Maya arrived at the construction site early the next morning. The sun hadn't yet risen, but the cranes were already moving like slow beasts across the skyline. She walked the perimeter alone, clipboard in hand, heels echoing against concrete slabs. It was the only time she could breathe, before the city stirred, before Jace's voice reached her ears, before memories called her back.
She stopped at the east wing, where the future ballroom would sit. It reminded her of the night her mother died, quiet, ordinary, cruel. No goodbye. Just a door slammed shut and a phone call a continent away.
She felt it now, like a weight pressing against her chest. Her mother's last words still rang in her head: "You should've been the one to go."
Maya blinked back the sting and turned toward the elevator shaft. The framing team was arriving.
By noon, the site buzzed with bodies and noise. Jace joined her near the southwest corner, sleeves rolled up, blueprints tucked under one arm. His expression was unreadable, but his presence was steady.
He handed her a coffee without asking. She took it.
"I spoke to structural. We can't shift the internal columns without sacrificing load integrity," he said.
She nodded. "Then we redesign the layout around the columns."
"Compromise?" he asked, arching a brow.
"Collaboration," she corrected.
A slight smile. "You're learning."
But later that day, everything cracked.
They stood in a conference call with the London investors. Maya had worked closely with them for months, projected costs, luxury flow plans, booking simulations. But today, Jace took the lead.
Maya interjected at a key point, gently correcting a number.
"Actually, it's projected at 19.6 percent occupancy over Q1, not 22."
Jace paused, visibly irritated. "We agreed I'd handle this."
"And we agreed accuracy mattered," she replied, tone calm but firm.
After the call, he didn't speak. He walked past her down the corridor, jaw clenched. She followed.
"Jace."
He stopped.
"What was that?" she asked.
"You undermined me."
"I corrected a number."
"In front of investors."
"I didn't think your ego was that fragile."
His voice turned cold. "Don't pretend this is just business. You wanted to remind them you were here first. That your father owns the land. That you have weight."
Maya stared at him, stunned. "I don't throw weight, Jace. I carry it."
They stood there, breathing hard, furious, wounded. Neither moved.
Finally, she said quietly, "You still think everyone's trying to hurt you."
He didn't reply.
She left.
That night, Jace sat on the floor of his suite, back against the wall, glass of whiskey untouched beside him. He stared at an unfinished sketch. It was supposed to be the atrium, light-filled, open. But the lines looked wrong now. Off-balance.
She'd been right. He did expect the worst. Especially from the ones who stayed.
In her apartment, Maya held her phone but didn't call. She scrolled through old photos, her, Daniel, their mother. A younger Maya with crooked bangs and eyes that still believed she was loved.
Tears slipped down her cheek as she whispered, "I wasn't trying to win."
The silence felt different now. Not just the absence of noise, but the ache of something real, breaking apart.
The next morning, Jace found her on-site, reviewing a wall partition spec with a junior contractor.
He stood beside her but didn't speak until the others walked away.
"I was out of line."
She didn't look up. "You think?"
"I don't know how to work with someone I trust."
That made her turn.
"You trust me?"
He nodded.
"Then don't talk to me like I'm trying to take something from you. I'm not your father."
Jace exhaled slowly. "I know. But I'm still learning how to stop building walls."
Her voice softened. "Then let's try building rooms instead."
They looked at each other, something fragile between them.
"Friends?" she asked.
He hesitated. "Something."