Chapter 1

For five years, I was Julian Thorne’s "invisible architect."

And for the fifth time, he handed the lead position on a project to someone else.

He always dangled the same carrot in front of me: "Layla, look at the big picture. Just wait a little longer."

"Wait for the next round of funding. Wait until we ring the bell at Nasdaq. The next project, I swear, your name will be on the door..."

At twenty-one, I was a fool.

I gambled my future on him willingly.

But now I was twenty-eight.

My love and courage had been ground to dust by endless blueprint revisions and endless waiting.

I packed up my portfolio.

I gave up on the Manhattan architectural dream I had chased for half my life.

And I gave up on him.

Julian, I’m not waiting anymore.

...

The New York Global Horizon Architecture Awards.

The ballroom of The Pierre in Midtown Manhattan was packed with industry elites in Armani suits and Prada heels.

Julian stood in the spotlight.

He scanned the room with those deep, brooding eyes that had charmed countless Ivy League girls, and announced the winner: Harper Kensington.

I gripped my champagne flute until my knuckles turned white.

Around me, the crowd erupted in a standing ovation.

This was my fifth year as a "ghostwriter."

It was also the final year of the predatory "Senior Partner Promotion Clause" I had signed with Moore Architects.

My boyfriend, Julian, the chairman of the jury, used a high score of 92.8 to send Harper—a twenty-three-year-old real estate heiress—to the podium.

And pushed me off a cliff.

Harper walked down the stage in a Valentino haute couture gown, her Jimmy Choos clicking as she made a beeline for me.

"Oh my god, Layla, I am so sorry..."

She widened her innocent blue eyes. Her acting was significantly better than her design skills.

"I honestly didn't expect to win."

Julian walked over, one hand casually in his suit pocket, using that typical elite tone of his.

"Since when does talent need to apologize, Harper?"

He paused, his cold gaze sweeping over me without lingering.

"Layla, give the rookie a chance. This is crucial for the firm's financing. There’s always next time."

They stood side by side.

Harper beamed, and Julian’s arm hovered protectively near her waist.

The pose looked exactly like a power couple on the cover of Vanity Fair.

I stared dead into Julian’s eyes.

I tried to find a shred of guilt or hesitation.

There was none.

He had truly forgotten.

He forgot that winter five years ago. He desperately needed startup capital, and my only family—my grandfather—was diagnosed with heart disease in California.

The American medical bills were piling up like snowdrifts.

I knelt before the firm’s investors and signed that six-year exploitative employment agreement.

If I could win an international award within six years, the firm would give me a $500,000 bonus and a partnership.

If I failed, I would leave automatically and reimburse the firm for all "training costs."

I used that contract to get two sums of life-saving money: Julian’s startup funds and my grandpa’s surgery fees.

I bet everything I had on this gamble.

And in the final year, he shattered it with a 0.1-point difference he manufactured himself.

92.8 against 92.7.

Reality isn't a Hollywood movie with a heartwarming workplace ending.

Moore Architects wouldn't give me a second six years, and my 63-year-old grandfather couldn't wait either.

So, Julian, there is no next time.

I took a step back under the glare of the cameras.

I pulled up a polite, professional smile.

"Congratulations to you both."

I paused, then delivered the second half of the sentence with pure, drippings sarcasm:

"The perfect mentor and mentee relationship. Truly touching."