The Turned Table

Losing Grounds

The walkthrough should have taken an hour, by any reasonable estimate. It took three.

I told myself it was purely practical that the site was enormous, forty-two floors of raw, unfinished potential, and that Rufus kept raising questions that genuinely mattered to the design: sightlines from the executive floors, the way natural light would move through the atrium by season, how the flow of a space would shape the working lives of the people who'd eventually fill it. I told myself it had absolutely nothing to do with the way he stood a fraction too close whenever he pointed something out, or the quiet, focused way his attention made me feel seen in a manner that had nothing whatsoever to do with the contract on the table.

By the third floor, I had stopped bothering to hide my genuine enthusiasm for the space pointing out where a living wall could soften the harsh corporate lines of the atrium, sketching quick notes about acoustic paneling that would keep the open floor plan from turning into an echo chamber by midafternoon. Rufus walked beside me without interrupting, occasionally jotting something into his phone, and I caught myself, more than once, watching him watch me instead of the building.

"You love this," he said at one point, not quite a question. "Not the contract. The actual work."

"Is that surprising?"

"No." He considered me for a moment longer than the question strictly required. "It's rare, though. Most people I deal with are chasing the number at the bottom of the invoice. You're chasing something else entirely."

I didn't answer that, mostly because I wasn't sure I trusted myself to explain that design had become the one part of my life I could control completely, the one place where nothing depended on someone else's decision to stay or leave.

"You keep doing that," he said eventually, as we stood together on the top floor, the city spread out gold and glittering beneath us in the late afternoon light, the glass still unwashed from construction.

"Doing what, exactly?"

"Pulling back the second I get close to something real." He wasn't looking at the skyline anymore. He was looking at me, steady and unhurried. "You did it earlier when I asked about how you built your business from nothing. You did it again just now, when I mentioned Julian."

My spine went rigid instantly. "How do you know my son's name?"

"Stephen mentioned him. Once." A deliberate pause, weighted with something I couldn't quite name. "Offhandedly. The way you'd mention something that didn't particularly concern you anymore."

The words landed exactly where he'd clearly intended them to. A quiet, precise blade, unhurried and devastatingly accurate. I should have been angry at the cruelty of it. Instead, something colder and considerably more useful moved through me instead: clarity, sharp and sudden.

"Why are you really here, Mr. Cross? Voss Industries has a dozen people qualified to handle a routine site walkthrough."

For the first time all day, something flickered behind his composed, unreadable expression there and gone again before I could properly name it. "Because Stephen asked me to personally oversee the Aurelia negotiations. He has his reasons for wanting this particular deal handled a certain, specific way."

"What reasons?"

"That's not mine to say, not yet." He held my gaze steadily, and I understood, with a small, unwelcome drop in my stomach, that he was telling me the truth and that whatever those reasons actually were, they had very little to do with interior design or building contracts. "But I'd be careful going forward, Ms. Voss. Not everyone involved in this deal wants the same outcome you do."

I wanted to press him further, wanted to demand real answers right there on the unfinished top floor of a building that didn't officially exist yet. But Rufus Cross had already turned toward the elevator, the conversation closed as neatly and deliberately as he'd opened it an hour earlier, and I realized with quiet, mounting frustration that I'd lost control of this entire exchange several minutes ago and hadn't even noticed the shift happening in real time.

He held doors for me. He asked exactly the right questions at exactly the right moments. He never once raised his voice or pushed too hard.

And somehow, every single time, he ended up precisely where he wanted to be, which was three steps ahead of me, watching me catch up.

In the elevator down, the silence between us stretched taut, charged with everything neither of us had said. I studied his reflection in the polished steel doors, the sharp line of his jaw, the way he stood with his hands loosely clasped in front of him, utterly at ease in a way that made my own composure feel increasingly fragile by comparison.

"You said not everyone wants the same outcome I do," I said finally, breaking the silence. "That's not a throwaway line, Mr. Cross. Say it plainly, or don't say it at all."

He turned to look at me properly then, and for a moment the practiced ease slipped, just slightly, revealing something underneath it that looked almost like reluctance. "There are people invested in this deal who would prefer the past stay exactly where it is. Buried. Settled. Finished."

"Priscilla."

He didn't confirm it. He didn't need to; his silence did the work for him.

"And you?" I pressed, watching him carefully. "What do you want out of this, Rufus? Because I don't believe for one second you're just here to babysit a site walkthrough."

The elevator doors opened onto the lobby before he could answer, and he stepped out ahead of me, holding the door with one arm, that same unreadable calm settling back over his features like a curtain drawn shut. "Get home safe, Ms. Voss. We'll be in touch about next steps on the proposal."

It wasn't an answer. It was, I was beginning to realize, exactly the kind of non-answer that told me more than a direct one ever could have.