Chapter 7

After that meeting, David didn't show up again.

But I knew he wasn't giving up.

Because Mom's attitude had changed.

Back then, whenever she brought up David, she'd say it with a cold tone. "That heartless guy."

But lately, she'd softened. "He's been through a lot too."

One time, she tried to bring it up. "Susan, why did things end between you and David? Can you tell me?"

"Mom, it's all in the past," I said.

"How am I supposed to help you if you won't talk about it? What if he really never did anything to hurt you?" she pressed.

"Mom, enough," I said, my voice a little sharper.

She sighed and didn't say anything else.

But after that, I had a vague sense that David must've said or done something in front of Mom.

Mom was always the kind to fall for a sob story.

I started calling home less and less, not because I was scared of her persuasion, but because I was scared I'd lose my resolve.

Three years had passed, and the wound had already scabbed over. I didn't want to rip it open again.

Work saved me.

PlainWhite was making a name for itself in Havenbrook. We were working on high-end residential projects, boutique commercial spaces, and cultural venues, pushing all three fronts at the same time.

My team grew to twenty-eight people.

At the end of the third year, I got an invitation.

Havenbrook Design Week's Young Designers Forum invited me to give a keynote speech.

It was the most prestigious event in Havenbrook's design scene.

Grace called to congratulate me, her voice so loud that I had to hold the phone away from my ear. "Do you know who else they invited?

"One is Jason Sawyer, who won the Veyra-Moren Design Award last year, and the other is Alex Chadwick, the founder of BrightBuild. You're sharing the stage with them," Grace said.

"Stop hyping me up. I'm nervous," I said.

"You get nervous?"

"Yeah."

I barely got any sleep that whole week while working on my speech.

It was not that I could not write it. I had to condense four years of journey into a forty-minute speech.

Every fall, every grievance I had endured, and every breakdown I experienced at three in the morning when I was revising the tenth draft needed to become something meaningful rather than mere self-pity.

When Design Week finally came, the place was packed.

I went with a plain black dress, hair tied back, not a single piece of jewelry.

Before I went on stage, the host checked in with me backstage to make sure everything was set. "Ms. Reed, your slot is at 2 p.m.

"Oh, and so you know, a few design firms from Northgate are here this year. You might recognize some of them."

I asked offhandedly, "Which ones?"

"Urban Works is here, too. They did that old town renovation project in Northgate this year, and it's been getting a ton of attention in the industry," the host replied.

My grip on the water bottle tightened. Urban Works?

"Is David here in person?" I asked.

"Yeah, looks like he's leading the team himself," the host replied.

I took a sip of water and screwed the cap back on tight. "Got it."

*****

I spoke on stage for forty minutes. "Space isn't a designer's creation. It's an extension of the people who use it. We're not building rooms; we're translating someone's life into design."

The crowd erupted in applause.

As I stepped off the stage, a bunch of people came over to hand me their business cards and ask to connect on social media.

I handled each one, keeping an easy, professional smile on my face.

I turned to grab my bag from backstage and pushed open the door to the lounge.

David was sitting there.

His suit jacket was draped over the back of the chair, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and he was looking down at his phone.

He looked up when he heard the door open.

Our eyes met.

He spoke first. "Don't go. I didn't mean to stop you. I wanted to—"

"Wanted to what?" I cut him off.

He stood up. "You did great up there."

I didn't expect him to say that. "I don't need your opinion."

"I know," he said, pausing. "Susan, you're more impressive than before."

"I've always been impressive. You never noticed." That came out way sharper than I meant it to.

He didn't argue; instead, he looked at me.

We hadn't seen each other in three years, well, except for that run-in at the mansion a few months back.

He really did look worn out.

He'd lost a lot of weight, his cheekbones more prominent, but there was a new intensity in his eyes. It was a sharpness, like life had ground him down and left him with an edge he'd never had before.

"Your company's doing really well," he suddenly said.

"That's got nothing to do with you," I replied.

"I know. Back then, you said we weren't a good match, and I've been racking my brain for three years trying to figure out what you meant. I still don't get it."

"Then stop trying."

"I can't figure it out because you never told me the real reason."

I gave him a cold stare. "David, do you really think if you act all sincere, stubborn, and pitiful, I'll soften up?"

His expression shifted for a moment. "I'm not trying to make you feel sorry for me."

"So what is this, then?"

"I'm asking my ex-wife why she left me without a single word."

Suddenly, the lounge door swung open.

A woman walked in. She had long hair, flawless makeup, and a killer figure.

"David, the venue—" She froze for a split second when her eyes landed on me.

Then, a smile slowly spread across her face. "Oh, Susan, long time no see."

It was Emily.

I felt a chill rush through my veins.

All that calm was a front. I thought three years would be enough to move on, but seeing her face, seeing her right there beside him, saying his name made me furious.

She was still with him. She'd always been with him.

I forced a smile. "Long time no see."

Then I grabbed my bag and walked out.

I heard his hurried footsteps behind me. "Susan, wait."

"Don't follow me," I said, not turning around. "Isn't she right there with you?"

He stopped in his tracks.

I walked out of the venue, flagged down a cab, and pulled the window up as soon as I got in.

The driver glanced at me in the rearview mirror. "Where to?"

"Anywhere is fine," I said.

*****

That night, Joanne called, her voice cautious. "Did you run into David at Design Week?"

"Yeah," I replied.

"And then what?"

"Nothing happened."

"Susan—"

"Don't try to talk me into anything."

She was quiet for a few seconds. "I'm not trying to talk you into anything. I want to tell you something."

"What is it?" I asked.

"Emily isn't with David," Joanne said.

I was taken aback for a moment. "What do you mean?"

"Emily's a project manager at Urban Works. They're coworkers. She got married last year; her husband's in finance."

"So what?"

"I mean, about what happened three years ago, is it possible that you—"

"Joanne."

"Yeah?"

"You know what I saw. Two pairs of slippers, one man's, one woman's. She was in the kitchen, asking him where the salt was. He said he was working late, but that was a lie. You know it all."

"I know. But—"

"There's no 'but.' A married man living with another woman? It doesn't matter what their relationship was, but that's already out of bounds. Plus, he lied to me."

Joanne went quiet.

After a while, she asked, "So what are you thinking now?"

"Nothing. I'm busy," I said.

After hanging up, I sat in front of my computer, staring at a bid for a new project.

I couldn't focus on a single word.

Emily was married. She wasn't with David. But what about back then?

No. No matter what happened back then, he lied. He was right there in that apartment, but he told me that he was working late. If he had nothing to hide, why lie?

I pushed that thought down again and again.

I pushed it all the way to the bottom, buried it under work, fatigue, and a packed calendar.

I couldn't afford to waver.

It took me three years to get to where I am now. I wasn't about to let a few words from anyone send me back to square one.

Early the next morning, my phone screen lit up.

A text came in from an unknown number. [Susan, it's Emily. I know you don't want to see me, but there are some things I need to get off my chest. Would you be willing to meet up?]

I stared at the screen, frozen.

I didn't reply. But I couldn't bring myself to delete it, either.

That was the worst part. I did not delete it right away.

It meant there was a gap in my defenses, and something was starting to worm its way in.