Felicity tapped her glass and stepped to the microphone beside the draped model of her firm’s newest project: the Hawthorne Cultural Center, the city’s most coveted commission of the decade. “Tonight,” she beamed, “I unveil the design that will define this skyline for a generation.” She yanked the silk cloth away. Gasps. Applause. Daniel, standing near the back, gave me the smallest nod.
I set my tray down.
I walked, slowly, to the front of the terrace. Felicity’s smile cracked. “Maren, the staff entrance is behind the bar—”
“I know,” I said gently. “I helped design it.”
The mayor, seated front row, stood up. “Maren. We were wondering when you’d arrive.”
Felicity’s face drained.
I unbuttoned the serving vest and folded it over my arm. Underneath, a simple charcoal blouse. “For those who don’t know me,” I said into the mic, “I’m Maren Cole. Principal architect at Vance & Cole. The Hawthorne Cultural Center was awarded to my firm four months ago. Felicity’s studio submitted a competing bid. It was not selected.”
A murmur rolled across the rooftop.
“What you’re looking at,” I continued, gesturing to her model, “is a beautiful concept. But it isn’t the winning design. It’s the proposal she submitted in March. The committee asked me to attend tonight quietly, because there were concerns about how the announcement was being… represented to investors.”
The catering shifts? A favor to my cousin, who owned the company, while my own office was being renovated. Felicity had assumed the worst because it flattered her to.
Daniel walked up and took my hand. “My wife,” he said, smiling at his sister, “has been trying to tell you about her promotion for six months. You kept interrupting her to talk about yourself.”
The mayor raised his glass. “To the real architect of the Hawthorne.”
Felicity stood frozen beside a model that suddenly belonged to no one. I picked up my tray, handed her a single flute of champagne, and said softly, “Smile and nod, sweetheart. Nobody wants to hear you pretend.”
