My name is Ethan Brooks. I was thirty-two, single, overworked, and exactly one promotion away from being able to afford a better apartment in Austin without pretending the cracked bathroom tile had “historic character.”
Clare and I worked at Larkin & Vale, a design-build firm that turned rich people’s bad ideas into expensive invoices.
She handled hospitality renovations: boutique hotels, resort lobbies, rooftop bars with $24 cocktails.
I handled commercial spaces: medical offices, tech campuses, bank branches, places where fluorescent lighting went to die.
For six months, we had been chasing the same promotion.
Director of Operations.
One chair.
Two candidates.
The entire office pretending not to watch us like a corporate version of UFC.
Clare was the kind of woman who could walk into a conference room, open a leather notebook, and make a contractor regret lying about delivery dates.
