Elira Voss hated boardrooms. Especially ones like this — all glass and marble and artificial chill, where men in thousand-dollar suits made decisions that paved over things worth remembering. This particular room, perched at the top of the ValeCorp tower, felt like a mausoleum. Too quiet. Too clean. Too dead.

She stood near the far window, sipping a too-bitter espresso, waiting for the man she swore she would never work with.

She’d read about him long before she met him — Reyden Vale. Real estate mogul. Development shark. Known for turning community spaces into luxury condos and walking away richer every time. She’d seen his name on buildings, his photos in business magazines. Sharp eyes. Sharper jawline. No warmth.

Now she was about to see him in person.

The door opened.

He stepped in like he owned the air.

Black suit, no tie. Hair windswept like he’d just come from somewhere reckless. His eyes — storm-grey and assessing — landed on her immediately. The silence between them stretched, taut as piano wire.

“You’re Elira,” he said. Not a question. Just a fact laced with subtle disdain.

She arched a brow. “And you’re exactly as bland as I imagined.”

That got the ghost of a smile. Just a flicker at the corner of his mouth. “You’re direct.”

“You’re late.”

“I’m right on time,” he said, glancing at the sleek watch on his wrist. “You’re just early.”

“No,” Elira said, setting her cup down, “I just respect people’s time. Even when they don’t deserve it.”

He didn’t flinch. “This’ll be fun.”

They sat — across from each other at the long conference table. The rest of the project team hadn’t arrived yet. That left them alone in the sterile echo of a billion-dollar room.

Elira flipped open her sketchpad, deliberately ignoring the file he slid across the table.

“You’ve seen the proposal?” he asked.

She didn’t look up. “I’ve seen the demolition order. I’ve also seen the community petitions, the preservation reports, and the cultural council’s objections. What I haven’t seen is an ounce of respect for the district you’re gutting.”

Reyden leaned back in his chair, studying her like a chessboard. “That district is rotting from the inside. Half the buildings are condemned. The other half house memories people can’t afford to hold onto.”

“So your solution is to erase them?”

“Not erase. Reinvent.”

She met his gaze then. “There’s a difference?”

His tone softened, barely. “Only if you care what came before.”

Their eyes held for a beat too long. Then the door opened, and the rest of the team began to file in.

Reyden stood, nodding to his assistant.

Elira gathered her things, spine straight as steel. She wasn’t here to lose a fight — or fall into his rhythm. But as she passed him, he spoke again, voice low.

“You’re not what I expected, Voss.”

She paused, just for a breath.

“Neither are you, Vale.”

And then she walked out.

But her pulse didn’t slow until she was already in the elevator.

The meeting room buzzed with city officials, financial advisors, two interns scribbling notes like their lives depended on it, and one overly enthusiastic assistant who kept offering bottled water Elira never asked for. But none of it bothered her as much as the man sitting across the table — confident, relaxed, and looking as if he already owned the outcome.

Reyden Vale....

His presence grated like static beneath a silk shirt.

Elira’s jaw was tight as she listened to the opening remarks from the council’s urban development chair. The words blurred together: “revitalization,” “mixed-use opportunities,” “economic lift,” and her personal favorite — “necessary progress.”

Reyden’s voice cut through the jargon.

“I propose we start with an overview of the adjusted site plans. I had my team make updates to streamline the budget.”

Elira’s eyes snapped to his. “You adjusted my design?”

He didn’t flinch. “Refined it. Simplified some of the legacy elements. Made room for actual function.”

“You mean removed the community spaces, shortened the preservation line, and replaced a local gallery corridor with a luxury café wing?” she asked, her voice even but electric.

He leaned back, fingers steepled. “Some would call that… vision.”

“Only if they’ve never had to fight to keep history from being rewritten.”

The room quieted. A couple of the junior developers looked between them like watching tennis. Reyden’s smirk didn’t waver.

“Tell me, Elira,” he said smoothly, “how many of your beautiful, untouched designs have actually helped people pay rent?”

She narrowed her eyes. “How many of your high-gloss towers have helped anyone remember who they are?”

A beat.

Then he smiled. “Touche.”

Councilman Ingram cleared his throat, attempting to reroute the tension. “Ms. Voss, Mr. Vale — we selected both of you because we believe your combined expertise is exactly what this project needs. Not either-or. Both. The district deserves balance.”

Balance, Elira thought bitterly, was not something Reyden Vale believed in. He was all forward — acquisition, acceleration, outcome.

She was restoration, rhythm, context.

Oil and water.

Or maybe match and flame.

When the meeting adjourned, the rest of the group trickled out, talking timelines and permits.

Elira gathered her blueprints, careful and quick. She was almost at the door when she felt him beside her.

“Walk the site with me,” he said.

She turned. “I’d rather walk through traffic.”

“Ten minutes,” he said, unbothered. “Let me show you what I see.”

She exhaled slowly. “Fine. But don’t try to sell me your vision.”

“I don’t sell,” Reyden said, walking ahead of her. “I build.”

She followed.

If only to remind him that some things were worth not building over.

The district was quiet when they arrived — just after noon, when the city’s noise hadn’t quite bled into the edges of its forgotten places.

Elira stepped onto the cracked pavement, her boots crunching loose gravel. The air here still smelled like rust and memory — old iron gates, sun-warmed stone, and the last of last night’s rain.

The district was quiet when they arrived — just after noon, when the city’s noise hadn’t quite bled into the edges of its forgotten places.

Elira stepped onto the cracked pavement, her boots crunching loose gravel. The air here still smelled like rust and memory — old iron gates, sun-warmed stone, and the last of last night’s rain.

She could already see the bones of what it could be.

Reyden, on the other hand, looked at the buildings like a chessboard.

“This one,” he said, gesturing to a three-story brick structure with faded blue shutters, “goes first. Foundation’s useless.”

Elira stopped walking. “That’s the old printing press.”

“It’s also caving in.”

“It has structural integrity and handmade window frames from the 1920s.”

He shrugged. “It has mold and rats.”

She turned to face him, hands on her hips. “You see rot. I see potential.”

He met her gaze without blinking. “That’s the difference between an idealist and a realist.”

“And you’re the realist, I assume?”

“Painfully.”

She looked away, scanning the buildings, then back to him. “This space was once a heartbeat. It could be again.”

Reyden walked ahead, hands in his pockets. “Or it could be a parking garage that pays for three art programs across the city.”

She stared at him. “You’re serious.”

“I’m always serious,” he replied over his shoulder, not even glancing back.

Elira followed him reluctantly, her eyes flicking over the details of the district — rusted signs in Hindi and English, graffiti that told more truth than any marketing pitch, a row of tile work so intricate it looked like it had been carved from a dream.

He was already climbing the steps of the old library when she caught up.

“Let me guess,” she said, slightly breathless, “this one becomes a wellness center with corporate yoga on the roof?”

He smirked. “Not bad. I was thinking boutique bookstore with rentable workspaces.”

Elira gave him a flat look. “That building has a memorial in it. Third floor. The founder’s wife died during construction. He etched her favorite poem into the stone archway.”

Reyden blinked. For once, no immediate comeback.

She watched his jaw tense. “Don’t tear down ghosts, Vale,” she said quietly. “Some of them are still holding things together.”

He looked at her then. Really looked.

And for a moment, Elira wasn’t entirely sure if she’d won — or just unlocked something she wasn’t ready for.

“You’re dangerous,” he murmured.

She arched a brow. “To demolition permits?”

“To people who think they know what the city needs,” he said, turning back toward the steps. “And maybe to me.”

Her pulse jumped.

She covered it with sarcasm. “Don’t get sentimental. I’m still charging you for this site visit.”

He laughed — rich and unexpected.

It annoyed her how much she liked the sound.

They hadn’t intended to go inside.

The door to the central building — a crumbling, sun-bleached hall that once served as a social center — had been sealed for years. But Reyden found the latch hidden beneath the warped handle. When it creaked open, he shot her a look that was half challenge, half curiosity.