The Paris project was halfway through concept approval when the first red flag hit Aria’s desk.

A budget request from the hotel’s internal team.

Line item 47:

“Environmental Detail Removal — East Wing Garden Installations”

The translation?
Cut the eco-friendly elements Aria had built into the design—solar integration, green roofs, reclaimed materials. All of it.

The client wanted polish. Prestige. Marble over moss. Profit over message.

Dominic reviewed the revisions first. He flagged the same line.

But when they sat down to discuss it, he surprised her.

“We should let it go.”

Aria blinked. “Let it go?”

“They’re the client. If we push too hard on this, we risk the whole project.”

“So?”

“So—this isn’t the hill.”

“It’s my hill,” she said, voice rising. “It’s the first thing we’ve done that feels like us—and you want to whitewash it for a client who thinks ‘green’ is just a color in the lobby?”

Dominic stayed calm, but she could see it—his fallback instinct kicking in. Diplomacy. Compromise. Stability.

“This project is your comeback,” he said. “And mine. Don’t burn it for principle.”

Aria stood.

“This isn’t principle. This is my brother’s name on the cornerstone. You think I’m going to build something soulless under the banner of Nathan Vale?”

Silence stretched. His jaw flexed.

Then: “So what do we do? Walk?”

“If that’s what it takes.”

“You’ll lose the deal.”

“Then they’ll lose the best damn design they ever had.”

She turned and walked out.

Back in her studio, Mira was pulling an all-nighter, headphones in, completely in the zone.

Aria didn’t interrupt.

She just stood there for a moment, watching the next generation do what she used to—create like the world hadn’t tried to break them yet.

And she realized something.

She wasn’t afraid of losing the job.

She was afraid of losing herself again.