SOFIA
The scent of dust and faded varnish hits me the moment I push open the office door. Richards Construction hasn't smelled like fresh paint in years—not since before everything started to crack.
The receptionist's desk is empty, a stack of unopened envelopes teetering like a fragile tower beside the landline that hasn't rung in weeks. The chairs still bear the indents of employees who no longer sit in them.
I drop my bag onto the nearest seat and let my gaze sweep across the place that used to buzz with voices, staplers, and the metallic grind of copy machines. Now, silence fills every corner, heavy and accusing.
"Dad?" I call.
"In here," comes his faint reply.
I find him hunched over his desk, a fortress of invoices, warnings, and failed bids surrounding him. The desk lamp carves shadows across his lined face. His once-straight shoulders sag beneath his shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbow, collar wilted. He looks smaller than I remember, as if the weight of unpaid bills has slowly pressed him into the chair.
"Mom said you didn't come home last night," I say softly.
"I had work."
"Work?" I lift a paper from the pile. Final Notice. My stomach tightens.
He doesn't meet my gaze. His thumb circles his temple as though he could rub the exhaustion out. "It'll turn around."
The same line I've heard for three years.
"Dad…"
His hair has gone mostly gray, though he won't admit it. Pride is all he has left. It's that same pride that built this company from the ground up, brick by brick, until Richards Construction became something solid. Something we all relied on.
And now it's strangling him.
"You should go back to Stoneleaf," he mutters, still avoiding my eyes. "Don't waste your time here. I've got it handled."
I clench my jaw. "Handled? With what? We're drowning."
Finally, his eyes snap up—sharp, defensive. "Don't talk to me like I'm a failure."
The words hit like a slap. "That's not what I—"
Before I can finish, Mom bustles in, her smile too wide, hands wrapped around a thermos of coffee.
"There you are, sweetheart. Don't mind your father, he's been up all night."
"He's always up all night," I shoot back, my voice brittle.
Mom sets the thermos down, fingers trembling. "We'll figure it out. We always do."
Her faith infuriates me almost as much as Dad's denial. They're clinging to the wreckage of a sinking ship, refusing to admit the water's rushing in.
And somehow, they expect me to keep smiling through it.
---
By the time I leave the office, my chest feels tight, like I've been holding my breath for hours.
The walk back to my apartment should clear my head. The city noise usually distracts me—the sirens, the horns, the endless hum of strangers who don't know my name.
But today, all I can hear is Dad's voice. Don't talk to me like I'm a failure.
As if naming the truth makes it real. As if I'm the one crumbling the business, not the debts.
I pull out my phone and scroll through my bank app. The numbers glare back at me—insufficient, always insufficient. Rent, groceries, utilities, the medical bills piling on Mom's desk. My paycheck from Stoneleaf barely scratches the surface.
I close the app before despair swallows me.
And, of all things, I remember him.
The man from the party. The one whose shirt I ruined.
Adrian Vale.
Cold, unreadable. The kind of man who made silence feel like judgment. The way the crowd shifted around him like he carried his own gravitational pull.
I shouldn't even remember his face.
But I do.
The sharp line of his jaw, the steel of his gaze. The way he looked at me when I didn't fold, didn't stammer, didn't apologize twice.
I told myself I didn't care about his indifference. But the memory burns like a match I can't put out.
---
Two nights later, Mom insists I go with her to a charity gala.
"It's important," she says, zipping me into the only dress I own that could pass for evening wear. Black, simple. Dull compared to the gowns I know I'll see.
"Important for who?" I mutter, tugging at the hem.
"For us," she replies, forcing cheer. "Your father needs to be seen. Needs to remind people we're still here."
Translation: We can't let the vultures smell blood.
The ballroom sparkles like a scene from a movie—chandeliers scattering golden light, violins swelling beneath the chatter. Waiters weave through the crowd with trays of champagne.
My heels pinch within ten minutes. My smile pinches even faster.
I cling to the edges of the room while my parents do the rounds, plastering on smiles, shaking hands with people who stopped calling months ago.
I sip water, wishing I could blend into the wallpaper.
And then, like some cruel joke, he walks in.
Adrian Vale.
The crowd reacts instantly, parting as though he's royalty—or a storm you don't dare step into. His presence slices through the chatter, sharp and commanding.
He wears his suit like armor, dark and perfect. Every movement is measured.
The temperature seems to drop.
And somehow, his eyes find mine.
My breath stalls. His gaze doesn't slide past me—not dismissive this time, not indifferent. Just locked. Assessing.
My stomach twists.
He doesn't approach right away. He works the room first, shaking hands, exchanging clipped greetings. People laugh too loudly at nothing he says, desperate for crumbs of his attention.
But eventually, inevitably, he drifts toward me.
"You clean up better without wine in your hands," he says.
I blink. "Was that… a joke?"
"Observation." His eyes sweep over me, not lecherous, not soft. Just cataloguing, like I'm another file on his desk.
I cross my arms. "Well, here's one for you—you still look like you're carved out of ice."
For the briefest second, something flickers across his face. Amusement? Annoyance? Both?
Then it's gone.
"Careful, Ms. Richards. People might think you enjoy provoking me."
"People might think you deserve it."
A pause. The corner of his mouth curves—barely there, almost not at all. "Interesting."
That's it. Just interesting.
Before I can snap back, someone interrupts. An older man clasps Adrian's hand with reverence, pulling him into a discussion about contracts and markets.
Adrian doesn't resist. But as he turns away, his eyes linger on me one beat too long.
Like smoke that refuses to clear.
---
By the time the night ends, my cheeks ache from pretending.
My parents leave with renewed determination, convinced the gala "helped." Convinced appearances still matter.
I leave with my pulse uneven and my nerves tangled.
Because Adrian Vale saw me again. And this time, he didn't dismiss me.
This time, he noticed.
And I don't know whether that's a victory… or the beginning of something I should be terrified of.