Choosing Ms. Everhart

Chapter One: The Architect

VALENTINA ELISE

Eight years was a long time to become someone your younger self would barely recognize.

I sometimes wondered about the girl I used to be, the eighteen-year-old who thought love could be understood simply by looking at someone. She had been far too sentimental for her own good, always carrying a notebook in her bag, filling the margins of her lecture notes with fragments of dialogue instead of equations, and believing that every feeling deserved to be turned into a story. She had wanted to become an architect because she loved the idea of creating something that could outlive her, something people could walk into and call home. At the same time, she had secretly written romance novels because there was another part of her that wanted to understand the kind of homes people carried inside themselves, the ones built from memories, promises, and the quiet decision to stay.

I had grown up since then. At least, that was what I told myself whenever the past became inconvenient.

At twenty-six, I had my own architectural firm, a growing list of international clients, and enough completed projects behind my name that people no longer looked at me as the young architect who had been lucky enough to land a good opportunity. I had worked too hard for that distinction to be reduced to luck. There had been years when I barely slept, years when I questioned whether I had chosen the right profession, years when I accepted projects I wasn't sure I was ready for simply because turning them down felt more frightening than failing at them. I learned to sit across from clients twice my age without allowing my hands to betray my nerves. I learned how to defend a design without sounding defensive, how to admit when an idea wasn't working, and how to walk away from a project when the client wanted something that compromised everything I believed good architecture should be.

People often assumed success made life easier.

It didn't, it simply gave you more expensive problems.

My office was quiet that afternoon, the kind of quiet I had learned to appreciate after years of working in studios where someone was always calling for a revision, a supplier was always asking for approval, and a printer always seemed to malfunction at the exact moment a deadline was approaching. Sunlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows and settled across the conference table, illuminating the scattered material samples I had been reviewing for a residential project in Singapore. I had been staring at the same stone samples for nearly five minutes when my phone vibrated beside my laptop.

I glanced at the screen.

Elodie.

I smiled despite myself.

Of all the people I knew, Elodie Gibson had the remarkable ability to call at the exact moment I was beginning to convince myself that I had finally achieved peace and quiet.

I answered without bothering to hide my suspicion. “What did you do?”

There was a pause before she laughed. “Why do you always assume I've done something?”

“Because you only call me during work hours when you've done something.”

She laughed again, and I leaned back in my chair, letting my gaze drift toward the city beyond my windows. From several floors above the street, Paris looked deceptively peaceful, far enough from the traffic and deadlines below to make everything seem manageable.

“I need a favor,” she said.

I closed my eyes. “No.”

“You haven't even heard what it is.”

“I know you, Elodie.”

“Fine. I have a project I can't finish because I'm leaving for the United States next month, and I need someone I trust to take over.”

That made me sit up. “You're actually leaving?”

“Yes. And before you start complaining that I should have told you sooner, I've been trying to tell you for weeks.”

“You could have simply said you were moving.”

“I was avoiding the conversation.”

“At least you're honest.”

“I need you to take over my client.”

I glanced at the folders on my desk. “I already have three projects in progress, so unless this is something genuinely worth rearranging my schedule for, the answer is still no.”

“It is. It's a private resort development here on the western coast of France, near Les Portes-en-Re on Ile de Re, with a private residence on the property. The concept is still open, the structural team has been shortlisted, and the client specifically wants the architect personally involved in the design instead of dealing with a firm representative.”

I was quiet for a moment.

A resort on Ile de Re was different from the usual commercial projects on my desk. The location alone presented enough possibilities to make me curious about the coastline, the landscape, the privacy of the property, and the challenge of creating something luxurious without making it feel disconnected from its surroundings.

“What's the client like?” I asked.

“Demanding, very particular, and completely unwilling to compromise on the vision, but he's reasonable when you know what you're doing.”

“So you've met him.”

“Several times.”

“And you're still recommending him to me?”

“Because I know you'll love the project.”

She was right, and I hated that she knew it. I hadn't even seen the property yet, but my mind was already working through the possibilities of how the buildings could follow the landscape, how the private villas could preserve the views and privacy, and how the main residence could feel like part of the coast rather than something imposed on it.

I let out a quiet laugh. “Send me the brief.”

“I knew you'd say yes.”

“Goodbye, Elodie.” I was about to end the call,

“Wait. One more thing, the client refuses video calls and wants to meet you personally at the property before you take over.”

“That isn't unusual.”

“He wants the first meeting on-site.”

I sighed. “Fine.”

“And Valentina?”

“What?”

“Wear something nice.”

I laughed. “I'm meeting a client at a construction site, not attending a gala.”

“I know. Just trust me.”

The call ended before I could ask what exactly she meant by that. I stared at my phone for a few seconds before setting it down.

There were people who entered your life loudly, announcing their arrival through grand gestures and unforgettable moments. Then there were people whose presence became so ordinary that you never noticed how deeply they had embedded themselves into your life until they were suddenly leaving.

Elodie had been the latter.

My eyes drifted toward the second laptop sitting on the small side table beside my desk.

Everlove.

The name existed nowhere in my professional portfolio, nowhere in my office, nowhere in the conversations I had with clients. It belonged to another part of my life, a quieter one I had carefully protected for years.

When I first started writing, it was nothing more than a hobby. Something I did after classes when I was too tired to study but too restless to sleep. I had created the pen name because I didn't want my classmates reading my stories and realizing that the girl who barely spoke during lectures was writing scenes that made people blush.

Then people started reading.

A few readers became hundreds, and eventually, Everlove became a name people recognized, which still amused me sometimes. Valentina Everhart, architect, was the woman who attended meetings, signed contracts, presented concepts, and negotiated project fees.

Everlove was the woman who stayed awake at two in the morning debating whether two fictional characters should kiss in chapter thirty-two or thirty-three. I liked keeping those lives separate. Architecture was the life I had built, while writing was the life I kept for myself, and neither one needed to know about the other.

Three days later, I was on a TGV from Paris to La Rochelle, reviewing the project brief as the city gradually gave way to the quieter countryside of western France. The property sat along the coast, surrounded by clear water, natural rock formations, and a stretch of white sand that looked almost unreal in the photographs. The existing structures were minimal, like several cottages, a modest villa, and a few service buildings, but the site had undeniable potential.

The client's vision was ambitious. A luxury resort with private villas, restaurants, pools, recreational spaces, and, at the heart of it all, a private residence. The dream house. I paused at that section of the brief, my eyes lingering on the words that had been underlined in the original document.

PRIVATE RESIDENCE — PRIMARY CLIENT USE.

I wondered what kind of person commissioned an entire resort with his personal home at its center and what he truly wanted from a place like that privacy, escape, a permanent home, or simply something beautiful enough to prove he had finally reached a life he once thought impossible.

I closed the file because it wasn't my job to know, and it was my job to design it.

By the time I arrived at the property, the afternoon sun had begun its slow descent toward the horizon. The sea stretched endlessly beside the road, blue fading into softer shades beneath the late light. I stepped out of the car and immediately understood why the client had chosen this place.

The photographs hadn't done it justice.

The wind carried the scent of salt and something floral from the vegetation farther inland. The sand was almost white beneath the sunlight, and the rock formations created natural boundaries along portions of the coastline. The existing cottages looked modest against the scale of the landscape, almost temporary.

I stood there for a moment behind my sunglasses, taking everything in, and remembered why I loved architecture, not for the drawings, awards, or endless meetings, but for this is like standing somewhere untouched enough to make you imagine what it could become.

“Ms. Everhart?”

I turned.

A man in a light linen shirt approached, holding a folder against his chest.

“Yes?”

“Welcome. I'm Marc. Mr. De Vera's project coordinator.”

“Nice to meet you.”

He shook my hand and immediately began explaining the current status of the property, but my attention kept drifting toward the coastline.

“Mr. De Vera is inside the villa,” he said. “He asked me to let him know as soon as you arrived.”

“Of course.”

I adjusted the strap of my bag and looked down at the plans in my hand.

Marc gestured toward the villa.

“Mr. De Vera is waiting for you.”

I followed his gaze.

For a second, I couldn't make out the man inside because of the reflection on the glass doors, but then a tall, broad-shouldered figure moved behind them, and something inside me shifted before my mind could understand why. I stopped, my heart suddenly beating harder for no reason I could explain, a strange sense of familiarity settling beneath my skin.

Tightening my grip on the folder, I forced myself to keep walking. I was here for a project. I was an architect, and whoever was waiting inside that villa was simply my client.