The rain was a steady hum against the penthouse windows, casting a gray filter over the usually glittering skyline. Becky Rivera padded barefoot through the marble-floored hallway, her oversized hoodie grazing her thighs, coffee mug warming her fingers.
She had the place to herself—again.
Ethan Cross had disappeared early that morning without a word, the way he often did on weekends. Her mother was off on a yoga retreat with friends from her new job, a group Becky found about as deep as a puddle in July.
Becky sipped her coffee and turned the corner toward the guest wing. The far hallway was mostly unused—three doors, all always closed. She'd asked about them once, and Ethan had told her, "Storage. Don't go snooping." That, of course, was an invitation.
Today, curiosity was louder than obedience.
She glanced around. The apartment was silent except for the soft trill of ambient jazz Ethan liked to play on the living room speakers when he was gone. The last door on the left was slightly ajar.
Not open. Just barely unlocked.
Her fingers hovered at the edge.
Then she pushed.
The room wasn't what she expected.
No dusty boxes. No stacks of books or forgotten furniture.
It was a studio.
Massive drafting tables took center stage, arranged under high skylights. Industrial lamps arched over every surface. Rolls of parchment and paper were tucked into standing bins. A shelf cradled models of miniature homes, some pristine, others half-formed. On the far wall hung a corkboard cluttered with sketches, photos, and pinned notes. The scent of graphite and cedarwood hung thick in the air.
Becky stepped inside as if walking into someone's dream.
This wasn't Ethan the cold, rule-bound husband. This was Ethan the creator—meticulous, imaginative, private.
Her eyes fell on the centerpiece: a massive sketch of a two-story building. Not one of glass towers or high-end condos, but a warm, inviting structure—wood siding, open porches, solar panels on the roof. The pencil marks were gentle, layered with intent.
A label at the bottom: Youth Transitional Housing, Pilot Concept.
Becky stared.
Next to it was another sketch. This one smaller. More delicate. A woman. No—a girl. Late teens, maybe early twenties, hair falling in loose waves around her face, her eyes tilted downward in thought.
It looked… eerily like her.
Her fingers trembled as she touched the corner of the paper. He had drawn her. Not in a creepy way. In a way that felt intimate. Tender.
"Get out."
The voice was low. Dangerous.
She turned sharply.
Ethan stood in the doorway, soaked from the rain, hair slicked back, dark shirt clinging to his torso. His eyes burned.
"I didn't mean—" she started.
"You were told not to come in here," he snapped.
"I thought it was just storage," she lied.
He stepped forward. "Don't lie to me."
"I didn't know this was this personal." Her voice cracked. "I didn't think you had anything this personal."
He was breathing hard, like every muscle in his body was locked.
"You shouldn't be in here," he repeated, quieter now.
Becky's chin lifted. "Why is there a drawing of me on your wall?"
His silence was deafening.
"I'll ask again," she pressed. "Why did you draw me?"
He didn't move. Didn't blink. Then, finally—
"I see things I can't say."
Her breath caught.
"Is that what this is?" she asked, voice trembling. "A collection of things you can't admit out loud?"
He looked away.
The silence was a yes.
Becky swallowed hard and gestured to the youth housing design. "What is this?"
His eyes flicked back to her. "A dream. One I couldn't get funded. No one wants to invest in places for kids with no money and no last names."
"That's not true."
"It's reality." He walked past her and stood beside the table, running a hand through his damp hair. "I spent a year on that. Got laughed out of four boardrooms."
"But it's beautiful," she said softly.
"Doesn't matter." He met her gaze. "Beautiful doesn't keep people off the streets."
Her heart twisted. She saw now—the guardedness, the distance—it wasn't coldness. It was armor. Worn from failure. From disappointment.
"You're not who I thought you were," she murmured.
"I'm not who anyone thinks I am."
She moved toward the exit.
But before she reached the door, she paused.
"You could try again," she said. "With the project. With everything. Someone will believe in it."
His voice was barely a whisper. "Would you?"
She turned back to him. "I already do."
He looked at her then—really looked at her. And in that glance, something passed between them. Understanding. Recognition. Maybe even admiration.
"Close the door on your way out," he said, but not unkindly.
Becky stepped out, heart hammering. She shut the door with a soft click, her reflection catching in the polished hallway mirror.
For the first time since moving in, she didn't see a girl who didn't belong.
She saw someone who might matter.
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