Chapter 11: Espresso & Ego Confessions

My steps quickened as I entered the office building, the click of my low heels echoing across the marble floor with impatient rhythm.

I’d already been patient enough today. Visiting Dominic, cooking, feeding him, enduring his complaints and now, all I wanted was my desk, my laptop, and the quiet work sanctuary I’d been craving for the past week.

But when I opened the door to my office, the first thing I saw wasn’t my computer screen.

It was the back of a man in a white T-shirt and a navy casual jacket, sitting in my chair with his legs crossed like he owned the whole damn floor.

I froze in the doorway, staring at him like a wild cat finding a dog curled up on its favorite pillow.

“If you think I’m going to scream just because you’re in my seat,” I said quietly, “you’re not wrong. But I still have enough dignity to wait until the door is closed.”

Reagan turned around, calm as ever. His eyes drifted up and down, casually taking in my appearance. Neutral blazer, white blouse, high-waisted pants, and hair pinned in a half-finished bun. His gaze lingered on my lips for a second before returning to my face.

“Good morning to you too, Mrs. Milano,” he said smoothly.

I rolled my eyes and shut the door behind me. “How many times do I have to say this? Don’t call me that at work.”

“Why not? Everyone knows. It’s in the payroll system, the emergency contact list. I’m even on the family notification list in case you collapse from overwork.”

“I’d rather call an ambulance.”

He laughed softly and stood up with an ease that bordered on arrogant. His white shirt clung just right to a body far too relaxed for the corporate world, and that navy jacket made him look like someone who didn’t have to try to be impressive...he just was.

He held out a slim folder.

“Proposal,” he said casually. “For that community center project you pitched two weeks ago. I helped fine-tune the budget.”

I narrowed my eyes, not reaching for it yet. “Since when are you a budget analyst?”

“Since I’m funding 73 percent of the project,” he said lightly. “And decided I didn’t want my money going toward a playground that faces a row of food truck parking spots.”

I snatched the folder from his hand and flipped to the first page. My eyes scanned the fine-lined edits, the numbers that were a little too tidy for someone who claims to be a President Director and not an obsessive planner.

I held my breath, skimming through to page three. Everything checked out. Logical. Efficient. Maybe even... better than my original draft.

Which was infuriating.

“Let me guess,” I muttered without looking up, “there’s absolutely nothing else at Milano Imperium demanding your attention today?”

He leaned against my desk, arms crossed. “There is. But nothing as entertaining as watching your face the moment you realize my version’s better than yours.”

I finally looked up. “You don’t know the first thing about community spaces. About living spaces. All you see are numbers and ROI and—”

“And I also know you’re too proud to admit that a playground facing a food truck lot is a bad idea.”

I closed the folder with a soft snap.

“You know,” I said as I walked to the side table and set my bag down, my movements deliberately calm, “in a perfect world, I’d get one day. Just one full day. Without your face showing up. Without your voice critiquing my designs, my life, my outfits, or where I choose to put the damn sink.”

“But unfortunately,” he stood up straight now, walking toward me slowly, like a man who knew every inch of this space, “you married me.”

“I didn’t marry you to co-design projects,” I muttered.

“No. But you didn’t divorce me for it either,” he shot back, quick.

I froze for half a second. Then locked eyes with him. “Don’t play that card, Reagan.”

He didn’t look away. Deep. Steady. Not a trace of apology. “Maybe I don’t have the right to know everything going on in your life anymore, Gretta. But I still hold shares in this company. And this project matters.”

“You just want to insert yourself into it because your ego can’t handle me succeeding without your help.”

He shrugged. “Maybe. Or maybe I just want to see you doing what you love again. Without worrying about budgets and spreadsheets and... Dominic.”

My body stiffened. Just for a moment. Then I went back to neutral. I pulled out my own chair, sat down, and opened my laptop.

“If you didn’t bring coffee or plan to remove yourself from my office, I’d strongly suggest you stay silent for the next thirty minutes.”

He nodded, completely unbothered. Then walked over to the coffee machine in the corner, ssomething that should never exist in a normal architect’s office, but this was my office. And I was not a normal architect. I loved my coffee.

“Espresso?” he asked as he filled the water.

I lifted an eyebrow without saying a word.

He smirked. “Thought so.”

And deep down, I hated how well he still knew me.

:::

The meeting room was flooded with morning sunlight pouring through the tall windows on the west wall. The soft symphony of laptops being opened, papers shuffled, and the projector warming up filled the space. Those familiar, expectant sounds right before a big presentation.

I stood at the head of the table, a small remote in my hand. Behind me, the screen displayed the masterplan of the community center we’d been building from the ground up, a project I had started with nothing but a rough sketch and a series of late-night conversations with the head of urban research.

To my right sat the designers and structural team, all neatly in place. Some had tablets, others just their notebooks. And on the left… Reagan Milano. Calm as ever in that same navy blazer from this morning, crisp white shirt open at the collar, looking far too comfortable for a man surrounded by creatives.

“Thank you for taking the time this morning,” I began, my voice steady, a little firm. “Today, I’ll be presenting the final development phase of Community Block B for the SoHo district. Our focus is on creating a space that’s welcoming, functional, and strongly rooted in local identity.”

I clicked the remote. A 3D rendering of the building appeared. Clean, modern lines softened with earth-toned finishes. Warm wood textures, crawling vines, and wide openings to let the light in naturally.

“This site used to be a vacant parking lot for six years,” I continued. “Now, we’re transforming it into a hub for the neighborhood. Not just a hall, but a public space with a small amphitheater, open classrooms, and a flexible zone for local vendors.”

From across the room, Rayna, our financial analyst, raised her hand. “What’s the energy-saving strategy? SoHo’s power grid isn’t the most stable.”

I nodded. “We’re installing west-facing solar panels on the roof, and we’ve designed cross-ventilation in every main room. That means we’re looking at a projected 42% energy savings compared to standard builds.”

A few heads nodded. I kept going, pointing to the center of the render. “This area will also include a community kitchen, not just for culinary training programs, but open to locals for hosting events.”

“Like a night market?” someone asked.

I smiled faintly. “Or a neighbor’s birthday party. A moms’ workshop. This space isn’t meant to be elite. It’s meant to be theirs.”

“I think that’s the most important part of the project.” Reagan’s voice cut through the room. Calm, clear, and unexpectedly present.

Every head turned. Even mine.

He glanced at the screen, then back at the table. “Community buildings are usually too rigid. Too institutional. But Gretta’s idea, to make this space organic, responsive to what the people actually need, that’s bold.”

There was a beat of silence. Even Rayna didn’t blink.

I raised an eyebrow at him. He didn’t meet my gaze. Or maybe he was deliberately avoiding it.

“If the numbers I reviewed earlier stay consistent,” he added, “I think we can scale this into two more districts by next year.”

A few people exchanged confused glances, not quite sure if that was a compliment from the usually stats-driven CEO or just… strategy dressed in praise.

I nodded slowly. “We’ll make sure of that. But the design’s not final yet. I still need a week to run daylight simulations and test the open structure.”

“Take two,” Reagan replied flatly. “But give me one render for the public presentation. You know how to make pictures talk.”

I stared at him for a few seconds. Time slowed between us. I could read his expression, half-smile, full of confidence but behind it, there was something else. Something that almost felt like support....?

I turned to the team. “Okay. Let’s proceed with simulations and prep for the town hall. Interior team, start laying out the kitchen. Tech team, keep coordinating with Infrastructure.”

As everyone began packing up laptops and papers, Reagan didn’t move. He just sat there, staring at the screen like he wasn’t intruding in someone else’s conference room.

I stood, waiting until the last person left.

Then, when the door closed—

“What was that?” I asked.

He rose slowly, walking toward me. “That,” he said as he approached, “was what you call collaboration. Something you normally reject from me on instinct.”

I folded my arms. “Or maybe it’s just you trying to sneak in through a project because you’ve run out of ways to manipulate me at home.”

He smirked, leaning in a little. “If I wanted to manipulate you, I wouldn’t start with the community center. I’d start with the kitchen.”

I exhaled sharply. “You’re insufferable.”

“But logical.”

“And way too self-aware.”

He bent slightly, his voice barely above a whisper near my ear. “And you… are way too quick to shut down things you secretly want.”

I stepped back. “Get out of my room, Reagan.”

He stepped back too, slowly, like a man who knew he hadn’t lost yet. “Lunch later?”

“In my worst nightmare.”

He opened the door. “See you later, architect of my heart.”

And as usual, he left behind the faint scent of leather and arrogance, lingering far longer than it should have.