The elevator climbs toward the thirty-second floor, and my stomach drops with each passing number. I clutch my portfolio tighter against my chest, the leather warm from my sweaty palms.
"You'll be fine," I whisper to myself, watching the city shrink below through the glass wall. "It's just a presentation."
But it's not just anything. It's the Morrison & Associates annual charity showcase, where junior architects like me get exactly three minutes to pitch our dream projects to potential donors. Three minutes to convince wealthy strangers that my community wellness center deserves their money instead of another marble fountain or gold-plated whatever.
The doors slide open, and classical music spills out along with the soft murmur of expensive conversations. I step into a world that still feels foreign after two years at the firm. Crystal chandeliers cast warm light over men in tailored suits and women draped in silk that costs more than my monthly rent.
"Zahra!" My boss, Patricia Morrison, glides over in her signature red dress. "You clean up nicely."
I smooth down my black blazer—the only professional outfit I own that doesn't have a coffee stain somewhere. "Thank you, Ms. Morrison."
"Remember, keep it simple. These people don't want technical details. They want to feel good about where their money goes." She squeezes my shoulder. "You've got this."
I nod, though my throat feels tight. Simple. Right. Don't mention load-bearing walls or sustainable materials. Just smile and talk about helping people.
The thing is, I'm not good at simple. I'm good at blueprints and calculations and making sure buildings don't collapse. I'm good at designing spaces where families can gather and children can play safely. But talking to people who see charity as a tax write-off? That's Hana's department, not mine.
I find my assigned spot near the back corner, next to a display about affordable housing initiatives. Perfect. At least I'll have something to talk about if anyone actually stops by.
"Nervous?"
I turn to find a man watching me with dark eyes that seem to see right through my professional mask. He's tall, maybe six-two, with the kind of presence that makes everyone else in the room seem smaller. His suit probably costs more than my car, but he wears it like he forgot he put it on.
"A little," I admit, because something about his directness makes me want to be honest. "You?"
He smiles, and it transforms his whole face. "I don't get nervous anymore. Damien Cross." He extends his hand.
I know that name. Everyone in Seattle does. Cross Development Group builds dreams from glass and steel, creates perfect little worlds where perfect families live perfect lives. I've seen his buildings from the outside—all glass and steel and intimidating beauty.
Everything I want to design but never get the chance to.
"Zahra Winters." His handshake is firm, confident. "I work for Morrison & Associates."
"I know." His smile widens. "I've been looking forward to meeting you."
Heat creeps up my neck. "You have?"
"Your senior thesis. 'Sacred Spaces in Urban Planning.' I read it."
My mouth falls open. "You read my thesis?"
"I make it my business to know talented architects." He leans against the wall beside my display, close enough that I catch his cologne—something expensive but not overwhelming. "Your idea about honoring both function and spiritual well-being in community spaces... it's brilliant."
I blink at him. "Thank you, but I'm surprised you'd be interested. Your buildings are more... high-end residential."
"That's exactly why I'm interested." His eyes hold mine. "I've been thinking about expanding into community development. Places where families can actually afford to live and thrive."
My heart does a little skip. "Really?"
"Really." He nods toward my display board. "Tell me about your wellness center."
For the next twenty minutes, I forget about being nervous. I tell him about the prayer room that doubles as a meditation space, about the childcare center with windows that face the playground, about the community kitchen where neighbors can share meals and stories. He asks smart questions, nods at the right moments, and doesn't once check his phone.
"You really get it," I say, surprised by how easy this feels. "Most developers just see square footage and profit margins."
"Maybe that's the problem." He straightens, pulling a business card from his jacket. "I'd like to discuss a potential partnership. Would you be interested in grabbing coffee sometime this week?"
I take the card, my fingers brushing his. "I... yes. I'd like that."
"Tomorrow? There's a place called Serenity Café on Fifth Street. Do you know it?"
My breath catches. "That's my favorite coffee shop."
"I know." He says it so simply, but something flickers in his eyes. "I mean, I hoped you'd be comfortable there. One o'clock?"
"Perfect."
He starts to walk away, then turns back. "Zahra? Your vision for community spaces? It's exactly what this city needs. Don't let anyone convince you to think smaller."
I watch him disappear into the crowd, my heart racing. Around me, the party continues—champagne glasses clinking, laughter echoing off the marble floors. But all I can think about is how he knew my favorite coffee shop, how he'd read my thesis, how he looked at me like I was the most interesting person in the room.
My phone buzzes. A text from Hana: How's it going? Any rich old men hitting on you yet?
I glance across the room where Damien Cross stands talking to a group of investors, his head tilted slightly as he listens. He's not old, and he definitely wasn't hitting on me. He was talking about work. About shared visions and community development.
Something like that, I text back, slipping his business card into my purse.
But as I head toward the elevator an hour later, my presentation forgotten in the excitement of our conversation, I can't shake the feeling that I've just stepped into something much bigger than a simple coffee date.
The elevator doors close, and I catch my reflection in the polished metal. My cheeks are flushed, my eyes bright with possibility. For the first time in months, I feel like someone sees not just my work, but my dreams.
Tomorrow can't come fast enough.