Brothers of Paradise Series

“I technically have a date, too, on Friday. So we’ll both be out romancing.” She looks away and her cheeks flush slightly. The sight is unusual-she’s never anything but confidence personified. It must be serious, then.

It bothers me. It shouldn’t, but it does. “Who with?”

“Someone my friend is setting me up with.”

“You’re going on a blind date?” What in all the world? This woman is a perfect ten in every category. Why would she need to be set up with some lowlife?

“Yes.” She sighs, still looking flushed. “But you have to get out there, you know.”

I ball my napkin up and gather our combined trash. “Are you finished?”

“Yes.”

“Let’s head out. I don’t want to be too late.”

Faye nods. The lovely blush on her olive features is receding fast, quickly replaced by a mask I now recognize as her own professional armor. We head back to the office mostly in silence. The few things we talk about are all work-related.

And damn it all, but now I want to know who she’s going out with. I try to picture Faye on a date. What would she wear? Her hair down, for one. I bet she’d use that blinding smile of hers mercilessly. She’d probably run circles around him with her wit. Poor fellow. I doubt he’d be able to satisfy her, with her ambitions and determination.

Or perhaps he would-he might satisfy her all too well. And to my surprise, that thought displeases me even more.

It’s not working.

There’s something missing-the facade isn’t quite right. Damn it.

I run my hands over my face. The deadline for the submission is less than two months away, and I’m no closer to finishing the design than I’d been weeks ago.

The city of New York has commissioned a new opera house. It’s one of the biggest building projects in the city’s modern history, and in the spirit of artistic competition, they’re accepting submissions from architects all over the world. All final plans are to be submitted by early July.

It’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

I have no doubt the biggest names in the world will submit their designs, but it’s a blind contest. The judges will have no way of knowing if they’re looking at Frank Gehry’s design or mine. And that might work squarely in my favor.

But only if I have a perfect design to showcase.

And so far, the facade isn’t working.

I can’t put my finger on it, staring at the model in front of me. It’s simplistic; curving like the rippling of a flag, in a single sheet of bent steel. It’s innovative, energy-efficient… beautiful. But not quite there.

I need another pair of eyes.

Damn it. There’s no one else I can ask. My old friends from college are working in firms across the city, and they’re all mercenary bastards. Great for a beer-but not for this. Not for a project that could make or break an architect and a building firm. I don’t trust them.

And the architects at my own firm are vultures. Excellent, all of them-I wouldn’t have hired them otherwise-but I can’t use them for this. Most of them don’t know I still design myself, let alone that I’m planning on submitting my own design as the firm’s contribution to the city’s opera project.

Faye’s voice rings out over the intercom. “Rykers is here to see you.”

I toss the sheet over the model and cross my office, taking a seat at my desk. It’s unusual for my architecture partner to visit like this-unannounced. Both of us live by our schedules and routines.

“Send her in.”

The door opens and Marlena Rykers steps in. In her mid-forties, Rykers is a force to be reckoned with. We started as junior architects at the same firm once open a time, but quickly clawed our way up through the ranks until the firm’s constraints chafed. She had wanted independence; I’d craved it. We both had significant capital to use to start our own business-her from a divorce, me from my trust fund.

There’s no pretension between us. Both of us want to make money, and both of us want to grow the business. She focuses on her designs and I focus on mine, sharing the team between us.

It works well.

“Marchand,” she says by way of greeting, taking a seat in front of me.

“Rykers.”

“The pitch for Priority Media is coming up.”

She’s telling me something I already know. “Yes.”

“We’ve put Kyle and Terri on it, but I don’t think they can handle it.”

I lean back, tapping my fingers thoughtfully against the desk. The two are head of one of our architect divisions and usually a great combination. “That’s a problem.”

“They’re bickering like children,” Rykers says, waving a dismissive hand. “We both know this pitch is too big to screw up.”

It certainly is. If Marchand & Rykers gets Priority Media, we’ll be building for years to come. The multi-media platform wants new headquarters in New York and has a multi-million budget to back it up.

“Can we put someone else on it?”

“I’ve checked. We don’t have anyone else to spare at the moment. But we could rotate Rebecca in occasionally, and I’ll have a chat with Kyle and Terri. Tell them to straighten up or they’re off it entirely.”

That’s why I’ve always liked Rykers. She’s straightforward and cold-blooded. “And if they don’t, let me know. I think I might have a solution,” I say. Because she’s wrong about one thing: we do have another architect in-house, even if she wasn’t hired as one.

Rykers nods. She looks just as businesslike as usual, but her gaze turns thoughtful. “Are you going to the Founders’ ball next Friday?”

“Yes.”

“Good. One of us should attend.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Am I taking the hit for both of us, then?”

“Yes. You’re better at networking, anyway. I just scare them off.”

Hah. There might be some truth to that-and that’s saying something, given how pointless I find many of the occasions. And if my date on Friday goes well, I might even have someone to bring along, as is expected at events like that.

But somehow, that makes the prospect seem even more boring. Having to battle small talk on all fronts, both with other guests and the one you’ve brought along with you.Material © NôvelDrama.Org.

I’ll have to find a way around that.

Faye

It’s late on Thursday evening. That’s no surprise. Henry Marchand works late every day, and as his assistant, so do I. It’s exhausting-the man never seems to rest.