The Risk of You

Chapter 5: Cracks in the Foundation

Chapter Five

By Tuesday morning, the hotel project felt like it was hanging by a thread.

The client had decided at the eleventh hour that they wanted to “completely reimagine” the penthouse suite. The deadline for revised designs? Forty eight hours.

I sat at my drafting table in the studio, coffee growing cold beside me, a pile of swatches and sketches threatening to topple over. Every version I tried felt wrong. Too modern, too safe, too something.

At noon, my phone buzzed.

Daniel: Conference room. 15 minutes. Bring what you’ve got.

I considered ignoring him. Then I remembered the contract clause about collaborative revisions. And, of course, the fact that losing this client would be professional suicide.

When I walked into the conference room, he was already there, sleeves rolled up, tie gone, leaning over a spread of architectural blueprints. His hair was slightly mussed, like he’d been running a hand through it all morning.

He glanced up. “You look like you’ve been fighting a war.”

“I have,” I said, dropping my sketches on the table. “With this redesign.”

He scanned through them quickly, his brow furrowing. “These aren’t bad.”

“They’re not good enough.”

“Not yet,” he agreed. Then, to my surprise, he pulled a chair beside mine instead of across from me. “Let’s fix them.”

The next few hours were a blur of ideas and counter ideas. We argued about color palettes, lighting placement, even the height of the custom headboard. But somewhere between the third and fourth coffee, our rhythm shifted.

We weren’t fighting anymore…we were building. His architectural precision balanced my love for texture and warmth. He’d sketch a structural adjustment; I’d layer in the materials to make it come alive.

At one point, I leaned over his shoulder to point at a detail on the plan. My hair brushed his cheek, and for a split second, he stilled.

“You still smell like vanilla,” he murmured, almost to himself.

I stepped back, my pulse kicking up. “Focus, Daniel.”

He smiled faintly, but said nothing.

Five Years Ago Summer

We were working late in his loft, him on a set of blueprints, me on a client mood board. I’d made the mistake of leaning too close, and he’d caught my wrist, pulling me into his lap without a word.

“You’re a distraction,” he’d said against my neck.

“You’re blaming me?” I’d laughed.

“I’m thanking you.”

And then he’d kissed me until I forgot the difference between work and everything else.

Present Day

By six that evening, we had a plan. A good one. Maybe even a great one.

“This works,” Daniel said, sitting back. “They’ll love it.”

I should have felt triumphant, but instead I felt… unsettled. Because somewhere in the middle of those hours, I’d forgotten to hate him.

“You’re good at this,” I admitted reluctantly.

His gaze caught mine. “We were always good together.”

He didn’t mean the project, and we both knew it.

Before I could respond, my phone buzzed a text from Lola.

Client dinner tonight. Reed Group, you, investors. Be there. 8 p.m.

I groaned. “Please tell me this isn’t real.”

Daniel glanced at the text over my shoulder too close again and smirked. “It’s real. And I’m picking you up.”

“I can get there myself.”

“I know. But I’m still picking you up.”

I should have argued harder. But later that night, when his black sedan pulled up outside my building, I got in without a word.

The dinner was at a private dining room in a Midtown restaurant all dark wood, low lighting, and expensive wine. I told myself I was here for work, but every time Daniel’s knee brushed mine under the table, it felt like something else entirely.

Halfway through the evening, one of the investors a sharp, impeccably dressed woman named Marissa leaned toward me. “I can see why Daniel recommended you,” she said warmly. “You two clearly have great chemistry.”

I forced a polite smile, ignoring the heat rising in my cheeks. “We work well together.”

Daniel didn’t contradict her.

By the time the dinner ended, I was exhausted not from the conversation, but from holding myself so tightly together.

In the car ride back, silence stretched between us. Not awkward, exactly. Heavy.

When we pulled up in front of my building, I reached for the door handle.

“Amara,” he said quietly.

I turned.

“You don’t have to keep pretending you feel nothing.”

The words landed like a strike to my chest. I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.

He didn’t push. Just watched me for a moment, then leaned back. “Goodnight.”

I got out, walked inside, and closed the door behind me. But it was a long time before I stopped hearing his voice.

The elevator jolted as it reached the twenty seventh floor, its doors opening to the skeletal framework of the future penthouse.

Steel beams crisscrossed overhead. The windows floor to ceiling, still without glass offered a breathtaking view of Manhattan’s skyline, but the late winter wind sliced straight through the space.

I stepped out, pulling my coat tighter.

Daniel followed, his voice carrying over the sound of drills. “Watch your step. The flooring isn’t complete here.”

“I’m not new to construction sites, Daniel.”

He didn’t respond, just moved ahead, striding toward the far end where the master suite would be. I hated that I noticed how well his charcoal coat fit, the way the wind caught the edges of his hair.

The purpose of today’s site visit was simple check the progress before our revised designs were implemented. But for me, it was also a chance to reassert some boundaries after last night’s… moment.

I’d spent half the night replaying his words: You don’t have to keep pretending you feel nothing.

I’d decided, quite firmly, that I did feel nothing. Or at least, I was going to act like I didn’t.

“This is the main wall for the headboard,” Daniel said, gesturing at the newly installed framing. “We’ll need to confirm the electrical points for the integrated lighting.”

I pulled out the revised floor plan and crouched beside the marked lines. “It’ll work if we shift the outlets about twelve inches. Gives better symmetry with the nightstands.”

He crouched too, close enough that our shoulders brushed. “Agreed.”

I shifted slightly, my knee almost bumping his. “You can tell the electricians?”

“I’ll do it now.”

But he didn’t stand right away. He looked at me instead, that steady, unreadable gaze that made my pulse trip.

“What?” I said, sharper than intended.

“Nothing,” he replied, standing at last. But the faint curve of his mouth told me it wasn’t nothing at all.

We were halfway through the tour when the site manager approached, looking stressed.

“Hey, you two might want to wrap up quickly,” he said. “Storm’s rolling in sooner than expected. They’re shutting down elevators temporarily for safety until it passes.”

“How soon is ‘soon’?” Daniel asked.

“Ten minutes, max.”

We exchanged a look.

“I just need a quick check of the bathroom layout,” I said. “It’ll take five minutes.”

We headed for the far side of the penthouse. I inspected the placement of the freestanding tub exactly where I wanted it, angled toward the skyline and was making a mental note about tile samples when the first loud c***k of thunder rattled the floor to ceiling openings.

Moments later, the site manager’s voice echoed: “Elevators are down! Everyone stay put until we get the all clear.”