“Brilliant,” I interject when she pauses after describing the rainwater collection system. “Ms. Miller’s innovation here will reduce our water consumption by forty percent compared to conventional buildings of similar size.”
Walter McCoy raises his hand. “These sustainability features are impressive, but what about the bottom line? Green technology comes at a premium.”
Before Betsy can answer, I jump in. “Walter, that’s exactly the point I was hoping someone would raise.” I gesture toward Betsy’s next slide, which she promptly displays—a detailed cost analysis. “Ms. Miller has done extraordinary work balancing initial investment against long-term savings. If you’ll direct your attention to the ten-year projection...”
Betsy shoots me a grateful look before continuing, walking the board through the financial benefits of her design. I sit back, watching their faces change from skepticism to interest to genuine enthusiasm. By the time she concludes with a virtual walkthrough of the completed building, even Harriet is nodding along.
“Thank you, Ms. Miller,” I say, standing as she finishes. “I think I speak for everyone when I say we’re impressed. Are there any questions for Ms. Miller before we move to a vote?”
Several hands go up, and for the next twenty minutes, Betsy fields questions with such expertise that my chest swells with pride. When someone asks about construction timelines, I offer my support. When another board member questions the materials, I back Betsy’s choices without hesitation.
Finally, Harriet Winters—the last holdout—puts down her pen and looks directly at Betsy. “Ms. Miller, I mustadmit I was skeptical. However, your presentation has been thorough, and your vision is compelling. I particularly appreciate your attention to how the building will integrate with the neighborhood."
“Thank you, Mrs. Winters,” Betsy replies, the slight flush on her cheeks the only indication of her pleasure at the compliment.
I call for the vote, and it’s unanimous. Campbell Tower will be built according to Betsy Miller’s designs.
As the board members file out, stopping to congratulate Betsy on their way, I hang back and watch her accept their praise with grace. When the last board member leaves, I close the door behind them and turn to face her.
“You were magnificent,” I say, unable to keep the admiration from my voice.
“We were magnificent,” she corrects, her smile radiant. “You backed me up at exactly the right moments.”
"I meant every word.” I step closer, drawn to her like a magnet. “Your designs are revolutionary, Betsy. Just like you.”
The air between us seems to thicken, charged with something more than professional success. Her dark eyes search mine, and for a moment, I think she might step into my arms. But then her phone buzzes, breaking the spell. She glances at the screen, and something in her expression shifts.
“Everything okay?” I ask, trying to mask my disappointment at the interruption.
“Yes, just...” She hesitates. "It’s Devon. Probably calling to ask about dinner tonight.”
The name hits me like a bucket of cold water. “Devon? Your ex?”
“It’s complicated,” she says, slipping the phone back into her pocket without answering. "We’re not together, but we’re not... not together either.”
I struggle to maintain a neutral expression. “I see."
“It’s not what you think,” she says quickly, as if reading my thoughts. “We have history, that’s all.”
I want to tell her she deserves better than “complicated,” better than someone who couldn’t appreciate what he had. Instead, I nod and step back, giving her space.
“We should celebrate your success,” I say, deliberately lightening my tone. “The whole team. Drinks after work?”
Relief flashes across her face at the change of subject. “That sounds great.”
As we gather our materials, I’m already composing a mental list of questions for Nicole to investigate about Devon Cook. I need to understand what I’m up against, what hold this man still has on her. Because one thing is becoming increasingly apparent with every moment I spend in Betsy Miller’s company—I want more than a professional relationship with her.
And I’m willing to fight for it.
CHAPTER 9
BETSY
Istep into the Blue Note Lounge, where amber light catches on crystal tumblers like trapped fireflies and warms the polished mahogany until it glows like honey. Conor’s hand hovers at the small of my back—not quite touching, but close enough that I can feel its heat through my dress—as he guides me to a plush velvet booth tucked in a corner. Jazz piano notes drift through the air, wrapping around us like silk ribbons. I sink into the cushions, watching him settle across from me, the way his fingers—long, elegant, capable—curl around his whiskey glass.
“This place suits you,” he says, his eyes finding mine with an intensity that makes my breath catch. “Something about the way you carry yourself. Elegant, but not trying too hard.” The compliment spreads through me like warm brandy, pooling low in my belly.
“Are you suggesting I belong in dimly lit corners?” I ask, my voice softer than I intended, watching his lips curve upward.
