Copenhagen Skies
1859 Words
Chapter Seven: Copenhagen Skies
The wind off the Copenhagen harbor was brisk, tugging at Catherine’s coat as she stood before the gleaming glass façade of Madsen & Holm. The firm’s architecture was sharp—steel bones and clean lines, a kind of cold elegance that reminded her of everything she’d left behind and everything she had yet to prove.
Her resume was tucked under one arm, carefully printed and annotated in the margins. Her other hand clutched Leo’s, whose fingers were slightly sticky from a half-eaten apple and a bit of nervousness.
“Do you think they’ll like me?” he asked, his brown eyes wide and hopeful.
Catherine knelt in front of him, brushing a curl from his forehead. “They’ll love you. You’re my best project.”
He giggled, one dimple popping. “Better than bridges?”
She grinned. “Much better. Though you don’t have a load-bearing capacity.”
“Yet,” he teased.
Inside, the firm was an orchestra of hushed conversations and the faint clatter of keyboards. Sunlight poured through tall windows onto architectural models that looked more like museum pieces. Catherine tried not to let her awe show. Freda, beside her, whispered, “I think I just fell in love—with the ceiling.”
A receptionist, precise in speech and style, greeted them. “You’ll be joining the innovation and sustainability division. Mr. Holm will be conducting your orientation.”
A tall man emerged from behind a column. His presence seemed to part the room—sharp-jawed, ice-blue eyes, sleeves rolled just enough to hint at long hours and meticulous standards. He paused when he saw Leo.
“You brought your son,” Max Holm said, voice unreadable.
“Yes,” Catherine replied calmly, her chin tilting up. “He’s well-behaved. And I didn’t have a sitter.”
Freda glanced nervously between them, but Catherine didn’t waver.
Max studied Leo, who blinked up at him mid-bite of his apple.
“I didn’t say it was a problem,” Max finally said. “Just... unusual.”
Catherine folded her arms. “So is giving up a future because you’re a single mother, but that’s the past I came from. This is the present I’m building.”
A tense beat.
Max’s expression didn’t shift much, but his eyes... they narrowed slightly—not with irritation, but curiosity.
“Well,” he said after a pause, “we’ll see if your work speaks louder than your circumstances.”
Freda muttered behind her, “He’s charming.”
Catherine exhaled slowly. “I’ve worked with less cooperative concrete.”
Later That Week
Catherine sat hunched over her drafting tablet long after the office lights had begun to dim. The bridge design in front of her was clean and modern, with water-efficient features that would make any sustainability consultant swoon. But beneath the sleek lines and thoughtful annotations, she spotted something off—tiny miscalculations that could lead to major structural stress over time.
Axial load distribution's off in the support beams… she muttered to herself, circling Section 3 in bold red strokes. Her stylus tapped thoughtfully against her chin. She recalibrated, revised, and ran simulations until the clock on her screen blinked 2:47 a.m.
By the time she submitted the file to Max’s inbox, her eyelids were heavy, but her gut told her it was good work. Maybe not perfect, but grounded. Solid.
The Next Morning
Catherine had barely settled into her seat, fingers still curled around a fresh mug of coffee, when Max’s shadow loomed beside her desk. He didn’t say a word. Just dropped the printed revision file in front of her with a quiet thunk and kept walking.
She blinked, startled. “Good morning to you too,” she mumbled, half to herself.
Curious, she flipped the top page.
There it was—his handwriting. Sharp, slanted, mechanical.
Recheck Section 3. Impressive analysis—but your assumptions on axial force need recalibrating. Still. Not bad.
Catherine stared at the words like they were in another language.
Still. Not bad.
From Max Holm, the man known for chewing interns alive and sending senior engineers back with bleeding egos, that bordered on poetic affection.
Her lips curled involuntarily. A compliment? From him?
As if summoned, Max circled back to her cubicle with a mug of black coffee in hand, eyes scanning a set of blueprints.
Without looking up, he added, “The math’s sharp. You think fast. I like that. But you were about four kilonewtons off in your stress assumptions. You’ll tighten that up next time.”
She tilted her head. “So... you liked it?”
He smirked just a little. “Let’s just say I’ve seen worse from people who’ve been here ten years.”
A beat.
“Thanks,” she said quietly. “It means something… coming from you.”
Max met her gaze for a moment longer than was strictly professional. Then he nodded once, turned on his heel, and walked back toward the conference room.
Catherine stared after him, the margin note still in her hand. The office buzzed on around her, but a small, warm flicker lit in her chest—respect, maybe. Or the first ember of something else.
She took a long sip of her coffee and opened the next assignment.
Still. Not bad, she thought, smiling to herself.
That Evening
The break room buzzed with the quiet hum of the espresso machine. Sunlight slipped through frosted windows, warming the counter where Freda leaned, sipping her coffee. Catherine sat nearby, hands wrapped around a mug she hadn’t touched.
“You know he watches you,” Freda said, eyes glinting.
Catherine didn’t look up. “He watches everyone.”
Freda smirked. “But he listens to you. You called him out yesterday in front of half the team—and he thanked you.”
Catherine blinked. “So?”
“So, Max Holm doesn’t thank people.”
Catherine shrugged. “I was right. That’s all.”
Freda leaned closer. “He looked at you like someone turned on a spotlight.”
Catherine stiffened. “He’s my boss. I’m not here for that.”
“I get it,” Freda said gently. “But it’s good to see you stand tall again. You’re not just surviving anymore.”
Catherine finally smiled. “You’re getting sappy.”
“Shut up and drink your coffee,” Freda said with a grin.
They clinked mugs, and Catherine took a sip. Bittersweet. Like progress.
At Home
Later, after a long day of sketching layouts and triple-checking wind load data, Catherine found herself folding laundry while Leo colored at the kitchen table.
He looked up, thoughtful. “Mom?”
“Yes, baby?”
“Mr. Max… he said you’re ‘a force.’ What does that mean?”
She chuckled softly. “It means I don’t back down easy.”
Leo grinned. “Like a superhero?”
“Kind of.”
He paused, chewing on the end of his crayon. “Was I the reason you had to fight so hard?”
Catherine froze. She crossed the room and knelt beside him.
“No,” she said gently. “You were the reason I wanted to fight. Every time I thought I’d break, I looked at you. And I remembered why I had to keep going.”
Leo tilted his head. “So I’m the hero too?”
“The biggest one,” she whispered.
The Next Morning
The open-plan office hummed with quiet concentration. Engineers hunched over screens, soft clicks of keyboards punctuating the air. Catherine arrived at her desk with fresh coffee in hand and her revised Section 3 calculations already uploaded.
At exactly 9 a.m., the project team gathered around the touchscreen monitor in the conference alcove. Max stood at the head of the group, stylus in hand, ready to lead.
“Morning, everyone,” he began, tapping the screen to display the water-efficient bridge model. “We’re two days from the client presentation. I want to run through our critical path and address any outstanding concerns.”
He clicked to Section 3. “Catherine, could you walk us through your revisions to the axial-force assumptions?”
Catherine stood, smoothing the lapels of her blazer. “Absolutely.” She tapped to bring up her simulation results. “Originally, we used a uniform load factor of 1.4 based on dry-season river levels. But peak flow data suggests a 1.6 factor during spring melt—especially after heavy rainfall. Adjusting to 1.6 increases the beam stress by about 8 percent under worst-case conditions. I’ve recalculated the support spacing and beefed up the composite laminate to maintain a safety margin of 1.8.”
Max nodded approvingly. “Good. That safety margin holds under dynamic loading, too?”
She flipped to her dynamic analysis. “Yes. I ran a 50-year flood scenario. Deflection stays within 25 millimeters, well under our 30 millimeter limit.”
A young engineer named Priya raised her hand. “Will that affect our material cost projections?”
Catherine had anticipated the question. “Slightly. We’re looking at roughly a 3 percent increase in composite steel costs, but our supplier has a volume discount available if we commit to the entire batch. I’ve drafted a procurement proposal here.” She tapped another slide showing cost breakdowns.
Max nodded. “Excellent foresight. Let’s finalize that with procurement today.”
He turned to the group. “Any other red flags or questions before we move on?”
Silence.
Max leaned back, stylus poised. “Alright. Catherine, fantastic work on Section 3. I want you to pair with Priya on the procurement outline. Meet after lunch?”
“Of course,” Catherine replied, packing her stylus away. She sat as the meeting shifted to façade treatments and pedestrian load distribution.
By Mid-Afternoon, Catherine and Priya huddled over spreadsheets at a small workbench.
Priya pointed at a cell. “If we secure that discount, we can keep the project under budget and delivery on schedule.”
Catherine tapped her calculator. “Exactly. And I’ve already drafted a memo to finance—we just need Max’s sign-off.”
Priya smiled. “I love your approach. Thorough, proactive.”
Catherine returned the smile—brief, professional. “Thanks. I learned early that surprises kill timelines.”
They high-fived gently before Catherine gathered the proposal for Max.
Later, at 4 p.m., Max found Catherine reviewing the final slide deck in the AV room.
He glanced at the screen. “Everything’s slotting together nicely.”
“Thanks to your feedback,” Catherine said.
Max held up the procurement memo. “I signed this. Good work.”
She nodded, relief flickering in her eyes. “I’ll send it off right now.”
He offered a rare, brief smile. “See you at the dry run tomorrow.”
Catherine packed her laptop. “Looking forward to it.”
As she left the AV room, Catherine felt the quiet satisfaction of a job well done. Here—amid calculations, simulations, and deadlines—her past had no purchase. Every precise number, every verified assumption reminded her of how far she’d come.
- Writer
