Chapter 2: Oil and Water and Deadlines

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.

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