Before leaving, Jack invited me to a private club on the Upper East Side.

"It's a top-tier social event. All partner-level."

I went. Not for myself, but for Maya. Before I left, I had to place her and the team into suitable projects, like arranging foster care for orphans.

In that century-old mahogany room, waiters pushed silver carts.

I held the heavy oak door for one, and he gave me a grateful look—probably the only sincerity I received that night.

Before the door fully closed, laughter drifted out.

"Seriously, Julian, Layla's proposal was textbook perfection. You really had the heart to cut her? That's cold."

Julian’s voice floated out, mixed with the arrogance of single malt scotch and the Ivy League:

"A flaw is a flaw. I can't sacrifice the 'integrity' of the jury just because she sleeps in my bed, right? Business is business."

Someone tried to defend me. Michael. "But her field research in the Bronx was really solid..."

"Her vision is too small."

Julian interrupted indifferently, as if commenting on an ant's efforts:

"Let her start doing real architecture when she stops messing around with 'kitchen renovations' and 'store fittings.'"

I stood outside, my heart numb.

I was immune to this trick of belittling a partner in front of the boys to show off "objectivity."

I pushed the door open and walked straight to the end of the long table.

That night, I acted like a professional salesperson, pitching Maya’s team to every architect willing to listen.

"Maya is very experienced in brownstone renovations in Brooklyn Heights, especially historical detail restoration."

A visiting professor from MIT was interested. He praised my handling of "adaptive reuse" in that industrial site project.

He was witty, cracking jokes about Boston's terrible traffic and Brutalist architecture, making me chuckle softly.

The whole time, Julian swirled his Macallan 18, not drinking a drop, staring at me with dark eyes.

When the party broke up, he dragged me out of the crowd without a word and shoved me into his Tesla.

The doors locked. The small space was instantly filled with a suffocating mix of expensive leather, cigars, his Tom Ford cologne, and a hint of Chanel No. 5 that wasn't mine.

"Flirting with other men right in front of me?"

His voice was low, suppressing anger.

"That was normal networking." I tried the door handle.

His arm reached over, pinning me into the corner of the passenger seat.

"Layla, in the New York architecture circle, I am the ceiling. What need do you have that I can't solve?"

He leaned in, the smell of alcohol spraying on my face.

"Do you need to beg those second-rate academics like a pauper?"

I looked at him, suddenly feeling incredibly tired.

He would never understand.

Years ago, Maya drank until she had stomach bleeding just to get me a junior draftsman position on his project.

And when he found out, he just texted: "Tell her to act professional."

"I don't want to owe you anymore, Julian."

I turned my head.

Actually, that MIT professor had already given me a few contacts in the Bay Area. But I didn't want to tell him.

Julian loosened his Hermes tie, his tone softening. It was his usual "slap then give a candy" strategy.

"Listen, babe. I have a new commercial complex project. I need a coordinator..."

Bzzzt.

Phone vibrated.

Maya: "United flight confirmed. See you in San Francisco."

I interrupted his charity and pushed the door open.

The cold midnight wind of Manhattan rushed in, blowing away the nauseating perfume smell.

"Julian."

I stood by the curb, back to the brilliant lights.

"We're on different paths. I'll walk mine alone."