Chapter 9: Foundations of Fire
975 Words
The following week unfolded like the calm before a storm. There was a brittle tension in the air, a subtle pressure in her chest that wouldn’t dissipate. Selina found herself waking up earlier, moving through her apartment with a deliberate slowness, as though stretching time between the inevitable collisions waiting outside her door.
Each morning, she returned to her sketch of the house. It had grown more detailed—notes in the margins, cross-sections layered with ideas, garden pathways that wove between pockets of light and shadow. It was no longer just a renovation project. It was a map of everything she couldn’t yet say aloud.
At the office, cracks had begun to show.
The firm buzzed with subdued curiosity. Whispers followed her down hallways like the scent of fresh paint: She’s pulling back from the Nguyen project. She’s skipping board meetings. Is she distracted—or planning something?
Her assistant, Mai, tried to stay professional, but even she looked concerned. “Mr. Le asked about your schedule. He’s wondering why you haven’t submitted the Q3 master plan.”
“I’ll send it this week,” Selina said, not looking up from her desk.
“But…” Mai hesitated. “Do you still want to?”
Selina paused. That was the real question, wasn’t it?
“I want to finish what matters,” she replied softly.
That evening, Selina returned to the house and found Damien in the atrium, standing atop scaffolding, hanging a salvaged lantern from the ceiling.
“You’re going to fall and I’ll have to draw your eulogy,” she said, arms crossed.
Damien grinned. “You’d sketch me midair, probably. Capture the motion.”
She shook her head, but smiled. For a moment, she forgot the weight of the world.
But only for a moment.
“Damien,” she said as he climbed down. “I need to go to my father’s tomorrow.”
He looked at her, instantly alert. “He called you?”
“An invitation. A family dinner. Likely a warning disguised as a meal.”
“I can come—”
“No.” She placed a hand on his chest. “Not yet. He needs to see that I walk in without fear.”
He nodded slowly. “Then I’ll wait here. With candles lit.”
The Tran villa had always been intimidating. Built like a fortress, it stood as a monument to power—marble pillars, polished stone, walls that hid more secrets than memories.
Selina arrived precisely on time, wearing a tailored black dress and no jewelry, save for her mother’s thin jade bracelet.
The dinner began with cold greetings and tepid soup. Her father sat at the head of the table, flanked by aunts, uncles, cousins. No one met her eyes directly, but they watched. Oh, how they watched.
Her father didn’t speak until the main course.
“So,” he began, voice calm but sharp, “I’ve heard about the house in District 2. A personal indulgence?”
“It’s a restoration,” Selina said. “Of more than a building.”
“Your name is attached to this firm, Selina. That means something.”
“It means I’ve lived too long by rules I didn’t choose.”
A murmur around the table. Her cousin shifted uncomfortably. Her aunt set down her chopsticks with a soft clink.
Her father leaned back, expression unreadable. “You are risking the Tran reputation. And for what? A failed artist with no family standing?”
Selina’s stomach tightened, but her voice remained even.
“I’m not risking the name. I’m reclaiming mine.”
Her father’s smile was thin. “You’re still young enough to regret this.”
“And you’re old enough to stop pretending regret is the same as obedience.”
For a moment, no one breathed. Then, slowly, her father placed his napkin beside his plate.
“You are free to leave,” he said quietly.
“I already did,” she replied.
And then she stood, bowed slightly to her elders—out of respect for tradition, not the man who twisted it—and walked out.
Outside, the air was cool. The night wrapped around her like silk, and her feet found the path back to the house without conscious thought.
When she arrived, Damien was sitting in the center of the living room floor, surrounded by blueprint scraps, tea lights, and the sound of old vinyl spinning from a record player he’d rigged through a Bluetooth speaker.
She stepped inside.
“I did it,” she said.
He looked up, eyes soft. “How do you feel?”
“Lighter. And strangely… not empty.”
She walked toward him. “There’s more.”
She sat across from him, pulling a letter from her coat pocket. Her father’s handwriting, clipped and precise, marked the envelope.
“I didn’t read it. I don’t want to. But I won’t destroy it either. Not yet.”
Damien reached for her hand. “Because you’re not built from erasure.”
“No. I’m built from scars that healed crooked but strong.”
They spent the next hour talking—not about blueprints, or setbacks, or scaffolding—but about childhood memories, old dreams, and the soft grief of realizing your parents may never be who you need them to be.
Then, in the softest moment of night, Damien said:
“I want you to know something. I don’t love you because you’re strong. I love you even when you’re not.”
Selina looked at him, heart tight.
“That’s the bravest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
They didn’t kiss. They didn’t need to.
Instead, Selina leaned her head against his shoulder, and they watched the candlelight flicker across the ceiling.
Two people. Not finished. Not perfect.
But building something real.
Together.
To be continued...
- Writer
