Chapter 9
Elias Voss was the lead architect on the convention center project.
He walked into my office for our first design meeting, holding a stack of blueprints, his dark hair damp from the rain, a smudge of pencil on his left cheek, and smiled.
“Ms. Hale,” he said, holding out his hand. “I’m Elias. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you. I’ve admired your father’s work for years.”
His hand was warm, his grip firm, his eyes a soft, warm brown.
I felt something I hadn’t felt in a very long time. A flutter. A spark.
I pushed it down.
I was too busy. I had a company to run, a baby to raise, a life to rebuild. I didn’t have time for men. Especially not men I worked with.
But Elias was hard to avoid.
We met twice a week for design meetings, going over blueprints, arguing about steel beams and glass facades, staying late into the night when we were on a deadline. He was kind, and smart, and funny, and he never once treated me like the “poor little heiress” or the “scorned ex-wife” the tabloids loved to write about.
He treated me like an equal.
He asked about Lila. He brought me coffee when I was pulling all-nighters. He listened when I talked about my dad, about how much I missed him, about how scared I was that I’d mess up his company.
“You’re not going to mess it up,” he said one night, sitting across from me at my dining table, blueprints spread out between us, Lila asleep in her crib down the hall. “Your dad would be proud of you. What you’ve done—taking back the company, standing up to those people, raising that amazing little girl all on your own? It’s incredible.”
I looked at him, the soft light of the chandelier catching the gray at his temples, and felt my throat tighten.
No one had ever said that to me. Not really.
“Thank you,” I said quietly.
He reached across the table, his hand hovering over mine for a second, like he was asking permission, then covered it with his. His hand was warm, and calloused from years of drawing and building, and it felt safe.
“I like you,” he said, his voice soft. “A lot. And I know you’ve been through hell. I know you don’t trust easily. I’m not going anywhere. I’ll wait as long as you need.”
I didn’t answer that night.
But I thought about it. For weeks.
I watched him with Lila, when he came over for meetings and she was fussy, and he’d pick her up and walk her around the balcony, talking to her about architecture in a soft, gentle voice, and she’d stop crying and stare at him, mesmerized.
I watched him at the company holiday party, dancing with Lila in his arms, her little hands tangled in his hair, laughing so hard she snort-laughed, and I realized.
I trusted him.
On New Year’s Eve, we were standing on my balcony, watching the fireworks over the city, Lila curled up asleep in her stroller next to us, when he turned to me.
“Have you thought about what I said?” he asked.
I nodded.
“I like you too,” I said. “A lot. I’m scared. But I’m tired of being scared.”
He smiled, that soft, warm smile that made my knees weak, and leaned down and kissed me.
It was gentle. Slow. Perfect.
A week later, Lila said her first word.
We were sitting on the floor, playing with blocks, Elias sitting next to me, when Lila looked up at me, her eyes bright, and said, clear as day:
“Mama.”
I burst into tears.
May you like
Elias pulled me into his arms, holding me while I cried, happy tears, tears of relief, tears of all the pain I’d carried for so long finally melting away. Lila crawled into my lap, patting my face with her tiny hand, saying “Mama, Mama” over and over again, and I knew.
Everything was going to be okay.
