Chapter 4

The heavy oak door of Alistair's study clicked shut behind me.

I expected to feel a wave of despair, of loss. Instead, a strange lightness spread through me. The weight of the Harrington name, of their expectations, of James's suffocating presence, was gone.

As I crossed the grand marble foyer of Harrington Holdings, heading for the main elevators, a commotion erupted near the entrance.

A flash of light. Then another.

A wall of reporters and photographers materialized, microphones thrust forward, cameras clicking like a swarm of angry insects.

"Ms. Baker! Is it true you've been fired from Harrington Holdings?"

"Eleanor, what's your comment on James Harrington's new relationship with Olivia Morningstar?"

"Sources say you were escorted out! Is the City Center project in jeopardy?"

Their questions were sharp, invasive. Olivia's handiwork, no doubt. She wanted a public humiliation.

I tried to push through, my face a stony mask. "No comment."

A microphone was shoved an inch from my face. A camera flash blinded me momentarily. Someone jostled me hard from the side. I stumbled, my bare foot catching on the polished floor.

My handbag flew from my grasp, its contents scattering. My laptop, containing years of personal design notes and concepts, skittered across the marble and hit the base of a pillar with a sickening crack.

Pain shot up my leg as my knee slammed into the hard floor. I felt a tear in my skirt.

"Are you okay, Ms. Baker?" one reporter asked, his voice laced with false concern, his camera still rolling.

Humiliation washed over me, hot and sharp. This was what they wanted. Eleanor Baker, brought low.

I scrambled to gather my spilled belongings, my cheeks burning. My knee throbbed. I could feel a trickle of warmth – blood.

Somehow, I pushed my way through the throng, a security guard belatedly trying to create a path. I burst out onto the busy Manhattan street, gasping for air.

The city noise was a dull roar. I felt exposed, raw.

I ducked into the first quiet side street I could find, leaning against a brick wall, trying to catch my breath. My knee was definitely bleeding, staining my skirt. My laptop was likely ruined.

I needed a moment to think, to just breathe. I spotted a small, unassuming coffee shop, 'The Daily Grind,' a few doors down. It looked like a haven.

I limped inside, the bell above the door tinkling softly. The aroma of coffee and baked goods was comforting. I found a small table in the corner, sinking into the chair with a sigh of relief.

My hands were shaking. I pulled out my phone to call a cab, but my screen was cracked from the fall.

"Are you alright, miss?"

A calm, deep voice.

I looked up. A man stood by my table. He was tall, impeccably dressed in a tailored suit that spoke of quiet money, not flashy brands. His eyes were a startling shade of blue, intelligent and kind. He held out a clean, folded handkerchief.

"You're bleeding," he said, gesturing to my knee.

"Oh." I hadn't even realized how bad it looked. "Thank you. I... I fell."

"The press can be rather aggressive," he observed, his tone neutral but understanding. He pulled out the chair opposite me. "May I?"

I nodded, too flustered to object.

He sat down, placing a sleek leather briefcase on the floor beside him. "My name is Elijah Rothchild."

The name registered. Rothchild. Not *the* Rothchilds of European banking fame, but a very prominent, very wealthy East Coast investment family. Known for their shrewd, often unconventional, investments in art, technology, and sustainable development.

"Eleanor Baker," I replied, my voice a little shaky.

"I know," he said with a slight smile. "I've admired your work for many years, Ms. Baker. The Azure Tower, in particular, was a masterpiece of form and function."

I was taken aback. "Thank you."

"My firm," he continued, "is looking for a visionary architect. We're embarking on a rather ambitious project – a fully sustainable, carbon-neutral city development. A prototype for future urban living. It requires... a unique perspective. A departure from the conventional."

He paused, his blue eyes holding mine. "I was actually on my way to Harrington Holdings to try and arrange a meeting with you. It seems fate had other plans for our introduction."

I stared at him, speechless. A sustainable city? A prototype for the future? It sounded like a dream project.

"I realize this is hardly the time or place," Elijah Rothchild said, noticing my disheveled state and the cracked phone in my hand. "But perhaps, when you're feeling more yourself, we could discuss it further?"

He took a card from his breast pocket. It was thick, cream-colored stock, with only his name and a private number embossed in simple, elegant type.

"Call me," he said. "Whenever you're ready."