Not yours to lose, ex-husband.

Chapter nine

Isaiah's POV

The blueprint for the Dubai hotel sprawls across my desk, begging for my full attention. Instead, I find myself staring into space, thinking about brown eyes filled with tears.

I shake my head, forcing myself to focus. The client wants modern luxury with a touch of traditional Arabic design, a challenge I'd normally take delight in, but today, the enthusiasm is lacking as I keep glancing at my phone.

It's been two days since the hospital. Two days since I touched a strand of her soft curls, and helped her out of the car. Two days since I've been wanting to punch that foolish husband of hers in the face for allowing her to go through that amount of pain.

I blink, I shouldn't still be thinking about her.

Then my phone rings, Lennox's name flashing on the screen. I answer immediately.

“Isaiah,” Lennox calls, his voice filled with the same energy I had read through his text hours earlier when he first messaged. “She's ready to meet. Can you do lunch?”

I don't need to ask who “she” is. There's only one woman Lennox has been trying to get me to meet for the past month, even before the incident that night—his best friend. The one he swears is a brilliant artist who gave it all up for marriage.

The same woman I had spoken to at the club, and watched her sleep through the drive back to her husband's house.

“Sure,” I hear myself say, already mentally rearranging my afternoon. “Where's the venue of the meeting?”

“Marcello's. You know them?"

“I do,” I respond, the exquisite image of the newly opened Italian restaurant I had visited a couple of times to discuss business deals flashes through my mind. “Should I bring my portfolio?”

"I already showed it to her digitally, but bring it anyway. She'll want to see the physical copies." Then he pauses. "Isaiah, she's, she's been through hell. Be gentle."

I think about how she looked lying so fragile on the hospital bed. How I couldn't stop thinking about her after, wondering if she was okay, and if that bastard husband of hers had come to his senses. Clearly, he hasn't, or she wouldn't still be at Lennox's place or meeting me.

"I will," I promise.

After we hang up, I sit back in my chair, my eyes connecting with the ceiling. This is preposterous. I don't get emotionally invested in clients before I even meet with them. Architecture is about the vision and design, not about the client.

But something about her kept tugging at my senses, refusing to go away. I'm already invested, and I don't even know her name.

Well, that's not entirely true. Lennox mentioned it once, Roxanne. Roxanne Beaumont.

I pull up my calendar, looking at the afternoon packed with meetings. A call with the Dubai client at 3:00 P.m. A site inspection at 4:30, and a zoom consultation session with a potential investor at 6:00.

But I start canceling.

“Mr Reid?” My assistant, Margaux, appears in the doorway, a curious look on her bespectacled face. “Did you just clear your entire afternoon?”

"I did."

Her brows rise almost to her hairline. She's worked for me for five years and knows my schedule is sacred. “Is everything alright?”

"I have a consultation at two."

“You never clear your schedule for first and impromptu consultations,” she states, polite but curious. "You usually give them 30 minutes, maybe an hour if they're promising."

"This one's different."

The words slip out before I can stop them, and Margaux’s expression changes from curious to knowing. She's seen me work with hundreds of clients, ranging from celebrities, billionaires, museums, corporations, and I've never cleared my schedule for any of them.

"Different?" she probes further.

I don't have an answer. Or rather, I do, but it's not one I'm ready to pay heed to. So I just respond, “she's a friend of Lennox's. An artist. She deserves my full attention.”

Margaux nods slowly, like she's reading the lines of what I'm not saying. “I'll reschedule everything. Should I book you for the rest of the day?”

"Yes. And Marguax?" I meet her eyes. "Clear tomorrow morning too. If this goes well, I'll need to start sketching concepts right away."

Now she's really staring at me in awe. I never start sketching before the second meeting, before I've had time to sit with the client's vision, to let it sink in.

"Right away, sir.”

“Good.”

She leaves to carry out the task, and I'm left alone with my thoughts and a growing sense that I'm about to get into something I should probably think through first.

But I don't, I spend the next few minutes reviewing my portfolio anyways. I want to be ready, I want to show her what I can do.

The gallery in Tokyo with retractable roof, the museum in Paris with natural light, and the converted warehouse in Green Bay that won me an international award.

But most importantly, I try to think about what kind of space would suit her. Someone who gave up art for marriage, who's been through hell according to Lennox.

She needs something that feels like rebirth. Like returning home to herself.

At one thirty, I exit my office and get into my car even though Marcello's is only ten minutes away. I'm never this early. I take pride in perfect timing, arriving exactly when I'm supposed to, not a minute before or after.

But today, I'm early.

The waitress recognizes me, I've brought clients here before, and she shows me to a corner table with a view of the street.

"Will anyone be joining you, Mr. Reid?"

"Yes. She should be here soon."

She nods and leaves me with a menu. I don't open it, instead, I order sparkling water and watch the door.

Every time it opens, my pulse quickens. But it's either a businessman in a suit, or a couple holding hands. Not her.

I check my phone, 1:43. Thirteen minutes gone.

“This is ridiculous,” I mumble. I'm acting like a teenager waiting for his prom date, not a thirty-seven old architect about to meet with a potential client.

But she's not just a potential client, is she? She's the woman whose pain I felt in my chest two days ago. The woman who I wanted to protect from her own husband. The woman who's been living in my head rent-free since the moment I saw her.

The door opens again, and this time it's her.

Even across the room, even while looking exhausted in a simple washed Jean and slightly oversized sweater that looks borrowed, she snatched my breath away. Her hair is pulled back in a ponytail, and her face bare of makeup, but every other woman's beauty in the room pales next to hers.

She's ethereal, no doubt.

But that's not what makes me pause, my water glass halfway to my lips. It's her hands.

She's gesturing as she talks to someone on the phone. Lennox, I guess, and I can see her left hand clearly. Her ring finger is bare!

No wedding band. No sign there was ever one there at all. Something in my chest constricts, and releases all at once.

She spots me, waving in greeting, and I feel silly for not calling out to her first. As she gets closer, I stand, suddenly aware of the effect her presence has on me.

“Get it together, Reid. This is a business meeting.”

But when her eyes meet mine, those brown almond eyes I haven't been able to forget, I know with all certainty that this is more than a business meeting.

Maybe not to her, but definitely to me...