THE WOMAN HE CALLED TEMPORARY

Charlotte looked from Damon Moretti to the painting.

“They've made winter look like a hotel lobby.”

For a moment, he said nothing.

Then one corner of his mouth moved.

“That bad?”

“Worse. Whoever painted this understood that winter light is cold without being lifeless. Those amber bulbs destroy the distinction.”

Damon studied the canvas again.

“And what would you do?”

“Replace the bulbs with neutral museum-grade lighting, move them farther apart, and lower the angle. The silver in the water would come back.”

“Anything else?”

Charlotte hesitated.

“The frame is wrong.”

Damon looked at the heavy gold border.

“Explain.”

“It competes with the painting. The artist wanted the landscape to feel lonely. That frame makes it look expensive instead.”

Damon laughed quietly.

Not the polished laugh Charlotte had heard from wealthy men who wanted to seem approachable.

A genuine one.

“My mother said almost exactly the same thing.”

Charlotte blinked.

“Your mother?”

“She owned that painting for thirty-seven years.”

He looked toward the canvas.

“She died last spring. I donated it because she believed beautiful things should be seen, not locked away.”

Charlotte's embarrassment arrived immediately.

“I didn't realize—”

“Good.”

“Good?”

“If you'd known, you might have told me what you thought I wanted to hear.”

That stopped her.

For three years, Charlotte had been surrounded by people who considered honesty a social mistake.

Damon seemed to regard it as a qualification.

“What's your name?” he asked.

“Charlotte Hayes.”

Something changed in his expression.

Not dramatically.

Just a small narrowing of his eyes.

“Hayes?”

“Yes.”

“Are you an architect?”

“Not licensed. I studied architectural design and historic preservation. I work mostly with interiors, adaptive reuse, and painting.”

“Mostly?”

She looked down at her glass.

“Lately, not much of anything.”

Damon did not ask why.

Instead, he said, “Do you know the Crawford Building?”

Charlotte's pulse quickened.

“On West Kinzie?”

“Yes.”

“Of course. It was built in 1912. The original atrium has been covered for decades, but the steel framework is probably still intact.”

“Probably?”

“I've seen the old municipal drawings.”

Damon turned fully toward her.

“What would you do with it?”

Charlotte answered before she could stop herself.

“Restore the atrium, preserve the terracotta facade, and move the public entrance back to the north side. The current redevelopment plan destroys the building's strongest feature.”

Damon's face became unreadable.

“What redevelopment plan?”

She hesitated.

“The one Preston Cole presented.”

Silence.

Charlotte felt the blood drain from her face.

Of course.

Preston worked for Damon.

She had just criticized his proposal to the man who controlled the project.

“I'm sorry,” she said quickly. “I shouldn't have—”

“Don't apologize.”

His voice wasn't loud.

But it was final.

“Tell me what else is wrong with the plan.”

Charlotte looked at him.

Then, slowly, she began explaining.

She described the circulation problems, the blocked skylights, the unnecessary demolition, and the potential cost savings from retaining the original structural elements.

Damon listened without interrupting.

When she finished, he asked one question.

“How do you know all this?”

Charlotte swallowed.

“Because I helped design the alternative.”

His expression hardened.

“Whose alternative?”

“Mine.”

Across the ballroom, a voice called out.

“Mr. Moretti!”

Preston Cole approached with a woman in a fitted red evening gown.

Her diamonds caught the chandelier light.

Charlotte recognized her immediately.

Vivienne Ashcroft.

The daughter of a wealthy investor involved in North River.

The woman Preston had recently begun describing as an important business connection.

Vivienne's hand rested possessively on his arm.

Preston's smile disappeared when he saw Charlotte.

“Charlotte.”

She said nothing.

He looked at Damon.

“Sir, I didn't realize you two knew each other.”

“We've just met,” Damon replied.

Preston laughed nervously.

“Small world.”

Vivienne examined Charlotte's dress.

Then her shoes.

Then her face.

“Oh,” she said sweetly. “You're the ex-girlfriend.”

Charlotte felt the familiar sting.

But before she could respond, Damon spoke.

“Miss Hayes was explaining the Crawford restoration.”

Preston went still.

“The restoration?”

“Yes.”

Damon's eyes remained on him.

“Apparently, she designed an alternative proposal.”

Preston recovered quickly.

“Charlotte helped with a few decorative concepts. She's very creative.”

Charlotte stared at him.

Decorative concepts.

That was what three months of research, drawings, material studies, and structural consultations had become.

Vivienne smiled.

“How adorable.”

Damon turned to Charlotte.

“Did you only help with decorative concepts?”

The question was quiet.

It was also impossible to misunderstand.

Charlotte took a breath.

“No.”

Preston's jaw tightened.

“Charlotte, don't embarrass yourself.”

She looked at him.

For the first time in three years, she did not search his expression for permission.

“I developed the entire preservation strategy.”

The silence between them deepened.

Damon looked back at Preston.

“Interesting.”

Then he reached into his jacket and removed a business card.

He handed it to Charlotte.

“Come to my office Monday morning. Nine o'clock.”

Preston stepped forward.

“Sir, I don't think that's necessary.”

Damon did not look at him.

“I wasn't asking you.”

Vivienne's smile disappeared.

Charlotte stared at the card.

“Why?”

“Because I'd like to see the drawings.”

Preston's face had turned pale.

And Damon noticed.

He always noticed.

Later that evening, after Charlotte and Madison had left, Damon summoned his chief of operations, Adrian Russo, into a private office overlooking the river.

“Get me everything on the Crawford proposal.”

Adrian nodded.

“Anything specific?”

“Yes.”

Damon placed his phone on the desk.

On the screen was a photograph of Preston's original presentation.

In the bottom corner, barely visible beneath the company logo, were two letters.

C.H.

“Find out,” Damon said, “why Preston Cole submitted another person's work under his own name.”

Adrian studied the photograph.

Then his expression changed.

“Sir.”