning."
“Thank you.” I turn to face the window, hoping he doesn’t notice the heat creeping up my neck. “And Nicole? This stays between us."
“Of course, sir. ”
The door opens, and my heart rate kicks up a notch before I realize it’s just my second assistant, Emma.
“The board members are starting to arrive,” she announces. “I’ve shown them to the reception area. And Ms. Miller just texted—she’s in the elevator.”
"Thank you, Emma.” I straighten my jacket, running through mental checkpoints. Presentation ready, coffee service arranged, opening remarks prepared. Everything is in order, except for the flutter in my stomach, which has nothing to do with the meeting and everything to do with seeing Betsy again.
I hear her before I see her—the confident click of heels on marble, the musical lilt of her voice as she greets the receptionist. Then she’s there in the doorway, a vision in a tailored charcoal suit that accentuates every curve.
Her dark hair is swept up in a sleek chignon, exposing the elegant line of her neck.
“Betsy,” I say, my voice embarrassingly warm even to my own ears. I stride forward, extending my hand. “Perfect timing.”
Her palm meets mine, and the simple contact sends electricity up my arm. “Good morning, Conor. Ready to dazzle the board?”
“They’re the ones who are about to be dazzled.” I hold her gaze a moment longer than strictly professional, then reluctantly release her hand. “Let me help you set up.”
We spend the next ten minutes in companionable silence, arranging her physical models on the side table, checking the digital presentation one last time.
I’m hyperaware of her every movement—the way she tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear, the slight furrow of concentration between her brows, the scent of her perfume when she leans past me to adjust something on the laptop.
“Nervous?” I ask as the clock ticks closer to meeting time.
She flashes me a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “A little. These are your people, not mine."
“They’re going to love you.” I place my hand lightly on her shoulder, feeling the tension there. “Almost as much as I—” I catch myself just in time. “As much as I love your designs.”
Something flickers across her face—surprise? Interest?—before Emma appears at the door.
“The board is ready, Mr. Campbell.”
I nod, then turn back to Betsy. “Remember, you’re the expert here. I believe in you completely.”
The board members file in—two men and three women, all in impeccable business attire, all wearing expressions of polite interest that mask their natural skepticism.
I greet each person by name, shaking hands and making small talk.
But my focus remains on Betsy, standing tall beside the presentation screen, portfolio clutched perhaps a bit too tightly in her hands.
Once everyone is seated, I take my place at the head of the table. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming. Today, I have the pleasure of introducing Betsy Miller, the brilliant architect who’s designing our new headquarters.”
I gesture toward her with an open palm, my pride unmistakable.
“Ms. Miller’s vision for Campbell Tower isn’t just about creating a building—it’s about creating a legacy.
Her designs incorporate cutting-edge sustainability features while honoring the historical context of the neighborhood.
I’ve been working closely with her on this project, and I can say without hesitation that her work exceeds every expectation. ”
I catch Harriet Winters—our most conservative board member—exchanging a skeptical glance with Walter McCoy. Time to address that directly.
“I know some of you had concerns about going with a smaller firm rather than one of the established names.” I meet Harriet’s gaze directly.
“But innovation rarely comes from playing it safe. Ms. Miller’s designs will not only give us a headquarters that reflects our values as a company but will position Campbell Enterprises as a forward-thinking leader in corporate responsibility. ”
I sit down, gesturing for Betsy to take the floor. “Ms. Miller, the floor is yours.”
She steps forward, and I watch the transformation with admiration. The slight nervousness melts away as she clicks to the first slide—a stunning rendering of the proposed tower, gleaming in the Manhattan skyline.
“Thank you, Mr. Campbell.” Her voice is clear and confident. “As you can see, the design for Campbell Tower draws inspiration from both natural forms and the art deco heritage of New York City...”
For the next thirty minutes, I barely take my eyes off her.
She commands the room, moving through her presentation with elegant precision.
When she describes the vertical gardens that will purify the building’s air while reducing energy costs, I nod enthusiastically.
When she explains how the unique glass facade will maximize natural light while minimizing heat gain, I lean forward in my seat .
“Brilliant,” I interject when she pauses after describing the rainwater collection system. “Ms. Miller’s innovation here will reduce our water consumption by forty percent compared to conventional buildings of similar size.”
Walter McCoy raises his hand. “These sustainability features are impressive, but what about the bottom line? Green technology comes at a premium.”
Before Betsy can answer, I jump in. “Walter, that’s exactly the point I was hoping someone would raise.
” I gesture toward Betsy’s next slide, which she promptly displays—a detailed cost analysis.
“Ms. Miller has done extraordinary work balancing initial investment against long-term savings. If you’ll direct your attention to the ten-year projection. ..”
Betsy shoots me a grateful look before continuing, walking the board through the financial benefits of her design.
I sit back, watching their faces change from skepticism to interest to genuine enthusiasm.
By the time she concludes with a virtual walkthrough of the completed building, even Harriet is nodding along.
“Thank you, Ms. Miller,” I say, standing as she finishes. “I think I speak for everyone when I say we’re impressed. Are there any questions for Ms. Miller before we move to a vote?”
Several hands go up, and for the next twenty minutes, Betsy fields questions with such expertise that my chest swells with pride. When someone asks about construction timelines, I offer my support. When another board member questions the materials, I back Betsy’s choices without hesitation.
Finally, Harriet Winters—the last holdout—puts down her pen and looks directly at Betsy.
“Ms. Miller, I must admit I was skeptical.
However, your presentation has been thorough, and your vision is compelling.
I particularly appreciate your attention to how the building will integrate with the neighborhood. "
“Thank you, Mrs. Winters,” Betsy replies, the slight flush on her cheeks the only indication of her pleasure at the compliment.
I call for the vote, and it’s unanimous. Campbell Tower will be built according to Betsy Miller’s designs.
As the board members file out, stopping to congratulate Betsy on their way, I hang back and watch her accept their praise with grace. When the last board member leaves, I close the door behind them and turn to face her.
“You were magnificent,” I say, unable to keep the admiration from my voice.
“We were magnificent,” she corrects, her smile radiant. “You backed me up at exactly the right moments.”
"I meant every word.” I step closer, drawn to her like a magnet. “Your designs are revolutionary, Betsy. Just like you.”
The air between us seems to thicken, charged with something more than professional success. Her dark eyes search mine, and for a moment, I think she might step into my arms. But then her phone buzzes, breaking the spell. She glances at the screen, and something in her expression shifts.
“Everything okay?” I ask, trying to mask my disappointment at the interruption.
“Yes, just...” She hesitates. "It’s Devon. Probably calling to ask about dinner tonight.”
The name hits me like a bucket of cold water. “Devon? Your ex? ”
“It’s complicated,” she says, slipping the phone back into her pocket without answering. "We’re not together, but we’re not... not together either.”
I struggle to maintain a neutral expression. “I see."
“It’s not what you think,” she says quickly, as if reading my thoughts. “We have history, that’s all.”
I want to tell her she deserves better than “complicated,” better than someone who couldn’t appreciate what he had. Instead, I nod and step back, giving her space.
“We should celebrate your success,” I say, deliberately lightening my tone. “The whole team. Drinks after work?”
Relief flashes across her face at the change of subject. “That sounds great.”
As we gather our materials, I’m already composing a mental list of questions for Nicole to investigate about Devon Cook.
I need to understand what I’m up against, what hold this man still has on her.
Because one thing is becoming increasingly apparent with every moment I spend in Betsy Miller’s company—I want more than a professional relationship with her.
And I’m willing to fight for it.