Chapter 15
1484 Words
The Lecture of Coincidence
Rhea didn’t stalk him.
No. She simply… researched. With purpose. Like any responsible woman with access to LinkedIn, city event calendars, and a personal vendetta against fate.
And it paid off.
Because right there, in small modernist font on a white banner outside the City Art Conservatory, were the words:
Lucian Elian – Guest Talk: “Sustainable Structures and Emotional Spaces.”
“Emotional spaces,” Rhea muttered as she sipped her oat milk latte. “God, he even builds with feelings.”
She didn’t tell Shirley or Avelyn. Mostly because they’d either:
Stage an intervention, or
Follow her and record the entire thing for t****k.
This was her mission. Her chaos to curate.
She dressed deliberately casual—white button-down tucked into dark jeans, red lipstick (her power move), and tiny silver hoops. Like someone who just happened to wander into a lecture on architecture while looking effortlessly amazing.
Inside, the room buzzed with quiet intellect. Mostly men in blazers and scarves. Women with blunt bobs and leather portfolios. Rhea grabbed a seat in the second row and opened her sketchbook to a blank page. She wasn’t going to take notes. She was going to draw him.
Because if life was going to give her a second chance at Lucian, she was going to use all the tools in her chaotic toolbox—including graphite shading and shameless staring.
Rhea crossed her legs, uncrossed them, crossed them again.
“Composed,” she whispered. “You are the CEO of your own studio. You are elegance and restraint.”
The receptionist sneezed.
Rhea jumped three inches.
“Okay. Maybe not full elegance. Elegance with anxiety.”
She tugged her sleeve. Tried to look like she wasn’t imagining Lucian walking in slow-motion with background music.
Then he walked in.
Lucian. In black again. Slim trousers, sleeves rolled just below his elbows. Hair slightly tousled like he’d been thinking hard or driving fast. Calm as midnight tides. Still made for poetry.
And just as he crossed under the spotlight at center stage, the light flickered across his profile—like déjà vu catching its breath.
Rhea’s heart hiccupped.
He spoke first, adjusting the mic. His voice—clear, low, measured—felt like an old song she used to know by heart. He talked about the emotional relationship between people and space. He quoted poetry. He referenced forgotten temples and future cities.
And then, he smiled. Small. Soft.
Someone in the row behind her gasped audibly.
Even architecture students weren’t immune.
Rhea, meanwhile, sketched. Not buildings. Him.
When the lecture ended, she lingered by the refreshment table, pretending to be fascinated by the cheese cubes. Then—
“Hey,” a familiar voice said.
She turned.
Lucian.
“You again?” he said, amused.
She held out a hand this time, playful. “Rhea.”
“Lucian,” he replied, taking it, his touch warm and brief. “Though I guess you already knew that.”
“Guilty,” she said, grinning.
Rhea smiled with studied nonchalance. “Apparently I have great taste in nightclubs… and lectures.”
Lucian blinked. Then laughed, short and genuine. “Right. The bar.”
She tilted her head. “And now, the bricks.”
He looked her over, lingering briefly on her sketchbook. “You’re not an architect.”
“Nope,” she said. “Designer. Mostly visual identities. Brands. Feelings. Chaos with fonts.”
Lucian nodded. “Well, you’re consistent. You keep showing up in unexpected places.”
“I could say the same for you,” Rhea said, eyes glinting.
Just then, a woman approached—young, sharp ponytail, tablet in hand. “Lucian, your driver’s waiting. And the press photos are being sent over.”
He turned slightly. “Thanks, Cam.”
Rhea smiled at the PA. “Hi, Cam. I’m Nobody. Just a fan of cement and coincidence.”
Cam blinked, confused.
Lucian turned back to her. “You really just came for the lecture?”
“I came for the line ‘a building is a container of memory.’ That one hit,” she said, pretending to wipe a tear. “Right in the drywall.”
Lucian laughed again. “You’re strange.”
“Thank you. It’s my defining trait.”
He glanced at his watch. “I have to head to a meeting across town…”
Rhea stepped aside, playful. “Don’t let me stop you. You’ve got emotional buildings to build.”
As he started walking, he glanced over his shoulder. “It’s weird,” he said, thoughtful. “Being around you feels like déjà vu that hasn’t happened yet.”
Rhea’s heart thumped.
She tilted her head, as if curious. “I get that a lot.”
Lucian paused. “I feel like I should remember you.”
Rhea just smiled. “Maybe you will.”
--
The next morning, Rhea stared at her laptop like it owed her something.
Then she opened a fresh email. Not from her personal account.
From her company: RHE.Art Studio.
Subject: Proposal for Design Collaboration on GreenSpace Urban Retreat
She’d been sitting on the concept for weeks—a creative retreat that fused sustainable architecture with visual art and immersive wellness spaces.
She’d just never had the right architect in mind.
Now she did.
Two days later, a reply arrived:
Hi Ms. Rhea,
Thank you for your interest in Elian Works. We are intrigued by your proposal. Mr. Elian would like to explore this further.
Would you be available for a preliminary meeting next week?
Kind regards,
Claire
Office Manager, Elian Works
Rhea stared at the email.
And screamed.
Then she reread it. Composed herself. Replied with a very professional: Absolutely. I look forward to it.
Then she danced around her apartment in her socks screaming, “WE’RE BACK IN, BABY!”
--
Elian Works was… intimidating.
Minimalist. Grey tones. Oak accents. Air that smelled expensive.
The receptionist was an ethereal being with serene energy and unfair cheekbones. “Ms. Rhea is here for Mr. Elian,” she said into a headset.
Rhea crossed her legs and waited like a composed adult.
Until Lucian appeared from the corridor of glass.
This time, he looked surprised to see her. But not displeased.
“Rhea,” he said.
“Lucian,” she replied, standing. “Or should I say, Mr. Emotional Space?”
He chuckled. “You really do just appear.”
She smiled. “And you keep letting me in.”
He led her to a meeting room flooded with morning light. A scale model of a future development sat on the table like a sculpture.
“Didn’t expect you,” he said again.
“Then we’re even,” Rhea said. “I didn’t expect you to answer my email.”
He sat. “Your proposal was… interesting.”
“Hopefully in the good way,” she said. “Not in the way my mother uses when I wear red lipstick to dinner.”
Lucian’s lips twitched. “Definitely the good way.”
They talked. Business, at first. But the hum was always there. Unspoken. Soft as electricity.
At one point, they both reached for a portfolio and their hands brushed.
Lucian froze for just a beat.
Then pulled away.
Rhea noticed. Filed it under: Definitely Still Something There.
As the meeting wound down, Lucian said, “You’re unlike most collaborators we’ve had.”
“Is that good?”
“It’s… different.”
“Different is where magic lives,” Rhea said. Then softer, “Or at least where memories hide.”
Lucian studied her for a long moment. Something flickered behind his eyes.
“Do I really not know you?” he asked.
Rhea’s heart stuttered.
She smiled, quiet and steady. “You do. Somewhere inside you, you do.”
He didn’t answer.
And she didn’t press.
Because she’d said what she came to say.
That night, she curled into her sheets with a heart half-tangled in hope.
Lucian hadn’t remembered her.
Not really.
But he had felt something.
Enough to let her in.
Enough to meet again.
And maybe, just maybe—
Enough to fall again.
Only this time, she was ready.
No fear.
No shrinking.
Just the fierce, inconvenient, ridiculous truth of love.
And the unshakable belief that some people belong to you—even when they forget.
--
Outside the building, Rhea sat in her car, hands on the wheel, not starting it.
Her heart felt like it was walking a tightrope in heels.
“It’s fine,” she told herself. “You didn’t throw yourself at him. You were... strategic. Adorable. Professional with a side of longing.”
She started the engine. Then turned it off.
Then screamed into her tote bag.
Then started it again.
“You’re okay,” she said. “This is fine. This is the slow burn. You live for slow burn.”
- Writer
