"He never showed me the drawings." My voice sounded small in the massive room. "He never told me he still wanted to build this."
"I know."
We stood there in silence. The wind pushed through the frame, making the whole structure creak and settle. The house sounded alive and restless.
"I don't know if he loved me," I whispered.
The words fell out of my mouth before I could stop them.
Ben kept his eyes on the hills, his jaw tight.
"Or if he just loved this more," I continued. "This version of himself. The man who could build the impossible thing." I pressed my hand harder against the wood until splinters bit into my palm. "I gave him eight years of my life, Ben. And he still needed... this."
"Liv—"
"Don't," I said. "Don't tell me he loved me. You don't know that. Nobody knows that except him, and he’s dead."
Ben stayed quiet—he didn't offer a platitude or try to fix what couldn’t be fixed. He just stood there, a solid presence in a house made of air.
After a long moment, I felt his hand settle on my shoulder.
His touch was heavy and warm. An anchor.
I leaned into it, just an inch. Just enough to feel that I wasn't the only solid thing left in the world.
"I should talk to her," Ben said, his voice rough. "We need to figure out the loan. We need to see the paperwork."
I nodded, staring at the reservoir. "Okay."
His hand squeezed my shoulder once—hard—then let go.
I heard his boots retreat across the plywood, the sound fading as he walked back toward the trucks, leaving me alone in Ryan's cathedral.
I stayed at the window, watching the light fade over the hills, wondering how much a dream cost before it bankrupted you completely.
Chapter 16
Ben
The cold was different out here.
Inside the timber frame, the ghost of walls had offered some shelter. But out in the clearing, the wind was unforgiving. It stripped the heat from my skin and carried the oily, mechanical stink of diesel exhaust from Lucia’s idling Range Rover.
She was leaning against the grill, arms wrapped tight around her chest, staring at the gravel. Her camel coat whipped around her legs, and her face was a mess of smeared mascara and red, wind-chapped skin.
She looked up when she heard my boots crunch on the stone.
"Is she okay?"
I wanted to say something cruel. I didn't.
"No," I said flatly. "She just found out her husband leveraged the roof over her head to build a monument to his ego. She's not okay."
Lucia flinched. She looked down at her boots—expensive Italian leather, already ruined by the mud and the salt.
"I didn't mean for this," she whispered. "I know that doesn't count for anything now. But I need you to know... I didn't want to hurt her."
"Intention doesn't stop a foreclosure, Lucia."
