The swatch was called "Cerulean Dream," but to Sloane Sterling, it looked like a nightmare.
"It's too loud, Marcus," Sloane said, tossing the velvet fabric onto the mahogany conference table. The sound it made was soft, but in the sterile silence of Sterling & Stone Interiors, it felt like a gavel hitting a block. "Our client wants 'Mediterranean Calm,' not 'Electric Disco in Mykonos.' Take it back to the showroom and find me something that doesn't scream at me when I look at it."
Marcus, her overworked but loyal assistant, scooped up the fabric. "On it, Boss. Also, your 10:00 a.m. is here. He's... well, he's early. And he's brought coffee."
Sloane didn't look up from her iPad, where she was meticulously dragging a virtual mid-century modern sofa across a digital floor plan. "I don't have a 10:00 a.m. scheduled with anyone who brings coffee. That implies a level of familiarity I haven't authorized."
"It's Ethan," Marcus whispered, leaning in.
Sloane's stylus hovered over the screen. The name felt like a sudden cold draft in a well-insulated room. Ethan. Her ex-fiancé. The man who had, quite literally, walked out of their shared apartment six months ago because he claimed her life was "too curated" and he "felt like a prop in a showroom."
"Send him in," she said, her voice dropping an octave into her professional 'ice queen' register. "And Marcus? If I'm not out in fifteen minutes, call the police. Or a priest."
Ethan entered the office looking infuriatingly handsome in a way that suggested he hadn't spent a single minute thinking about thread counts or color palettes. He was wearing a rugged flannel shirt. Sloane suppressed a shudder, and carrying two cardboard cups.
"Sloane," he said, his voice a low rumble that still, traitorously, made the hair on her arms stand up.
"Ethan. You're early. And you're trespassing on my billable hours." She gestured to the chair across from her desk. "To what do I owe this... disruption?"
He set a latte down in front of her. "It's oat milk. Extra shot. No foam. I remember the design specs."
Sloane didn't touch it. "Design is about forward motion, Ethan. I don't look at old blueprints. Why are you here?"
Ethan sighed, sitting down and leaning forward. "My sister, Maya. She bought that fixer-upper in the Heights. The Victorian that looks like it's held together by termites and sheer willpower."
"I heard," Sloane said, maintaining a neutral expression. She had actually been tracking that property on Zillow for months, itching to get her hands on its original crown molding. "It's a disaster. It needs a complete structural overhaul."
"It needs you," Ethan said. "She wants to hire you. But she was too scared to ask because of... us. I told her I'd be the sacrificial lamb. I told her I'd come and make the pitch."
Sloane finally looked at him, really looked at him. His eyes were the color of weathered oak, a warm, grounded brown that she used to find comforting. Now, they just looked like a complication.
"You want me to work on a project where I'll inevitably run into you?" she asked. "The man who told me my soul was as hollow as a hollow-core door?"
"I never said that," Ethan winced. "I said you value the aesthetic over the experience. There's a difference. And for the record, I'm the contractor on the job. Maya hired Miller Construction."
Sloane felt the air leave her lungs. Miller Construction. Ethan's family business. If she took this job, she wouldn't just be seeing him; she'd be in the trenches with him. They'd be arguing over load-bearing walls and plumbing permits for the next six months.
"Absolutely not," she said, standing up. "It's a conflict of interest. It's a conflict of... sanity."
"It's a three-million-dollar renovation budget, Sloane," Ethan countered, standing up to meet her gaze. "And Maya wants it to be the cover of Architectural Digest. You know you want that house. You've been obsessed with that neighborhood since we were twenty."
He was right. That was the problem with people who had seen your rough drafts; they knew exactly where the structural weaknesses were. Sloane looked out her floor-to-ceiling window at the city skyline. Her firm was doing well, but she was stuck designing luxury condos that all looked the same. The Heights project was a legacy piece. It was the kind of work that defined a career.
"I have conditions," she said, turning back to him.
Ethan smirked, that lopsided grin that used to make her heart do a frantic little dance. "I'd be disappointed if you didn't. Let's hear them."
"One: Our communication is strictly via project management software. No personal texts. No 'checking in.' Two: You stay out of my design meetings. You are the muscle, Ethan. I am the brain. You build what I draw, exactly how I draw it."
"And Three?" he asked, stepping closer.
"Three," she said, her voice trembling slightly despite her best efforts. "Do not mention the past. Not once. As far as I'm concerned, we met today for the first time. Love by Design is my motto, Ethan. And I've designed a life where you don't exist."
Ethan reached out, his hand hovering near hers on the desk, before he pulled it back and tucked it into his pocket. "Deal. I'll have the contract sent over by morning. But Sloane?"
"Yes?"
"That latte? It's getting cold. And some things... some things are better when they're still warm."
He turned and walked out, leaving the scent of cedarwood and caffeine behind. Sloane stared at the cup. She told herself she was going to throw it away. She told herself she was going to call Marcus and tell him to cancel the project.
Instead, she picked up the cup, took a sip, and opened a new folder on her computer. She labeled it: The Heights - Project Resurrection.
Outside, the sun was setting, casting long, dramatic shadows across her office. Sloane pulled a fresh sheet of drafting paper toward her. She began to draw, the lines sharp and precise. She could control the house. She could control the wood, the stone, and the light.
But as she sketched the grand staircase of Maya's new home, she found her hand shaking. For the first time in her career, the blueprint didn't feel solid. It felt like she was building on sand.
"It's just a house," she whispered to the empty room. "It's just a job."
But in the back of her mind, a voice that sounded suspiciously like Ethan's whispered back: Nothing is ever just a job when your heart is in the foundation.."