5. The Letters
I stood motionless in my office cabin, the hum of the air conditioning fading as my eyes locked onto the letter resting on my desk. Its crisp, white edges gleamed under the harsh fluorescent light, my name—Ximara—scrawled across the front in an elegant, flowing script that felt both foreign and intimate. I had not left it there. No one had been inside when I stepped out for Stephan's meeting earlier that day. My pulse thudded in my ears as I reached for it, unease prickling along my spine like a cold finger tracing my skin. I tore it open, the sound sharp in the quiet room.
No signature. No hint of who had slipped into my space to leave this behind. I turned the envelope over, searching for a clue—a smudge, a scent, anything—but it was pristine, maddeningly blank. The words felt too personal, too knowing, to come from Victoria; her praise was always precise, professional, never this… tender. Could it be someone who had tracked my work up close? A secret admirer, maybe? The thought sent a flutter through my chest, equal parts flattery and discomfort. I shook my head, dismissing the idea as fanciful, even childish. It was probably Victoria, I decided, a parting gesture before she left. I shrugged off the lingering chill and set the letter aside, determined to focus on what mattered.
Sinking into my chair, I let the weight of my new reality settle over me like a heavy, warm blanket. Interior Manager. Me. The opportunity was monumental. I still could not wrap my mind around it—how I had climbed this far, from a runaway clutching a battered sketchbook under a North Carolina sky to a senior role at Rowan Architects, one of New York's most prestigious firms. My fingers traced the edge of my desk, the smooth wood grounding me as excitement bubbled up, fierce and uncontainable. I could not wait to tell Ali, to see his weathered face light up with pride.
The journey home was a slog. Taxis were nowhere to be found today, their yellow blurs absent from the crowded streets, so I resigned myself to walking a few miles. My portfolio thumped rhythmically against my hip, a steady beat to my steps as I wove through the throng of pedestrians—businessmen in sharp suits, tourists with wide eyes, street vendors hawking their wares. The city pulsed around me, alive with noise and motion, but a nagging sensation tugged at the edges of my awareness—like footsteps shadowing mine, too close for comfort. I glanced over my shoulder, my hair whipping across my face, but the sea of people was a chaotic blur, too thick to pinpoint anyone. Just paranoia, I told myself, exhaling a shaky breath as I pressed forward, refusing to look back again. The streets were too alive, too crowded, for me to be sure of anything.
When I finally reached the apartment building, my legs ached, and my blazer clung to my skin with the day's lingering heat. Ali stood at the entrance, his familiar silhouette a comfort, chatting with someone whose back faced me. "Oh yes, that new club—it has some buzz. I heard a few guys your age raving about it," a voice rumbled, thick and masculine, the deepest I had ever heard, resonating like thunder in a quiet valley.
"Yes, it sounds like a good—" Ali began, but his eyes caught mine, and his face split into a grin. "Mara!"
I smiled back, my exhaustion easing as I headed toward them. The stranger muttered something low, his face still hidden from me, then turned and retreated into the apartment next door. My stomach twisted as realization sank in—he was the neighbor, the one whose late-night habits had grated on my nerves since I had arrived. I had not known Ali was on speaking terms with him, their easy banter a surprise that left me off-balance. Maybe I could ask Ali to drop a hint, nudge him to keep his balcony escapades less… intrusive. The thought of confronting him myself flickered and died—I was not ready for that yet.
"Hey, Ali," I said, my smile softening as we stepped inside, the cool air of the apartment a relief after the sticky evening.
He studied me, a knowing glint in his gray eyes. "You have big news, do you not? That grin is louder than a bullhorn."
"Oh, you bet!" I beamed, my voice rising with excitement as I practically bounced on my toes. "I have been promoted—Senior Interior Manager! Victoria is quitting, and they chose me to step up. Can you believe it?"
"You deserve it, Mara," he said, his voice warm as he patted my head with a proud chuckle. "After all the hard work you have put in and the incredible talent you possess, it is paying off. I always knew you had it in you."
I headed to my room, craving the quiet of rest, but my mind buzzed too loudly to settle. The promotion, the letter, the day—it all swirled in my head, a storm of triumph and questions. Instead of collapsing onto my bed, I grabbed my sketchbook and drifted to the balcony, the night breeze brushing my face like a gentle hand. With a serene smile, I sat and began sketching—new designs spilling from my pencil.
Then a cascade of guitar notes floated over from next door, soft and haunting, piercing the stillness which distracted me. I peeked sideways, curiosity tugging at me. There he was again—the neighbor—his back to me, one foot propped against the wall, strumming his guitar with a grace. The melody wove through the air, raw and aching, as if it carried years of buried pain, each note a cry from a wounded soul. I closed my eyes, letting it wash over me, feeling an unexpected kinship with those mournful chords—my own struggles echoing in their depths. Then it stopped abruptly, replaced by a frustrated growl that jolted me back. I cracked an eye open as he set the guitar aside, its strings glinting faintly in the dim light. A blonde woman glided in—pale skin, model-slim, draped in lacy lingerie that screamed seduction. She looked vaguely familiar, like a face I had glimpsed in a glossy ad or a half-remembered dream. She sauntered toward him, pressing her hand to his chest, lips grazing his neck in a slow, deliberate dance. A low scowl rumbled from him—protest, perhaps?—but too faint for me to catch.
I snapped my sketchbook shut with a heavy sigh. "People cannot even take it inside," I muttered, my nose wrinkling as I stood and headed back in, locking the door behind me with a firm twist. It was not my business, I knew that, but it grated—public displays like that, with me just feet away. Someone could argue it was their space, their right, but a little consideration would not kill them. The scene left a bitter taste, a reminder of how little control I had over the world around me, even here.
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The next morning, I arrived at the office, my steps lighter despite the restless night. But when I pushed open my cabin door, another letter waited on my desk, pristine and unassuming. I tore it open, my jaw tightening as I read.
Ximara,
Your beauty shines brighter than your designs—inside and out. Do not ever doubt it.
Beauty? Me? I scoffed, the word feeling like a jest. Whoever this was, they were either a saint with a skewed lens or a prankster aiming to unsettle me. I was not falling for it—not today. Shrugging it off, I tucked it into a drawer and headed to meet Victoria, determined to keep my focus on work.
A month later, the letters had become a daily ritual—each one a glowing note of praise, some lauding my designs, others veering into unnervingly personal territory. I had interrogated the security guard, pressed him for answers, but he had none, even when he had handed me a few himself, his face blank with confusion. No one knew who was behind them. The word "creepy" barely scratched the surface—this "admirer" was either obsessed or toying with me. Still, I had thrived in that month, excelling as Interior Manager, my confidence swelling with every project I shaped, every space I transformed.
Today, I was mid-session, guiding a group of wide-eyed new interns through a design critique, when Stephan's assistant interrupted. "Stephan and Lara want you in their office."
I flashed a smile at the interns—"Keep sketching, I will check in later"—and headed upstairs, my stomach fluttering with anticipation. Stepping into the CEO's sleek office, I greeted them with a steady voice. "Good afternoon, Mr. and Mrs. Rowan."
"Good afternoon," Stephan replied, a faint smile tugging at his lips as he leaned back in his chair.
"Please, sit," Lara added, gesturing to a chair with a warm nod.
I settled in, nerves humming beneath my skin. Their one-year-old, Zara, stirred in her crib nearby, her electric-blue eyes—Lara's eyes—fluttering open, framed by dark brown curls like Stephan's. She was breathtaking, the most beautiful baby I had ever seen, her tiny features a perfect blend of her parents' strength and grace. I ached to scoop her up, to feel her small warmth against me, but I stayed rooted, hands clasped in my lap.
"Oh, diaper time," Lara said with a grin, glancing at Stephan. She lifted Zara gently, cradling her with a mother's ease. "I will be right back, honey," she told him, smiling at me as she excused herself, her footsteps soft against the polished floor.
I turned to Stephan, diving into my update to fill the silence. "I have submitted some new designs—still refining them, but I think they are solid. I am pushing for texture and depth, something that lasts."
He nodded, hands clasped on the desk, his gaze steady. "I have seen them, Ms. Adler."
Lara returned, Zara settled, and slid into her seat beside him. "Stephan, stop spooking her with the cryptic routine," she teased, nudging him with an elbow. He stifled a laugh, the sound low and rare.
"Sorry," he said, grinning. "She is right—I like rattling the team sometimes. Keeps everyone on their toes."
Lara rolled her eyes, her smile playful, then took the lead. "Ximara, your designs? They are phenomenal. Honestly, they surpass Victoria's—and that is saying something. She set a high bar, but you have cleared it with room to spare."
I froze, the words sinking in slowly. Surpass Victoria? That was a compliment I had never dared imagine, a validation so profound it left me momentarily speechless.
"So," Stephan cut in, his tone shifting to business, "we have a bigger offer for you. A new contract. I will lay it out, and you decide—stick with your current project or take this on."
I leaned forward, my pulse racing with a mix of dread and thrill. "I would love to hear more."
He leaned back, eyes gleaming with a challenge. "We landed a deal to renovate a racetrack—interior and exterior. The exterior crew is set, and we have labor for the inside, but we need a creative lead. Someone who can craft a race-themed vibe—dynamic, bold, tied to the event days. Something that screams speed and spirit."
My breath caught, my mind spinning. A racetrack? Images of Arthur Vance flashed unbidden. I did not know if this was his league—domestic, international, franchise?—but the timing aligned with a major one I had followed, its dates etched in my memory from late-night daydreams. This was massive, overwhelming. A dream job, yes, but a leap I had not prepared for, a plunge into waters deeper than I had ever swum. What if I faltered? What if I let them down, squandered their trust?
Stephan must have caught the flicker of doubt in my eyes. "Do you doubt yourself, Ms. Adler?" he asked, one brow arching in question.
"No, sir," I said, firming my voice, pushing back the uncertainty. "I trust my skills. But I will not deny I would need some guidance—details on the site, the scope, what you are envisioning."
Lara nodded, her expression softening. "We understand completely. You will have a week to think it over—it is your call entirely. If you pass, we will need to find someone else, so let us know soon."
"Absolutely," I said, steadying myself. "I will decide by tomorrow."
Stephan grinned, a glint of approval in his gaze. "Good. And if you say yes, pack for a month and a half. It is a franchise league—work might wrap in a month, but we would stay through the end, just in case there is an emergency need."
"Stay?" I frowned, my mind catching on the word. "It is not here in New York?"
"No," he said, his smirk widening. "Last-minute venue switch."
"Where to?" I asked, excitement and nerves tangling in my gut, a wild dance I could not quiet.
"Argentina."
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