Maya stood across the street from Le Sel, tucked into the shadows of a wrought-iron balcony. Her breath hitched in her throat, coming in shallow, jagged bursts that felt like swallowing glass. Through the floor to ceiling windows of the restaurant, the world looked golden and perfect. And there he was. Patrick Thorne. He was wearing the charcoal suit she’d picked out for him for their two-year anniversary. He looked every bit the rising star of the architecture world, sharp, commanding, and utterly devastating. But he wasn’t looking at his menu. He was looking at a woman in a silk emerald dress with the kind of hunger he used to reserve for Maya’s late-night sketches. Maya watched, frozen, as Patrick reached across the table. His thumb traced the woman’s jawline a gesture so familiar it made Maya’s own skin ache. When he leaned in to whisper something that made the stranger throw her head back in a melodic laugh, Maya felt the last pillar of her life collapse. She didn't storm in. That was for girls who still believed there was something left to save. Maya was an architect; she knew when a building was condemned. She turned and walked into the rain, the neon lights of Bourbon Street blurring into streaks of red and blue. By the time she reached their and his penthouse, the shock had settled into a cold, hard knot in her chest. She didn't pack everything. She just took the things that mattered: her laptop, her grandmother’s ring, and the blue prints for the Riverfront Project the project Patrick was planning to present to the city council on Monday. The project she had stayed up until 3:00 AM perfecting while he was "at the office." She was sitting in the dark when the front door clicked open. "Maya? Why are the lights off?" Patrick’s voice was warm, effortless. He smelled of rain and a perfume that wasn't hers. "I was just admiring the view," Maya said, her voice steady. She stood up, silhouetted against the floor to ceiling glass that overlooked the city. "It’s amazing how much you can see when you finally stop looking at what’s right in front of you." Patrick paused, his hand on his tie. The air in the room shifted. He was smart; he could feel the temperature drop. "You’re acting strange. Did something happen at the firm?" "Something happened at Le Sel," she replied. The silence that followed was visceral. She watched the mask slip just for a second before he smoothed it back into place. "Maya, I can explain that. It was a potential investor, she’s—" "Don't," Maya interrupted, stepping into the light. "Don't insult my intelligence by pretending that kiss was a business transaction. I’ve memorized the architecture of your heart, Patrick, only to realize you’ve been building trapdoors into every room." She picked up her bag. "The leasehold is in your name. The memories are in the trash. And the Riverfront files?" She flashed a grim smile that didn't reach her eyes. "I’ve encrypted them. Consider it a professional courtesy. You wanted to build your empire alone? Start with the floor plan." The "new" apartment was a fourth-floor walk-up in the Marring that smelled of damp plaster and cheap cigarettes. It was a far cry from the floor-to-ceiling marble of Patrick’s penthouse. Here, the floorboards groaned like a warning every time Maya stepped near the window, and the radiator hissed like a trapped animal. She dropped her bags on the stained hardwood and sat on the edge of her mattress the only piece of furniture she’d managed to buy off a departing grade student for fifty bucks. Her hands were shaking, but not from the cold. Revenge is a slow-burn project, she reminded herself. Measure twice, cut once. She pulled her laptop onto her knees. The glow of the screen was the only light in the room, reflecting in her dark eyes. She opened the Riverfront Project folder. Patrick thought he was the face of Thorne Architecture, but Maya was the nervous system. Every structural calculation, every aesthetic flourish that had caught the city council's eye, had been hers. She didn't just encrypt the files; she began to redesign them. By 3:00 AM, she had stripped the soul out of the blueprints. She left the exterior looking identical, but she subtly altered the interior flow, turning the "open concept community hub" into a logistical nightmare of dead ends and wasted space. If Patrick presented this version, he wouldn’t just look unprepared he’d look incompetent. A text vibrated on the floor beside her. Patrick: Maya, stop being dramatic. You’re overreacting. Come home and let’s talk like adults. I need those passwords for the morning briefing. Maya deleted the message without replying. She didn't want to talk like an adult. She wanted to win like a titan. The next morning, she walked into the offices of Euvine&Vance, Patrick’s’s biggest rival. She wasn't wearing the soft, approachable sundresses Patrick liked. She was in a sharp, obsidian-black power suit, her hair pulled back so tight it felt like a weapon.