Chapter 5 - Exposure
Ethan found me on Wednesday morning.
It wasn't difficult; the architecture community in our city was tight-knit, and Arthur King had not been subtle about registering my new firm with the municipal building department.
The heavy timber door of my Oakridge studio rattled beneath a frantic, heavy knock. When I unlocked the latch, Ethan stood on the landing, drenched from the rain, his trench coat soaked through, his tie askew, and his hair plastered to his forehead.
He looked like a man who had not slept in four days. His eyes were bloodshot, his hands shaking slightly as he shoved them into his coat pockets.
"You changed the locks on the townhouse," he said, his voice raw, stripped of all its polished, corporate veneer.
"I did," I answered, stepping back to let him into the threshold, though I kept my body firmly blocking the entrance to the main drafting room. "The house is community property, Ethan, but my personal safety and privacy are not. I moved my things out on Monday. You have the house to yourself."
Ethan looked around the raw, exposed-brick studio. His gaze caught the professional drafting board, the neatly organized blueprints, the model of the Saint-Germain canopy resting under the halogen lamp, and the brass plaque on the wall: *Ava Clark Architectural Studio.*
His chest heaved. "Ava Clark? You dropped my name?"
"I restored my own," I corrected quietly. "What do you want, Ethan? I have a client presentation in an hour."
He took a step toward me, his face twisting into an expression of desperate, agonizing confusion. "Why are you doing this to me? Over a birthday? Over Chloe? I fired her, Ava! She's gone! I dismissed her from the firm yesterday afternoon!"
I stared at him, genuinely stunned by his capacity for self-deception.
"You fired her?"
"Yes!" he exclaimed, reaching out to grab my wrists. I pulled my hands back instantly, crossing them over my chest. His empty hands dropped to his sides, trembling. "I told her she was done. I told Marcus to process her severance. I don't care about her, Ava! I swear to God, I never touched her! We never slept together! It was just... she was admiring, she listened to me, she made me feel like I was brilliant again! But it was nothing! It was an illusion! I love you. You are my wife. You built Vance & Keller with me!"
"No, Ethan," I said, my voice dropping to a whisper that cut through the silence of the room. "I built Vance & Keller *for* you. While you built a life for yourself."
"That's not true!"
"It is true," I said, pointing toward the blueprints on the table. "Look at yourself, Ethan. You didn't fire Chloe because you realized you hurt me. You fired Chloe because she couldn't do my work. You fired her because she couldn't save your reputation on the Saint-Germain project. You used her to feed your vanity, and the second she became an inconvenience to your career, you threw her under the bus."
Ethan swallowed hard, his throat clicking. "Ava, please. The Saint-Germain committee meets at two o'clock today. The mayor is going to announce the winning bidder. We are going to lose the contract if we don't present the load-bearing calculations for the historic canopy. Marcus is going to push me out of the firm. Everything we worked for—the penthouse, the reputation, the firm—it all goes down the drain!"
He took a step forward and, to my absolute horror, dropped to his knees on the unvarnished hardwood floor.
The proud, charismatic, untouchable Ethan Vance was kneeling at my feet, his forehead pressing against the fabric of my dark trousers, his hands clutching my knees like a drowning man grasping at flotsam.
"Please, Ava," he sobbed, his shoulders shaking with genuine, racking weeping. "Give me the calculations. Save the firm. Come back home. I'll spend the rest of my life making this up to you. I'll put your name on every plaque. Vance & Clark. Clark & Vance. Whatever you want. Just don't destroy me."
I looked down at the top of his head. I saw the faint silver hairs beginning to thread through his dark temples. I remembered the boy who had once shared a single plate of three-dollar noodles with me in our freezing student apartment, the boy who had promised that we would build monuments together that would outlast the stars.
I felt a tear slip down my cheek, hot and bitter.
I didn't hate him. That was the most painful part. I didn't hate him at all. But I finally loved myself more than I pitied his weakness.
I reached down, took his hands by the wrists, and gently, firmly pulled them off my legs.
I stepped backward, forcing him to look up at me from the floor.
"Get up, Ethan," I whispered.
He scrambled to his feet, wiping his wet face with his sleeve, hope flaring wildly in his reddened eyes. "You'll help me?"
"No," I said.
The hope died instantly, replaced by a grey, sickening horror.
"Why?" he whispered, his voice cracking. "Why won't you help me?"
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"Because I'm not competing to save your firm, Ethan," I said, picking up my presentation binder from the table and tucking it securely under my arm. "I'm competing against you. The Saint-Germain committee called me an hour ago. My independent bid has been shortlisted for the final presentation at two o'clock. May the best architect win."
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