Chapter 106 Rival
The construction of the new Johnston Estate had become the talk of the architectural world.
It wasn't just the sheer scale of the project or the massive budget. It was the narrative surrounding it. I was the architect rebuilding the home she had been thrown out of, funded by the billionaire who had thrown her out, in a very public display of redemption.
It was catnip for the industry press.
Because of this, Veridian Designs, the firm Tristan nominally owned but which I now practically ran as the lead designer, was suddenly flooded with high-profile commission requests. The Metropolitan Museum was just the beginning.
It was a Wednesday afternoon in late April. I was in the large, glass-walled conference room at Veridian headquarters, leading a pitch meeting for a massive new commercial development in the financial district.
Tristan was sitting at the far end of the long mahogany table. He wasn't there as my boss. He was there as the financial backer for the development, letting me run the creative side entirely.
Sitting across from me was Elias Vance.
He was no relation to Silas or Lorelei, though the shared surname had initially given me pause. Elias was the head of Vanguard Architecture, our primary rival for this bid. He was in his mid-thirties, impeccably dressed in a tailored Italian suit, with sharp blue eyes and a smile that managed to be both charming and slightly predatory.
He was also very, very good at his job.
"While Ms. Hayes's design for the central atrium is certainly... poetic," Elias began, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the table, "I believe Vanguard’s approach offers a more pragmatic solution for the foot traffic flow."
He tapped his stylus against his tablet, bringing up a 3D rendering on the massive screen behind him. It was a stark, efficient design. Cold, but mathematically flawless.
"Pragmatism shouldn't require the sacrifice of light," I countered smoothly, tapping my own tablet to switch the screen back to my design. "The financial district is already a canyon of concrete and shadow. The atrium is designed to act as a lung for the building. A space that breathes."
I looked directly at Elias.
"Unless, of course, Vanguard’s priority is maximizing square footage for retail kiosks over the psychological well-being of the building's occupants."
A low murmur rippled through the development board members sitting around the table.
Elias didn't flinch. His smile widened slightly, his blue eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that was entirely inappropriate for a board meeting.
"I appreciate a woman who values psychological well-being," Elias said, his voice dropping a fraction of an octave, the tone shifting from professional to personal in a heartbeat. "Especially when she designs it so beautifully. Your work on the Johnston Estate is truly inspired, Minerva. I'd love to discuss your use of natural light over dinner sometime."
The silence in the conference room was sudden and absolute.
He hadn't just flirted with me during a multi-million dollar pitch. He had used my first name, bypassed the professional boundary entirely, and asked me out in front of the entire development board.
And he had done it in front of Tristan.
I felt the temperature in the room drop ten degrees.
I didn't look at Tristan immediately. I kept my face perfectly neutral, returning Elias’s stare with cold, flat professionalism.
"My work on the Johnston Estate is private, Mr. Vance," I said, my voice crisp and cutting. "And my dinners are currently booked. I suggest we focus on the commercial space in front of us."
Elias chuckled, a low, easy sound, completely unbothered by the rejection. "Of course. My apologies. The passion of the design is simply... distracting."
He shifted his gaze down the table, finally looking at Tristan.
It was a deliberate provocation. A challenge thrown down by a younger, hungry rival.
I finally looked at Tristan.
Five months ago, this would have ended in violence. The Titan would have flipped the table, dragged me out of the room by my wrist, and spent the next three days tearing Vanguard Architecture apart through hostile takeovers and malicious lawsuits, driven by a blind, terrifying jealousy.
But the man sitting at the end of the table wasn't the Titan. Not entirely.
Tristan was leaning back in his leather chair, his hands steepled in front of him. His face was a mask of relaxed, calm authority. He didn't glare at Elias. He didn't yell.
He just looked at the younger architect with the mild, detached amusement of a lion watching a stray dog try to steal a scrap of meat.
"Mr. Vance," Tristan said, his voice quiet, filling the silent room without any effort. "Your pragmatic approach to foot traffic is noted. However, Veridian Capital does not finance buildings that feel like glorified subway stations."
He stood up, buttoning his suit jacket with fluid grace.
"Ms. Hayes's design provides the structural integrity we require, alongside the aesthetic value that commands premium lease rates," Tristan continued, looking at the board members. "Veridian Capital will back her proposal fully."
He didn't look at Elias again. He turned his attention to the head of the development board.
"I believe we have our direction, gentlemen," Tristan said. "My legal team will forward the finalized contracts by morning."
He turned and walked toward the door. He paused, looking back at me.
"Minerva, whenever you're ready," he said, his tone entirely professional, but his amber eyes warm and crinkling slightly at the corners.
"I'm right behind you," I said, gathering my tablet and portfolio.
I didn't look at Elias as I walked out of the room, leaving the rival architect sitting in the wreckage of his failed pitch and his failed provocation.
We walked into Tristan’s private office down the hall.
The moment the heavy glass door clicked shut behind us, the professional facade dropped.
I let out a long, shaky breath, leaning back against the door.
"Well," I said, my heart still racing slightly from the confrontation. "That was... blatant."
Tristan walked over to his desk, pouring two glasses of sparkling water from a crystal carafe.
"He's an amateur," Tristan said dismissively, handing me a glass. "He thought he could unbalance you by making it personal, and he thought he could provoke me into making a scene."
I took a sip of the water, watching him closely over the rim of the glass.
"Did it provoke you?" I asked softly.