7. Arthur Vance
I couldn't believe my eyes. One minute, I was hunched over my sketchbook, lost in the lines of a dressing room layout, and the next, a voice had yanked me out of my focus—a voice I'd know anywhere. "Nice room," he'd said, casual as if he were commenting on the weather. My pencil had skidded across the page, my heart slamming against my ribs as I spun around. And there he was—Arthur Vance. Dark hair tousled by the racetrack breeze, a faint smile tugging at his lips, standing there in a worn jacket like he'd just strolled out of my teenage dreams. Flesh and bone, not a poster pinned to my wall. The man I'd crushed on for years, right in front of me.
"A-Au…" I fumbled, my tongue tripping over itself as I snapped my eyes shut, willing my nerves to settle. "M-Mr. Vance," I managed, my voice a shaky mess. All the confidence I'd built—the months of clawing my way up at Rowan Architects—dissolved the moment his gaze met mine. Those eyes, warm and steady, pinned me in place, and I felt like a kid again, gawking at his races on a grainy TV screen. He was more handsome in person—sharper jaw, broader shoulders, a quiet magnetism the camera never captured. Holy hell, how was I supposed to handle this without making a fool of myself?
"You must be from the architectural team, right?" he asked, his tone easy, like he hadn't just turned my world upside down.
I swallowed hard, my throat dry as dust. He was probably here for practice, the track humming with prep in the distance. Before I could answer, a familiar voice cut through from behind. "Mr. Vance," Stephan said, stepping into view, his stoic business face firmly in place. Beside him stood Mr. Turner and a few others from yesterday's conference room, their suits crisp despite the heat.
"Mr. Turner," Arthur said, turning to flash a smile at the league manager, all charm and ease.
"I guess you've met Ms. Adler here," Mr. Turner said, peering over his glasses at me.
"Not quite," Arthur replied, glancing my way. "I was just checking out the area when I saw her sketching. That's all I know so far."
Stephan nodded, his expression unreadable. "Ms. Adler's in charge of designing the VIP rooms. The racers were supposed to meet her this afternoon to go over any specific expectations."
"I see," Arthur said, his eyes flicking back to me. "I'll catch up with her later, then—show her what I'm looking for." His tone was light, but the group shifted gears, diving into talk of schedules and logistics that didn't involve me.
I seized the chance to slip away. "Please, carry on," I said, clutching my sketchbook. "I'll check the other rooms, take measurements, and note what I need." I didn't wait for a response, hurrying off toward the pit lanes, my heart still pounding like a drum in my chest.
Alone at last, I pressed a hand to my sternum, willing it to slow. I'd just met Arthur Vance—the Arthur Vance—in person. It was a fangirl moment I'd never dreamed of, a fleeting brush with the idol who'd fueled my love for racing as a kid. And I'd spoken to him, however briefly. My cheeks burned as I replayed it, his voice echoing in my head.
I shook myself, refocusing. Work. I had work to do. I wandered the track, measuring doorways and walls, sketching layouts for the staff rooms—practical spaces with clean lines and muted tones. The sun climbed higher, the heat pressing down, but I kept moving, determined to stay sharp. Hours later, I was back near the pits, refining my VIP room sketch—bold, sleek, a space fit for a racer—when footsteps crunched behind me again.
"So…?" Arthur's voice came, a playful frown in his tone.
I blinked, caught off guard, then cursed myself inwardly. Where were my manners? "Yes, of course," I said, snapping into gear. "I'm Ximara Adler, Mr. Vance. I've been assigned to design your personal dressing space here and at other locations." My voice steadied, professional mode kicking in like a lifeline. I could do this—I had to.
"Nice to meet you, Ms. Adler," he said, his smile widening. "I like your confidence." A blush crept up my neck, but I shoved it down. Focus, Ximara. This was about the job, not my old crush. If I nailed this, I'd climb higher—earn recognition, prove myself.
"Thank you, Mr. Vance," I said, offering a polite grin. "So, how would you like your room to be?"
He tilted his head, considering. "For that, you'd need to know about my career—to personalize it."
I bristled slightly, keeping my tone firm. "Mr. Vance, I don't see why that's necessary to design your space." It might've sounded harsh, but I was here to work, not fawn.
"I get it—you're all about the job," he said, unfazed, his humility disarming me. "I just meant it could make your work easier. So, humor me—what do you know about me?"
I hesitated, then decided to play along. "If it'll help, you're talking to one of your biggest fans, Mr. Vance," I said, keeping my professional edge intact. "I've followed your races since a long time, particularly fan of franchise leagues like these ones since I was a kid."
"Is that so?" He raised an eyebrow, a spark of amusement in his eyes.
"Yes," I said, steering us back. "Now, can we get to it? What are your expectations? What do you want customized?" I pulled out my tablet, flipping to the design app, and started walking him through my concepts—three layouts, each with a distinct vibe: minimalist with steel accents, rugged with industrial grit, vibrant with red and black splashes. I explained the details—locker placement, lighting options, bench styles—jotting down his preferences as he nodded along, his input sharp and practical.
"These are solid," he said, peering over my shoulder at the screen. "I like the third one—feels fast, alive. Maybe add some shelving here," he pointed, "for gear. And a mirror—full-length, if it fits."
"Got it," I said, tapping notes into the tablet, my focus laser-tight. For a moment, it didn't matter who he was—just a client with good taste. Then my phone chimed, breaking my rhythm. A text from Stephan: Wrap up and meet me in my office ASAP—briefing for the weekend event.
"Excuse me a minute," I said, stepping aside to reply I'd be there soon. I turned back to Arthur. "Okay, we'll make sure everything meets your specs. If you've got specific inspirations, feel free to share—I can work them in."
"I've got some ideas," he said, standing. "Doesn't matter much, but since you're asking, I'll send them over. You cool swapping numbers?"
I froze, my breath catching. Arthur Vance asking for my number? My teenage self screamed internally, but I kept it together—this was professional, nothing more. "Sure," I said, reciting my digits as he typed them into his phone, his fingers quick on the screen.
"See you later," I said, packing up my tablet.
"See ya," he replied, heading off with a casual wave.
I rushed back to my room, dropped my gear, and hurried to Stephan's office—a temporary setup in the hotel's business wing. The meeting was brisk: a weekend event to kick off the project, a chance for the team and contractors to mingle. Stephan ran through logistics—dress code, timing, expectations—his voice steady as ever. I nodded along, half my mind still on Arthur's praise, the other half on the designs I'd tweak tonight.
By the time I trudged back to my room, exhaustion weighed me down. I kicked off my shoes, sank onto the bed, and pulled out my phone to text Ali about my day—his steady replies always grounded me. I was halfway through typing when a faint rustle stopped me cold. A white envelope slid under my door, its edges stark against the dark carpet. My stomach dropped, fear clawing up my spine as I lunged to my feet and yanked the door open, peering into the hall. Empty. No footsteps, no shadow—just silence. The stalker was faster than me.
I'd convinced myself the letters back in New York were a prank—some office joker having fun—but this? In Argentina? My hands shook as I snatched the envelope, dread pooling in my gut. I tore it open, the paper crisp under my fingers.
Ximara,
Guess you're enjoying yourself there. Didn't miss me, huh? Don't worry—I'll always be around, through every high and low. All the best with your new project—I know you'll shine.
The words hit like a punch, shattering any hope this was a joke. Someone was watching me, tracking my every move, and they'd followed me here. The creepiness flooded in—the open door, the quiet hall, the locked windows I suddenly doubted. I slammed the door shut, bolted it, checked the windows twice, and drew the curtains tight. Clutching the letter, I turned off the lights and curled into the corner of the room, my breath shallow, my mind racing. Who the hell was this?
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