6. Argentina
"Passengers are requested to fasten their seat belts. The flight is ready for takeoff," the air hostess announced over the intercom, her voice crisp against the murmur of the cabin.
I was flying to Argentina—Buenos Aires—for business. Stephan Rowan had arranged every detail with his trademark precision, from boarding passes to hotel transfers, his thoughtfulness a quiet anchor. I tugged my seat belt tight, the metal clasp clicking sharply as I pressed my hands against it, feeling the cool edge dig into my palms. A week ago, I'd been pacing my apartment, tangled in doubt about this racetrack project—its scope, its weight, the fear I'd collapse under it. Now, I was here, strapped into this plane seat, thirty thousand feet from solid ground, chasing an opportunity I couldn't let slip through my fingers.
It had taken one conversation with Alister to push me over the edge, "Mara, this is your shot," he'd said, voice low and firm. "It's big, but you grab it. Pass this up, and you'll regret it. Fail? You'll learn. Do it."
"The pressure's heavy, Ali," I'd said, my throat tight, my hands twisting in my lap.
"Diamonds come from pressure," he'd shot back, sharp and unwavering. "Say yes."
That was it—short, blunt, and enough to light a fire under me. I'd nodded, his certainty seeping into my shaky resolve, and started packing that night, my suitcase spilling over with clothes and sketches by dawn.
Now, the plane's engines roared to life, the vibration rumbling through my seat as we taxied down the runway. I pressed my forehead to the window, the glass cool against my skin, and watched New York shrink below—a sprawl of lights fading into the dusk.
Stephan and Lara had offered me a spot on their private jet—Zara, their daughter, had grown fond of me over the past week's meetings, her chubby arms reaching for me every time I walked into their office, her blue eyes bright with delight. I loved her infectious giggles, the way she'd clutch my fingers like I was her lifeline, but I'd turned them down..
By the time we landed in Buenos Aires, the sky was a bruised purple, the horizon swallowing the last of the daylight. Exhaustion tugged at my bones as I hauled my suitcase through customs, the terminal alive with the rapid clip of Spanish and the shuffle of travelers.
The humid air slammed into me as I stepped outside, thick and warm, clinging to my skin—a stark shift from New York's crisp spring bite. I loaded my bags into a car Stephan had arranged, the driver nodding silently as I slid into the backseat.
Switching off airplane mode, my phone buzzed to life—ten messages from Ali, asking if I'd landed, reminding me to call. His worry warmed me, cutting through the fatigue, and I dialed him as the car pulled into the city's chaotic streets, headlights flashing off glass towers.
"Hey, Ali," I said when he answered, his familiar grunt a balm to my frayed nerves.
"Mara! You safe?" Relief softened his gruff tone.
"Yeah, just heading to the hotel," I replied, peering out at the skyline—tall buildings and neon signs glowing against the twilight.
"Good. Call me when you're settled," he said. "Got enough money?"
"I'm set, Ali—you gave me plenty, and my paycheck's coming soon," I said. He'd dragged me shopping last week, insisting I look sharp for this gig, then slipped me extra cash despite his lectures on standing on my own.
"Alright, but I'm a call away," he said, stubborn as ever.
"I know. I'm here—talk later," I said as the car stopped at a sleek hotel, its glass facade shimmering in the fading light.
"Love you, Mara," he said.
"Love you too," I replied, stepping out into the sticky night air, the humidity wrapping around me like a damp blanket.
A staff member met me at the entrance, his uniform crisp despite the heat, and led me to my room on the fifth floor—a modern space with hardwood floors, a plush bed, and a wide window framing the city's pulsing lights. I dropped my bags, the carpet muffling the thud, and wandered to the glass, pressing my hands against it as I traced the outlines of distant skyscrapers. This was real—I was in Argentina, halfway across the world from everything I knew. In the hall, I'd passed Lara and Stephan, Zara nestled in Lara's arms, her dark curls spilling over a tiny shoulder, her breathing soft and even.
"Hey, Ximara," Lara had greeted, her smile warm and tired. After a week of meetings, I'd asked them to drop the "Ms. Adler" outside work, and they'd agreed.
"Hey, Lara," I'd said, then nodded to Stephan. "Hi, Mr. Rowan."
"Call me Stephan off the clock," he'd said with a grin, his eyes crinkling. "Don't leave me out."
"Sure, Stephan," I'd replied, easing into it. His reputation—loyal husband, devoted dad, a man who'd built Rowan Architects from grit—made the boundary clear: first names were fine, but only in private.
"Zara's wiped out, or she'd be reaching for you," Lara had said, brushing a curl from her daughter's face with a gentle finger.
"She deserves a rest," I'd said, smiling at the little girl's peaceful expression.
"Rest up, Ximara," Stephan had said, his tone shifting to business. "Meet us in the conference hall in two hours."
"Will do, Stephan," I'd replied, catching myself before slipping back to formality.
In my room, I peeled off my travel-worn clothes and stepped into the shower, the hot water cascading over my shoulders, easing the tension knotted there from hours in a cramped seat. I lingered under the spray, letting the steam clear my head, then dressed in a tailored blazer and slacks—Ali's picks from our shopping spree. My reflection in the mirror looked steady, professional, but my hands trembled as I smoothed my hair, nerves buzzing beneath my skin. Work couldn't wait.
I spread my sketchbook and notes across the desk, the wood cool under my palms, and dove into the racers' dressing rooms. They needed to feel fast—angular lines, matte finishes, pops of red and steel gray to echo the track's energy. I sketched layouts—lockers with sharp edges, benches hugging the walls, lighting that mimicked a pit stop's stark glow. Each stroke sharpened my focus, the pressure morphing into purpose as I built three distinct concepts, each with a racer's edge.
A knock jolted me from my flow—a staff member in a pressed uniform, summoning me downstairs. I texted Ali I'd call after the meeting, grabbed my portfolio, and headed to the conference hall—a grand room with high ceilings and an oval table at its core. Stephan and Lara sat with franchise owners and officials, their suits crisp, their presence heavy with authority. Lara waved me to the empty seat beside her, and I slid in, my portfolio resting on my lap. I glanced across the table—empty chairs stared back. More people coming, maybe?
Stephan stood, his voice filling the room like a steady current. "Gentlemen, our reports prove we're top-tier at innovation. We'll transform your venues into something striking and functional—spaces that breathe speed."
Mr. David, an official with a stern jaw and graying temples, leaned forward, elbows on the table. "We're impressed, Mr. Rowan. Your plans are solid. Start soon, but who's handling what? We need it clear."
"Gladly," Stephan said, nodding to a wiry man with a clipboard. "Liam Steven, our chief engineer—top in New York. He's on track and stand structures, measurements, the works."
Liam gave a tight, professional smile, earning murmurs of approval. Stephan introduced Jack, a civil engineer with a quiet intensity, tasked with material quality, then turned to us, his posture softening slightly.
"This is Lara Rowan, my wife and designer," he said, his voice warming as he met her gaze. "She's shaping the track and stand aesthetics, working alongside our engineers."
"Hello, gentlemen," Lara said, her tone poised yet approachable, a smile tugging at her lips.
"Next, Ximara Adler," Stephan said, glancing my way, his eyes sharp but kind. "Our interior designer. She's impressed us fast with her talent—caught our attention in just weeks. She'll design the racers' and staff dressing rooms."
I managed a small smile, my throat dry as the men nodded, their gazes appraising. I clutched my portfolio a little tighter, steadying myself.
"Mr. Rowan," Mr. Turner—a lean guy with sharp eyes and a clipped accent—cut in, "we need designs that match the racers' tastes. They're particular."
"Covered," Stephan said, pointing at me with a confident nod. "Ximara will meet them, get their input, and tailor everything to fit."
"Good call," Mr. Turner said, leaning back with a satisfied nod. "They'll arrive soon—main racers included. We've got more to discuss with them."
6. Argentina
My pulse spiked, a jolt of adrenaline shooting through me. Racers already? Here? I swallowed hard, forcing my breathing to even out as Stephan wrapped up the meeting, his voice a steady anchor amid the buzz of logistics. He assigned us to tour the track the next day, and I filed out with the team, my mind racing.
Back in my room, I spread my sketches across the bed, refining them late into the night—three layouts, each with a distinct vibe: one sleek and minimal, one rugged with industrial flair, one vibrant with bold color pops. Jet lag dragged at me, but I pushed through, collapsing only when my eyes burned too much to focus.
Morning broke humid and bright, the sun already fierce as I joined the team at the racetrack—a sprawling beast of concrete and steel stretching out before us, its curves glinting in the heat. The air buzzed with latent energy, the faint echo of engines stirring memories of my childhood obsession with racing—hours spent flipping through magazines, tracing car outlines, dreaming of speed and freedom.
I wandered the pits alone, sketchbook in hand, measuring the dressing room spaces with a borrowed tape measure. The walls were raw concrete, the light harsh and unfiltered, but I saw potential—spaces I could shape into something alive. My pencil flew across the page—lockers in sleek black, benches with leather trim, accents in vibrant red that screamed motion. The designs took form, bold and functional, a space racers could claim as their own.
I was hunched over my sketchbook, perched on a crate near the pit wall, refining a corner layout with a shaded nook for gear, when a voice came from behind—low, casual, unexpected. "Nice room."
I jolted, my pencil skidding across the page in a jagged streak, my heart slamming against my ribs. I spun around, clutching my sketchbook, and there he was—Arthur Vance. Dark hair tousled by the breeze, a faint smile tugging at his lips, standing there in a worn jacket like he'd just stepped off the track.