A flicker of annoyance rose in Julian’s chest.

There was sarcasm hidden under her polite smile. It was undignified.

She’s still too young, too impetuous, he thought coldly.

In this city, ambition without patience is just delusion.

Did she think this was a movie? She’d only been in the industry for five years and wanted to reach the sky?

To win, you rely on real power. Not on "sleeping your way to the top"—even if you were sleeping with the jury chairman.

This is the business world, not a charity.

Wait for next time.

If there is a next time, I’ll give it to her fair and square.

Thinking this, he opened his mouth to placate her.

"Layla, the after-party is at the Rainbow Room. Come with us."

"No thanks," I refused softly. "I want to go home and rest."

Julian frowned.

Layla never missed a networking event. It was the law of survival in this circle.

But before he could think more, Harper had already linked her arm through his.

I called an Uber.

Slumped in the back seat, I watched the glittering yet cold lights of Manhattan pass by the window.

Before I even reached our apartment, Twitter was already blowing up.

#JulianThorne #HarperKensington #ArchitecturePowerCouple

Every hashtag was followed by the dark red "Trending" label.

His masterpiece, three years in the making—a sustainable community project in DUMBO, Brooklyn.

They couldn't wait to announce Harper as the lead designer.

If I had been at that after-party, I probably wouldn't have been able to keep my composure.

My phone screen went dark, reflecting a pale, exhausted face.

Whatever. I didn't look much better in real life anyway.

As soon as I closed Twitter, a text from Julian popped up.

"Still busy. Don't wait up."

I didn't reply.

My finger scrolled up, reliving how he crossed the line, step by step, in the glow of the blue light.

That intern from Columbia is a rough diamond. I need to mentor her personally.

The trending topics are bought by PR, stop being dramatic. I was just correcting her blueprints.

We need headlines, Layla. Those are the rules of business. Can you grow up?

At first, it was "Who is she?"

Then it was "Why her?"

Finally, it was just silence.

I looked at the walls of text regarding Harper on the screen—he hadn't even realized that I hadn't sent a single word in our chat for a long time.

Just row after row of cold "Read" receipts.