Chapter 8: Beneath the Surface
828 Words
Selina hadn’t planned to return to the office so soon, but deadlines didn’t pause for personal epiphanies. On Monday morning, she walked into the architectural firm’s open-plan space, shoulders squared, chin lifted. The buzz of keyboards, the murmur of design meetings, and the low hum of ambition—all familiar, all faintly grating.
Her assistant, Mai, trailed behind her with a tablet. “Your meeting with the Nguyen Consortium is in thirty minutes. They want revisions on the riverside pavilion—more ‘wow’ factor, they said.”
Selina sighed. “Of course they do.”
She glanced at her calendar. Meetings. Site visits. Lunches with clients she didn’t particularly like. On paper, it was all the same. But inside, something had shifted. She could no longer pretend that these projects held her heart. Not when something far more honest was taking shape in the forgotten corners of District 2.
She excused herself and stepped into her private office, shutting the door behind her. On her desk, hidden beneath a stack of blueprints, was a smaller folder labeled simply: The House.
She opened it. Floor sketches, garden layouts, Damien’s charcoal drawing, her latest renderings of the attic skylight. It was chaos. But it was hers.
That evening, she met Damien at the site.
“You look like you walked through three meetings and a soul-crisis,” he said, handing her a coconut water.
“That’s alarmingly accurate.”
They stepped over loose bricks and planks, navigating the house like explorers who knew every creak and beam by heart. The light had begun to change—gold pouring in through broken windows, painting streaks across the dusty floor.
“Want to take a break?” Damien asked. “I know a place.”
Selina hesitated, then nodded. “Lead the way.”
They ended up by the Saigon River, on a quiet dock where wooden fishing boats swayed with the current. Damien spread out a blanket on the weathered boards. A small cooler revealed bánh mì, cold tea, and sticky rice with mango.
“You pack like someone raised by a Vietnamese auntie,” she teased.
“Three of them, actually.”
They ate in comfortable silence, watching the reflection of the city shimmer on the water.
“I used to come here as a kid,” Damien said. “When I was angry. Or lost. Or both.”
“What were you running from?”
“My father’s expectations. My mother’s sadness. My own silence.”
Selina nodded. “We’re not that different.”
He turned to her. “Do you ever feel like you’re two people? The version everyone sees, and the one only you know exists?”
“All the time.”
She looked at him. “But with you, it’s different.”
“How?”
“I don’t feel like I have to hide either version.”
Damien’s gaze was steady. “Then maybe that’s what real is.”
They walked back through winding streets under a deepening sky. When they reached the house again, Selina stopped short.
Someone was there.
A sleek black car was parked outside the gate, and a man in a tailored suit stood examining the facade. Her stomach dropped.
“Mr. Tran,” the man said, nodding politely to Damien. Then his eyes turned to her. “Ms. Tran. Or should I say, Miss Duong?”
Selina recognized him—her father’s lawyer.
“What do you want?” she asked.
“A word. On behalf of your father.”
“I have nothing to say to him.”
“He asked me to deliver a message.” He handed her a cream envelope.
Selina took it with shaking hands. The man nodded once more and returned to his car.
Damien placed a hand on her shoulder. “You don’t have to read it.”
But she did. Right there, under the arch of the gate.
Inside the envelope was a single sheet.
Selina,
I hear you’ve found something worth rebuilding. I hope you do not forget who first taught you how to build.
— Ba
No apology. No blessing. Just a reminder that even her freedom had roots tangled in the soil of his control.
Selina folded the letter and tucked it into her jacket. She looked up at Damien.
“Let’s get back to work.”
That night, as they continued marking the interior walls, Selina spoke without looking up.
“If I go forward with this, I might burn some bridges.”
Damien kept measuring. “Then we’ll build new ones.”
“People will talk.”
“Let them.”
“I might lose everything.”
Damien finally looked at her. “Not everything. Not me.”
And in the silence that followed, Selina felt the ground steady beneath her.
Because sometimes, rebuilding wasn't just about walls and wood.
It was about reclaiming the foundation of yourself.
And daring to build there.
To Be Continued...
- Writer
