Chapter 3

The next day, the competition organizers arranged a podcast livestream in a loft-style studio in Akotan.

What they called a "roundtable discussion" was really just a carefully planned damage control operation.

Ethan sat in the lounge chair, still rocking the same Tom Ford suit from last night. His tie hung loose, and he had that hungover, slightly rumpled vibe that just happened to fit the whole 'effortless elite' trend.

He leaned toward the mic, slipping into his usual mentor act.

"Aria's a real go-getter. She's always putting in the work," Ethan said.

He paused, then switched to that smug lecturer vibe, like he was back in the classroom.

"But in architecture, you know, 'less is more.' Sometimes, trying too hard just makes your designs end up way too busy," he added.

Then, Ethan shifted the conversation to Sophie.

"Sophie is a whole different kind of genius. She's an experiential talent, her intuition for space is absolutely phenomenal," Ethan said.

I stared at him, my stomach churning.

I spent three months holed up in a gang-tagged abandoned factory in Nexalel, going door to door for community research. He called that overly complicated.

Sophie just idly sketched something on her iPad while sitting on the beach in Yllantel, and he called it intuition.

Even Architectural Digest and Dezeen praised my proposal as "a return to humanism," but the only person dragging me through the mud on a livestream was my own partner.

I wanted to push back, but those damn gaslighting lines echoed in my head. He used to say to me, "Don't be so sensitive, Aria. You're way too serious."

If this was all just a performance, then I'd be the one to call the shots on how it ends.

"Ethan," I adjusted the mic and interrupted him, slipping into my best podcast-host voice. "Fantastic talk, but I need to pause for a moment. Restroom break," I said.

I yanked off my headphones and got up, leaving without a second thought. The whole stream froze, and everyone went awkwardly quiet.

During the break time, I stepped out into a back alley in Akotan.

Ethan lit a cigarette, his face tense. "Have you lost it? I worked hard to get you this spotlight.

"You should focus on sharing your 'failure stories' and make sure to highlight Sophie's brilliance. It's good for your career."

So that was his real game.

Twitter and Reddit were flooded with people calling Sophie a nepo baby. He needed me, the seasoned pro, to back her up, to prove Sophie's win over me was legit and shut people up online.

I looked at him, and suddenly, I couldn't help but find it all laughable.

"Nice PR strategy, Ethan," I said.

I shot him a smile dripping with sarcasm.

"But I'm just the eternal runner-up. What right do I have to judge the champion?" I added.

I turned and walked away, leaving him standing in the chilly alley wind.

This time, I didn't even care to fake it.

"Ethan's shortlist for the new project is closing soon. That's a landmark project in Narian! Did you even try to get in?" Lisa Chavez blurted out, gripping my hand.

I glanced at my phone. There were no unread messages.

"I'm not going," I said.

Lisa's hand shook with anger, and her Trader Joe's oat milk latte spilled all over the table.

She shouted, "You're not going? That was your idea. He blatantly ripped you off at the awards ceremony, right in front of everyone. He's using you!"

"So what?" I cut her off, my voice flat with exhaustion.

I already knew he was using me.

Four years ago, back when we were grinding away on the Lower East Side project. Ethan and I were crammed into that shoebox apartment in Oghrands, so miserable even the rats gave it a pass. We spent endless nights sketching, barely sleeping.

When it finally paid off, he was the media darling, front page of The Chaarindol Times. I was just a nobody.

When I tried to claim even a sliver of credit in the conference room, Ethan just flashed that smug smile and shut me down in front of all the partners.

"Aria, don't let your personal feelings mess with your professional judgment. That's what we call 'unprofessional,'" Ethan said, cool as ever.

He didn't even need to raise his voice. Just like that, I became the office punchline. I was considered the pretty face who thought she could hitch a ride on her boyfriend's success, but couldn't cut it on her own.

I said, my gaze empty as I looked at Lisa, "He's right about one thing. I'm just not cut out for this."

"That's nonsense!" Lisa shot back.

"I'm just so tired, Lisa," I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

As soon as the words left my mouth, it felt like the last thread holding me together just snapped.

All those dreams of winning the Pritzker Prize, of leaving my mark on Turia's skyline, fell apart.

Outside, the ambulance siren wailed, piercing and desperate, then faded away into the night.

It was just like the six years of my life that vanished with it.

The whole process of terminating my contract was eerily smooth, like I was just another bad debt they were writing off.

Apparently, in Moore Agency's meticulous calculations, my ROI had already maxed out.

My boss, Morrison Holland, sat behind his massive desk, adjusting his gold-rimmed glasses with that courtroom finality.

"Aria, you've got talent. But in this business, you need a certain... 'killer instinct.' And honestly, you're just too soft," he said.

He shrugged, tossing out that insult of a suggestion.

"But since your theory game is strong, maybe you should try for a part-time teaching gig at Parsons or Pratt. You know the saying, those who can't do it teach," Morrison said.

I signed my name and cut a check for the so-called training penalty fee.

With that swipe of the pen, the money I'd saved up for a down payment on a studio in Nethyr was wiped out, just like that.

When I walked out of the midtown office, dusk had already swallowed the city.

The December wind in Chaarindol cut across my face like a blade. Fifth Avenue was in full Christmas mode.

Saks's facade was blazing with a light show, giant snowflakes danced across crystal decorations, and tourists were cheering, taking selfies, living it up.

But in the middle of all this glitter and celebration, I had nothing.

My phone buzzed. It was a message from my grandpa.

It read: [My granddaughter is amazing. I saw your name in the World Journal again!]

I stared at the screen, my eyes stinging with emotion.

Grandpa was a first-generation immigrant, spending his whole life under the sun in Seventaral, working the land. He had no idea what the Pritzker Prize was or how the whole partner system worked.

Back when I was studying architecture, he'd sit with me, squinting through his reading glasses as we drilled vocabulary words together.

He'd always butcher the professional terms wrong.

Over the years, I'd lied to him so many times. I would say, "I'll come visit you as soon as this project is done. My boss really values me. I'm doing great in Chaarindol."

For six years, I chased after recognition, trophies, and Ethan, only to end up empty-handed.

Meanwhile, in that small town called Koguryohan out in Seventaral, Grandpa kept a light on for me. I was his one and only pride.

Out on Fifth Avenue, the cold wind bit at my face as I drew in a breath, roasted chestnuts and car exhaust swirling together in the air.

I pulled out my phone and opened the airlines app.