Bound by Design

Four

Kyle’s POV

She pushed back on everything.

Not loudly or aggressively. It was far worse.

Calmly, logically. In a tone that suggested she had already considered the thing from every angle and decided on an answer before she had even opened her mouth.

Every time I altered a specification, redirected a contractor or walked in to declare I wanted something changed, she had an answer ready. A counter so measured that it made me feel like I was the unreasonable one.

I wasn't unreasonable; it was my house. I knew what I wanted, and I did not want a freelancer from Queens explaining why I was wrong, as if I were a child.

The floor tile episode was the first instance. I had asked the contractor to use a different material because overnight I had changed my mind about the original specifications. Reasonable, considering it was my decision alone.

Yet when Monroe arrived, she discovered the correct material was already being laid, and she, rather than alerting me, personally saw to it that the work was reversed before sending me a message via the project channel:

‘Please direct all specification changes through me going forward. Changes made outside the project plan create extra work and delay. I am keeping the timeline on track, but I need to be the single point of contact for all decisions.’

It was technically the right thing to do, and the tone was entirely professional, yet I did not appreciate it.

The library was the second. I walked in, saw the floor plan, did not like it, stated so, and walked away.

Thirty minutes later, she found me in my study with the floor plan in hand and knocked.

"Mr. Sullivan, before you make a change to the library layout, I'd like to walk you through the reason behind the current plan."

I did not invite her in, so when she placed the printout on my desk and proceeded to articulate her thought process regarding sight lines, how the seating arrangement interacted with the light from the window, and how the design utilized the depth of the room rather than fighting it, I allowed her to finish.

"When I'm done," she said, looking at me, "if you still wish to proceed with a change, I will make it happen, but I want you to make that decision knowing the full picture."

I informed her that I would keep the existing layout. She gathered her paper and left. No ‘thank you’. No 'I told you so'.

She just left. As if the conversation was complete the minute the problem was solved.

It was the corridor lighting on a Wednesday morning that created the long argument.

I had required it to be finished by the evening and had come to notify her of this fact. She was on a call, so I waited.

Once she ended the call, she looked up. I told her what I needed. She placed her notebook carefully on the table with deliberate slowness. And argued with me on what will be done.

What I found frustrating was her inability or unwillingness to recognize the social cues required to adapt to a person like myself.

She did not back down. Did not soften as I pushed. Did not re-evaluate her position based on my expression. She merely stood her ground, as coolly as someone drawing a line in the sand. It was infuriating.

It was also, as the analytical part of my brain documented with detached efficiency, why the renovation was on schedule.

"Fine," I said, and exited the room.

The renovation was completed on time, every aspect flawless.

I walked through the penthouse on the afternoon of the gala, reviewing all of the completed work. It was the apex of the space's potential.

The corridor arch, the deep library and the window's full capabilities. It was perfect. I realized I had accomplished this through constant opposition, and yet I lost every relevant argument. I didn't consider this further.

The gala proceeded smoothly. I mingled and played the role required for the setting — talking to investors, the board and engaging in the performance required for an evening designed to project stability.

This was a different sort of management, one I understood completely.

Near the window at nine-fifteen, I noticed Monroe, holding a glass of water. She stood a few feet away from the group nearest to her. She looked like she'd rather be anywhere else, which was fair enough. I hadn't exactly made her welcome.

I continued around the room, avoiding her directly as there was no need for her interaction at this particular moment.

She almost ran into me when crossing the room around nine-thirty when I was moving from the opposite direction. Neither of us was paying much attention to where we were going.

"Mr. Sullivan," she stated plainly, her voice still dry. "The marble delivery on Monday requires on-site supervision on Monday morning, I'll be in late."

I nodded distractedly, only half listening as I glanced past her toward the ballroom. “Fine. Just send—”

The flash exploded across the room.

For half a second, neither of us reacted. Monroe blinked at the sudden light, her brows pulling together slightly in confusion, but my attention had already locked onto the source. Near the edge of the crowd, partially obscured behind one of the floral arrangements, a man was lowering a camera.

Not one of the event photographers.

Mine had all been vetted personally.

The realization hit immediately and hard enough to sharpen every thought in my head at once. How the hell did he get in here?

The man moved fast the second he realized he'd been spotted. He turned sideways through the crowd with practiced ease, disappearing between investors and servers before security had any reason to notice him.

“Stay here,” I said. “Don't speak to anyone.”

“About what? We were talking about a delivery—”

I was already moving toward the corridor. Marcus was exactly where I expected him to be, standing near the side entrance with his phone in hand and the expression he wore whenever a situation was seconds away from becoming a problem.

He looked up as I approached. “That wasn’t one of ours.”

“I know.”

His thumb moved once across the screen before he handed me the phone. “Entertainment wire picked it up already.”

I looked down at the image.

It had been taken from across the room at an angle that compressed the distance between us. Monroe stood near the window with her head tilted slightly upward as she spoke. I was facing her directly, close enough that it looked intentional. Intimate, even.

Christ.

“We were having a conversation,” I said flatly.

Marcus gave me a look. “The camera tells a different story.”

Through the glass panel beside us, I could still see the ballroom carrying on as though nothing had happened. Board members laughing near the bar. Investors deep in conversation. Waiters moving through the room with trays of champagne.

And Monroe, still standing exactly where I’d left her.

She hadn’t gone looking for me. Hadn’t checked her phone. Hadn’t even realized yet that something had shifted.

She was just standing there with a glass of water in her hand, looking slightly out of place among the crowd, waiting for whatever this was to make sense.

I looked back at the photo.

Page Six would tear through it by morning. Maybe sooner. A mysterious woman beside me at a private gala, close enough to imply familiarity. Close enough for speculation.

Normally, I would have shut it down immediately. One call to my publicist. A statement by midnight. By tomorrow afternoon, the internet would have moved on to someone else's disaster.

But I found myself looking back at the photograph.

We looked... believable. That was new.

And for the first time in a long time, the idea didn't feel like damage control. It felt useful.

The thought arrived before I could dismiss it.

Marcus must have seen something change in my expression because his eyes narrowed slightly. “Kyle,” he said carefully, “what are you thinking?”

I kept looking through the glass toward Monroe.

She looked exhausted. I noticed that suddenly and with strange clarity, as though the adrenaline had sharpened everything about the room. The heels she kept shifting her weight in. The tension in her shoulders. The fact that she'd probably spent the last three weeks fighting me at every turn and still somehow delivered the best renovation I'd seen in years.

“Set up a meeting with Monroe tomorrow morning,” I said.

Marcus continued watching me. “About?”

“Nine a.m.,” I replied. “My office.”

He was quiet for a moment, clearly deciding whether to argue.

In the end, he only nodded once. “Alright.”

I straightened my cuff and walked back toward the ballroom, already feeling the machinery in my head beginning to turn.

By the time I stepped back into the crowd, the outline of a plan had begun to form.