Chapter 6
I stood in the middle of the living room and let all of it settle.
So that was the story. Julian had never planned to make anything of this marriage.
He didn't need a wife. He needed a hostage, a piece of collateral that kept the Winters in line.
"Dad, has the 60 million dollars been paid back?"
"Half of it. We still owe 30 million dollars."
"If I divorce him, will they use that money against us?"
My father's face changed.
"I'll handle it. You don't need to worry about—"
"Dad." I walked over and crouched down in front of him. "From here on, I handle everything myself. You and Mom don't carry anything else for me."
"That 30 million dollars—"
"Give me three months. I'll pay it off."
My father stared at me.
"Where would you get that kind of money?"
"Dad, I didn't spend three years in that house doing nothing."
I stood and picked up my bag.
"I've put something together. Not money. Something worth more than money."
My mother followed me to the door.
"Lauren, what are you talking about—"
"Mom, trust me."
I got into my car.
For three years, Julian had looked straight through me, and I hadn't wasted a single one of those days.
He assumed I sat at home watching TV and waiting for him to walk in.
What he never knew was that I had taught myself architectural design, taken freelance projects online, and entered industry competitions under another name.
The gold medal at last year's Future City Award had gone to an architect who signed the work L.W.T., and that architect was me.
*****
The next morning, Shawn called.
"It's set. 3 o'clock tomorrow afternoon, Julian's lawyer wants the meeting at my office," he said.
"Fine," I said.
"There's one more thing."
Something in his tone shifted.
"Julian announced in the executive meeting this morning that nobody at the company is allowed to discuss his private life. Anyone who does gets fired."
"He's sealing it off," I said.
"Right. And he did one more thing. He tracked down whoever posted those camera stills."
"Who was it?"
"A marketing intern at Eastgate named Fiona Lane. They let her go this morning."
My hand tightened on the steering wheel.
"Was she connected to me in any way?"
"No. But it tells you Julian is using company resources to control the story now. Watch every step you take from here on."
"I know."
I ended the call and opened my laptop.
I logged into an email account I rarely used, registered under the name L.W.T.
More than 40 unread messages sat in the inbox.
Partnership invitations had come in from the top architecture firms in the country, along with job offers from studios abroad and standalone project contracts from several developers.
The newest one had come from the East Side district government.
The subject line read: [Invitation to Submit Urban Design Proposals for the Riverside Newtown Core Parcel.]
I opened it and read it through.
Riverside Newtown was the largest redevelopment on the East Side, with an estimated 10 billion dollars in total investment, and it was the biggest project in the city that year.
Five design teams had made the shortlist.
Bluecrest Studio, Unity Design Collective, a firm from abroad, and one local design company filled four of the slots.
The fifth slot sat open and carried a note that read [Invited entry.]
The invitation had gone to L.W.T., which meant it had gone to me.
If I won the project, the design fee plus the share of the follow-on work would come to 60 million dollars at a conservative estimate.
That would clear the 30 million dollars my father still owed the Eastgates and put the Winters back on their feet.
The problem sat in the fourth line of the shortlist, where the local design company was listed as Eastgate Urban Design Studio.
That was Julian's ground.