“You’re the architect?” His eyebrows shot up as he finally looked at me properly. A small, amused smile played at his lips. “You look like you should still be at university.”
My hand dropped back to my side. “I graduated from NYU two months ago. Top of my class.”
The words sounded desperate even to me. No internships to boast about, no years of experience. Just theory and classroom projects backing me up.
He made a dismissive sound and gestured at my drawings. “And the Christakis family entrusted this project to you? Interesting choice.”
The way he said it made it clear what he thought of that choice.
“Mr. Christakis values innovation alongside tradition,” I said.
“Innovation requires experience.” He tapped my drawing with his pen. “This restoration of the eastern wing with the glass-enclosed courtyard—unnecessarily complex.”
I forced myself to take a few breaths. I wouldn’t crumble here.
“The balance of historical preservation and modern elements is central to the design concept,” I said, flipping to my renderings. “Mr. Christakis specifically requested—”
“I’ve worked with the Christakis family for fifteen years, Ms. Massey,” he interrupted, his tone suggesting I’d been alive for about as long. “I know what typically suits their properties.”
Something in me snapped. “Is it the design you find impractical, or just the fact that I created it?”
His eyes widened.
“I’m sorry,” I backpedaled instantly, mortified. “That was unprofessional.”
He studied me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. “It was honest. And in Greece, we value honesty, even when it’s... impolite.”
I swallowed hard. “Look, I know I’m new. I’m not asking you to treat me like I have twenty years of experience. Just to respect that I’m here doing the job I was hired for.”
“Very well, Ms. Massey. Let’s start from the beginning. Show me what you have.”
I opened my laptop and began again.
16
The engine’s roar vibrated through my body as I pushed the car around the Monza test circuit. Every curve was muscle memory, every straightaway a chance to feed my addiction to speed. The g-forces pressed me into the custom-molded seat as I downshifted into the chicane, the car responding like an extension of my body.
This was where I belonged—where I’d always belonged. The clarity that came with racing at the edge of control, dancing with disaster while maintaining precision, had been my refuge since I was old enough to reach the pedals. Today, though, my mind kept drifting elsewhere.
To Tia.
I pushed harder into the next turn, tires squealing in protest as I forced my concentration back to the track. Three weeks until Belgium, one of the most challenging circuits in Formula racing. My team needed me focused, especially after my disappointing finish in Barcelona.
I completed another five laps, each faster than the last, before finally pulling into the pit area where Nikos, my head engineer, waited with a stopwatch and tablet.
“Not bad,” he said as I removed my helmet, flaxen hair plastered to my forehead with sweat. “But you’re still two-tenths off your best time from last season.”
I grabbed a towel, wiping the perspiration from my face. “The suspension feels tight on turn four.”
“We adjusted it based on your feedback from yesterday.” Nikos frowned, making a note on his tablet. “Maybe we overcorrected.”
“Let’s soften it and see,” I suggested, already impatient to get back on the track. Racing always centered me and focused my restlessness into something productive.
As Nikos conferred with the mechanics, I checked my phone. A single message from Tia.
Your aunt gave me the original blueprints. Incredible details. Hope your practice is going well.
The simple text made my chest expand. I typed a quick reply.
