Until He Sees Me - Broken Yet His

Chapter 11 - First Impression

Standing on the terrace of the future Azure that afternoon, I’m completely speechless. The hotel rises from its private beach like something from a dream, all white stone and clean lines, cascading terraces that seem to flow directly into the ocean.

The sunlight feels sharper than it should, bouncing off the water until my eyes sting. I blink too hard and I accidentally smudge a fingerprint across the railing. Heat presses against my skin, sticky and real, carrying the smell of salt, sunscreen, and something faintly chemical from the construction below. I push back a strand of hair stuck to my forehead.

“Impressive, right?” Isabelle says, joining me at the railing.

“It’s… beyond anything I imagined,” I murmur, voice small, like speaking too loud might break the spell. I trace a line on the railing with my thumb, watching it streak.

She smiles, but not indulgently. “Massimo spent three years developing this concept. It’s one of his most personal projects.”

I glance at her, trying to read her expression, but she’s already moving on, leading me through the space.

She shows me everything, the main salon with glass walls that disappear completely into the sea breeze, the sprawling terrace where the opening will happen, gardens already lush with tropical plants. Waves mingle with palm fronds rustling overhead. I scribble a note, crumple it, and rewrite it. My fingers tap the paper nervously. I bite the corner of my pen almost without thinking.

“The opening needs to capture this magic,” Isabelle says. “That feeling of being suspended between dream and reality.”

I nod, scanning the terrace, trying to memorize every curve and shadow. Lighting that echoes the sunset. Music soft enough to let the waves breathe through it. Décor that highlights the architecture instead of hiding it. My hand hovers over the notebook, hesitates, then writes a single word: breathe. I glance at a smudge on the page and sigh.

“Do you have ideas already?”

“Some,” I admit. “But I… I need to see this place at different times. Morning, afternoon, sunset. Each hour changes the whole atmosphere.”

“Take your time. Massimo values perfection over speed.”

That name again. Instead of panic this time, I feel… determination, maybe. Or defiance. I’m going to make this event so incredible that even he can’t find fault with it. I grip the notebook a little too tightly.

The drive back feels like a blur, my head full of colors and ideas, something’s shifted inside me. For the first time in months, I have purpose beyond just surviving. Simba bounds over like he can sense the change, tail wagging furiously. He nudges my notebook off the table once, and I almost scold him, but laugh instead. I pick it up, pages slightly bent, and smooth them down.

We sit on the terrace together, watching the city light up as the sun sets. Pink and orange streaks melt into the bay, and for once, the view doesn’t make me feel small. It makes me feel inspired.

But then my phone buzzes with a work email, and my hands start shaking. Even absent, Massimo is in my head. I press my thumb to my temple, trying to steady myself.

⸻

By Wednesday, I’ve settled into a routine I never expected to love. I wake with the sun instead of fighting an alarm. Coffee hits different when you’re drinking it with the ocean in front of you, stronger, calmer somehow. Simba and I walk the beach every morning. He charges after waves, barks at a crab scuttling across the sand, makes strangers laugh with his goofy ears. I laugh too, though sometimes it catches in my throat.

At the office, Isabelle becomes my guide to understanding Miami beyond the surface glitter.

“You have to understand this city,” she says one morning over Cuban coffee so strong it makes my eyes water. “Miami isn’t just flashy cars and designer handbags. It has history. An ache under all the sparkle. People come here to start over, to forget, to become someone new.”

Her words stick with me, making me see the streets differently, the determination in joggers’ faces, the quiet pride of locals, the hope mixed with desperation in tourists’ eyes.

Later, staring at my blank sketch pad, panic creeps in. What if I can’t capture any of this? What if my ideas are just amateur garbage dressed up in fancy notebooks? I tap the page nervously, almost biting the pen again.

I call Mom without thinking, desperate for… I don’t know what. Maybe just to hear a familiar voice.

“Emma? Finally! How’s Miami? It sounds… sunny.”

“Yeah, it’s beautiful,” I say, trying to sound calm.

“I’m glad. New city, new start. I just… worry, you know? You’ve never handled big changes easily.”

I press the phone tighter, fist clenching against my leg. “Mom, I’m twenty-two. I can manage this.”

“I know, I know. It’s just, last time you tried something ambitious, you got overwhelmed. I don’t want to see you… fail again.”

My jaw tightens. “This is different. I know what I’m doing.”

“Sure, if you say so. But don’t forget, not everyone is cut out for this kind of world. Some people… they try, but they just… crumble.”

Her words hit like a slap I didn’t see coming. My throat tightens, and I feel that familiar hollow weight in my stomach.

“I have to go, Mom.”

“Emma, wait—” I’ve already hung up. The silence after feels heavier than her voice ever did.

⸻

By Friday, the panic attacks come less frequently, replaced by something dangerously close to hope.

I visit the Azure at different hours, watching it transform with the light. Each visit sparks new ideas. I scribble palettes coral, sea-glass, the exact blue of the bay at noon. Lighting that mimics moonlight rippling on water. Floral arrangements that echo the gardens but feel deliberate, intentional. I crumple a paper, start again. Simba nudges my arm, tail thumping.

Sometimes I stand alone on the terrace, eyes closed, letting the ocean breeze carry me toward ideas I can’t name but feel in my bones. Salt air mixes with jasmine from the gardens, and I can already picture laughter rising with music, glasses raised to toast.

Other times, I feel completely lost. Like a fraud on a movie set by accident. The scale of this project hits me in waves, the budget, VIPs, global attention. What if I’m not good enough?

“You’re glowing,” Isabelle says one afternoon, flipping through my sketches.

I want to tell her I’m terrified, but I smile. “It’s thrilling,” I confess, hiding the tremor beneath excitement. “Creating something unique. Beauty that feels alive.”

“Massimo was right about you,” she says softly.

Her compliment should ease the pressure, but instead it sharpens it. What if I disappoint him?

“I can’t wait for him to see what you’re developing. He’ll be impressed.”

The name jolts me back. My stomach clenches. “He’s… supervising from a distance?” I ask carefully.

“For now. But control is his middle name. He’ll want to see everything eventually.”

That night, lying awake, the ocean view that usually calms me feels overwhelming. Simba curls closer, sensing my anxiety. At least he believes in me. That has to count for something.

My phone stayed quiet. No calls from Massimo. No shadow lurking at the edges of my new life. For now.