Page 14 of Blurred Lines

"Wait," I call after them as they begin striding toward the exit. "I—I'm staying. For a week."

5

FINN

My footsteps echo too loudly on the marble floors as I hustle across the gleaming expanse of the lobby. Damn, I should have worn sneakers. It's barely nine in the morning, and already I'm running late for the most important meeting of my architectural career.

"Mr. Landry," a voice purrs behind me. "You're as elusive as a unicorn these days."

I turn with a forced smile (I'm not a morning person, particularly not a meeting-before-coffee person) and there she stands. Melissa Pierce—a shark in four-inch heels. She extends a manicured nail, and I try not to flinch as my fingers brush against hers.

"Just had some fires to put out, Melissa," I deadpan, glancing at my watch. My meeting's in ten minutes, and I still need to grab a coffee from the lobby café. The scent alone is already turning my stomach into a knot of nerves.

"Well, Mr. Davenport is waiting," she singsongs. "And you know how he dislikes tardiness."

She's not kidding. Richard Davenport, real-estate mogul and generally unpleasant human being, is the guy I'm about to pitch my heart and soul to. His company is looking to build a luxury hotel in the heart of Emberton. It's a dream project, except for one minor detail …

"Melissa," I start, but she cuts me off with a flick of her wrist.

"Just remember, Finn, this is the big leagues now. Davenport Industries doesn't do second chances." With that, she pivots on a stiletto heel and saunters off, leaving a trail of expensive perfume in her wake.

Fantastic. Now I'm stressed and smell like a Parisian brothel. I dart towards the café, dodging businessmen with briefcases and ladies clutching oversized designer bags.

"Double espresso, extra shot." I bark at the barista, a harried-looking kid who resembles a half-assembled Lego project.

The kid stares at me blankly. "So, like, a triple shot?"

I rub my forehead. "Yes, a triple shot of your strongest brew. And make it fast."

As I wait, my mind whirls with visions of the design I spent months on. Sustainable materials, green rooftop, solar panels discreetly disguised as art installations … it's a masterpiece of eco-conscious architecture. But there's the catch. The perfect plot of land, the one begging for this eco-haven, is occupied by a crumbling Victorian mansion.

A local landmark, sure, but its historical significance pales in comparison to the economic benefits I could bring to Emberton. People need jobs, not dusty old houses.

Coffee thrust into my hand, I scald my tongue and curse under my breath as I cross the threshold into the conference room. It's showtime. The space inside is all polished mahogany and pretentious leather, sunlight glinting off a crystal water pitcher with thinly sliced cucumbers floating inside. Like anyone in here has time to rehydrate with fancy fruit water.

Richard Davenport sits at the head of the table, a granite statue sporting a thousand-dollar suit. Next to him is a woman whose facelift is so tight, I'm surprised she can blink. I recognize her from the papers—Gloria Somebody-or-Other, socialite and head of the Emberton Historical Society. This just gets better and better.

"Mr. Landry, glad you could make it." Davenport's voice is as smooth and cold as the marble floor.

I slide into the seat opposite them, simultaneously shoving a scalding mouthful of espresso down my throat and trying to spread my presentation boards out with some semblance of grace.

"Let the games begin," I mutter to myself, straightening my tie—forest green, a subtle nod to the presentation theme.

"Mr. Landry," Davenport's voice is like gravel poured over ice, "we're all ears. Impress us."

"Right, so …" I clear my throat, the last spurt of caffeine kicking in like a mule. "Emberton is ripe for a luxury destination. I'm proposing a structure that will not only add economic value to the town but will also pay homage to its history."

Gloria scoffs, perfectly plucked eyebrows knitting. "Pay homage by bulldozing Emberton's most treasured landmark? How do you propose to go about that without throwing us into an ocean of trouble?"

I force a smile as I unveil the 3D rendering. "The hotel incorporates elements of Victorian architecture, blending seamlessly with the surrounding cityscape."

She scans the rendering, her lips a thin line of displeasure.

I take advantage of the momentary stillness. "Mr. Davenport, distinguished board … this isn't a presentation. It's a manifesto." I hit the slide advance.

The screen behind me blazes with an artist's rendering of the building: glass and steel rising organically like a tree, solar panels gleaming, green terraces spilling down its sides.

"This design isn't just about sustainable tech," I say, pacing across the sterile, carpeted battlefield. "It's about embracing nature. This building will breathe."

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