Max
The conference room on the thirty-eighth floor of Sterling Tower was cold, quiet, and tastefully unremarkable—exactly how Max liked it. Glass walls framed the city, and down below, Manhattan sparkled with the illusion of peace. But inside the room?
War.
A very subtle, very beautiful war.
Aurelia sat opposite her at the long table, sleeves rolled up, hair twisted into a loose knot that kept threatening to fall. Her tablet glowed softly beside a chaotic spread of notes and color-coded sketch overlays, half of which were probably ignored in favor of whatever existed in that frustratingly brilliant head of hers.
Max kept her side of the table pristine. One notepad. One pen. One espresso.
Two days had passed since their confrontation in the executive lounge. Two days of carefully avoiding each other except where absolutely necessary. Two days of maintaining professional distance that felt more like a chasm than a boundary.
But the sustainability partnership couldn't wait for personal tensions to resolve. The board was expecting progress. The press was already speculating about the collaboration. And so, here they were again, forced to share space, share ideas, share the weight of corporate expectations.
Share everything except the truth between them.
"Bioplastics in high-end accessories are still perceived as cheap," Max said evenly, gesturing to the market research spread before them. "We need to reframe the material's reputation before we tie our names to it."
Aurelia didn't look up from her sketches. "We don't reframe. We seduce. We make it look so good people want to believe it's expensive."
Max tilted her head. "We're not in the business of selling illusion."
Aurelia finally met her eyes. "Speak for yourself."
Their gazes locked. For once, it didn't feel like sparring.
It felt like tension poised on the edge of becoming something else.
The sustainability partnership had been forced—a result of both companies receiving quiet pressure from investors and governments to "do something meaningful." Something real. So here they were. Merging fire and ice under the banner of corporate responsibility.
They'd been working in this room for four nights in a row.
And each night, something shifted.
They argued. Always. But now the arguments stretched into tangents. Conversations. Accidental revelations.
Tonight, they were alone.
The rest of the teams had gone for dinner. Max had stayed behind under the guise of drafting projections. Aurelia hadn't bothered to explain her reason for staying.
She didn't need to.
Beyond the glass walls, Manhattan glittered in the early evening darkness. The city that never slept was just beginning its nightly transformation, lights blinking on across the skyline, reflecting against clouds that promised rain later. Inside, the soft hum of the building's climate control system was the only sound beyond the occasional rustle of papers or tap of fingers against screens.
Max was scribbling numbers on her legal pad when Aurelia's voice broke the silence.
"Did you ever want to do something else?"
Max looked up, caught off guard. "Besides what?"
"Besides this," Aurelia said, gesturing to the glossy room, the work, the empire-building. "The CEO track. The perfect legacy."
The question seemed to come from nowhere, yet it felt oddly inevitable—as if they'd been circling this more personal territory for days, waiting for an opening that wasn't about Geneva or engagements or professional boundaries.
Max hesitated. Then, without thinking, "I wanted to be an architect."
Aurelia blinked, surprised.
"I liked the way structures fit together," Max added, more quietly. "Clean lines. Elegant purpose."
"That tracks," Aurelia murmured.
She reached into her bag and pulled out a worn sketchbook, placing it between them.
"You're not the only one with abandoned dreams," she said, flipping it open.
Inside—fashion designs. Not the bold, provocative showpieces Aurelia was known for, but rawer work. Softer. More intimate. Pencil lines tracing movement, grace, vulnerability.
Max stared. "You drew these?"
Aurelia shrugged. "Before I learned the market preferred louder things."
Max's fingers brushed the edge of a page, taking in the delicate lines, the subtle shading, the way each design seemed to tell a story rather than simply showcase a garment. These weren't just clothes; they were expressions of something deeper, more personal.
"They're beautiful," she said, the words escaping before she could filter them.
There was a long pause. The room felt... stiller.
"You'd have made beautiful buildings," Aurelia said softly.
Max's throat tightened. She looked away. "And you'd have designed clothes people would kill to wear."
Aurelia smiled faintly.
Max added, too fast, "Instead of just mildly wanting them."
The jab landed. But barely. The insult felt like it had been issued by habit, not intention.
Aurelia's eyes dimmed slightly, then sparkled with something else—understanding.
The moment passed.
But neither of them forgot it.
Max returned to her projections, but the numbers seemed less important now. Less precise. Her mind kept wandering to the sketches Aurelia had shown her—to the vulnerability in that gesture, the trust it implied.
And to Geneva. To Suite 927. To the truths they'd discovered there and the walls they'd rebuilt since.
To Elena, the fiancée Aurelia hadn't mentioned.
To the hurt that knowledge had caused, more acute than Max wanted to admit.
She glanced up to find Aurelia watching her, expression unreadable in the soft evening light.
---
Aurelia
She wasn't supposed to like the way Max looked when she was focused.
But she did.
The light from the desk lamp caught in her lashes. Her brow furrowed when she calculated. Her mouth—too often clipped and stern—softened just slightly when she was caught off-guard.
And now she knew Max had once wanted to build cathedrals.
Not metaphorical ones. Actual, honest-to-god buildings.
It cracked something in Aurelia. Just a little.
"Why didn't you do it?" she asked, voice softer than usual.
Max didn't look up. "Because my family didn't see architecture as a legacy. Just a hobby. They needed a successor, not a dreamer."
The word successor carried weight—legacy, expectation, obligation. All the things that had shaped Max Sterling into the controlled, composed CEO who never showed weakness, never admitted want, never reached for things outside the neatly mapped path she'd been assigned from birth.
Aurelia said nothing for a moment.
Then, without thinking, "You would've been good at it. You already build things. You just don't let anyone live inside them."
Max glanced up, startled.
The silence between them stretched.
Aurelia's hand twitched on the table, wanting to reach.
Instead, she closed her sketchbook gently and stood. "I should go."
Max nodded. "Of course."
Aurelia gathered her things. Her heels clicked toward the door. Then, just as she reached it, she paused.
"I wasn't pretending last night," she said without turning.
Max looked up sharply.
"I just thought you should know."
Then she left—heels steady, heart slightly less so.
Behind her, Max sat in the silence, jaw tight, pen idle on paper.
And for once, she didn't know what to write.
The elevator ride down was mercifully empty. Aurelia leaned against the cool metal wall, exhaling slowly as the floors ticked by. She hadn't meant to show Max those sketches. Hadn't meant to reveal that piece of herself—the part that had once dreamed differently, wanted differently, before corporate expectations and family legacies had narrowed her path.
Just as she hadn't meant to say those parting words. I wasn't pretending last night. The closest she'd come to admitting that Geneva had meant something. That what had happened between them wasn't just physical release or convenient distraction.
That it had been real, at least for her.
The elevator doors opened onto the lobby, and Aurelia stepped out into the cool evening air. Rain had started to fall, a gentle mist that promised to become something heavier. She signaled for her car, standing beneath the building's awning, watching droplets pattern the sidewalk.
Her phone buzzed. Probably Vivien, wondering where she was. Or her publicist, with more updates about the Elena situation. The official statement was drafted, the timing planned, the narrative carefully constructed to minimize damage to both parties.
Soon, that particular complication would be resolved. But the damage it had caused—the look in Max's eyes when she'd learned about Elena, the way she'd retreated behind her walls even more completely—that couldn't be undone so easily.
The car pulled up, sleek and black against the rain-slicked street. Aurelia slid inside, giving her driver the address of her downtown loft.
As they pulled away from Sterling Tower, she glanced back, counting up to the thirty-eighth floor, where a single light still burned. Where Max probably still sat, precise and controlled and alone.
Building walls, not cathedrals.
---
Later That Evening
Max
The rain had intensified, drumming against the conference room windows in a steady rhythm that matched the growing headache behind Max's temples. The numbers on her legal pad had long since stopped making sense, figures and projections blurring into meaningless patterns.
She should go home. Should call her driver. Should leave this empty conference room with its lingering scent of Aurelia's perfume and the echo of words that had cut closer to the bone than Max wanted to admit.
You already build things. You just don't let anyone live inside them.
The truth of it stung. The fact that Aurelia, of all people, had seen it—had named it—stung more.
Max gathered her things with mechanical precision, tucking files into her briefcase, powering down her tablet, straightening chairs that didn't need straightening. Control in small things when larger ones seemed increasingly beyond her grasp.
The elevator ride to the lobby was silent except for the ping of passing floors. The security guard nodded respectfully as she crossed the marble expanse, heels clicking against stone.
Outside, rain fell in sheets. Her driver was waiting, umbrella ready as she emerged from the building's shelter.
"Home, Ms. Sterling?" he asked, holding the car door.
Max hesitated, raindrops pattering against the umbrella above her.
"No," she said finally. "There's somewhere else I need to go first."
Twenty minutes later, the car pulled up outside 31 Mercer Street, a restored cast-iron building that stood as one of SoHo's most exclusive addresses. Though the historic façade maintained the neighborhood's artistic heritage with its ornate columns and large arched windows, Max knew the interiors had been converted into some of Manhattan's most coveted residences.
Max sat motionless for a moment, questioning her own judgment, her own impulses.
This was a mistake. An unnecessary risk. A complication she didn't need.
And yet.
"Wait here," she told the driver. "I won't be long."
The building's lobby was a study in understated luxury—polished concrete floors, exposed brick walls, and a carefully curated collection of contemporary art that rotated seasonally. The security desk, crafted from a single slab of black marble, was staffed by a bored-looking guard who straightened when Max approached.
"I'm here to see Aurelia Kaiser," she said, voice steady despite the uncertainty coursing through her.
"Your name?"
"Maxine Sterling."
The guard checked something on his screen, then picked up a phone. A brief conversation. A nod.
"Ms. Kaiser says to send you up. Penthouse."
Of course it was the penthouse. Of course. The full-floor space with private roof access that had been featured in Architectural Digest last year, though Aurelia had strategically kept herself out of the photographs. A space that matched its owner—dramatic and elegant, creative and precise, inviting yet exclusive.
The elevator ride felt endless. Max's reflection in the polished doors stared back at her—hair slightly damp from the rain, expression tighter than usual, eyes betraying a nervousness she rarely allowed herself to feel.
When the doors finally opened directly into Aurelia's loft, Max stepped out cautiously.
The space was exactly what she might have expected from Aurelia Kaiser—open, dramatic, a perfect balance of vintage luxury and cutting-edge design. Floor-to-ceiling windows showcased the rain-swept city beyond. A sleek fireplace cast warm light across modern furniture arranged with careful casualness.
And Aurelia—Aurelia stood by one of the windows, silhouetted against the storm, still in her work clothes but with bare feet against polished floors. A glass of wine dangled from her fingers.
She turned, surprise evident in her expression before it smoothed into something more controlled.
"Max."
Just that. Just her name. But it held questions Max wasn't sure how to answer.
"I wanted to finish our conversation," Max said, stepping further into the space.
Aurelia's eyebrow rose slightly. "Which part? The bioplastics or the walls I apparently build?"
"Neither," Max replied, setting her bag on a nearby table. "I wanted to talk about Elena."
Aurelia's expression shifted, wariness replacing surprise. "What about her?"
"You're still engaged."
It wasn't a question.
Aurelia sighed, moving away from the window to set her wine glass on a side table. "Technically. Legally. For about four more days, until the papers are finalized and the statement is released."
"But when we were in Geneva—"
"When we were in Geneva," Aurelia interrupted, "Elena and I hadn't spoken in months. She was on a yacht with an Italian lingerie model, and I was..." She hesitated. "I was with you."
Max crossed her arms, protective despite herself. "You could have told me."
"Would it have changed anything?" Aurelia asked, genuinely curious. "Would you have acted differently if you'd known I was in the middle of ending an engagement that had been more business arrangement than relationship for months?"
"I would have had all the information," Max countered. "I could have made an informed decision."
"About what? Whether to sleep with me? Whether to let yourself feel something? Whether to run away the moment we got back to New York?" Aurelia stepped closer, challenge in her stance. "Because those all seem like choices you made regardless."
The accusation landed with precision. Because she was right—Max had retreated the moment they'd returned to familiar territory. Had rebuilt her walls. Had convinced herself Geneva had been nothing more than a temporary lapse in judgment.
Finding out about Elena had just given her a convenient justification for what she'd already decided to do.
"Why are you here, Max?" Aurelia asked, voice softer now. "Really?"
Max looked away, rain streaking the windows behind Aurelia like tears neither of them would shed.
"I don't know," she admitted finally.
Aurelia laughed—a short, surprised sound. "Well. That might be the most honest thing you've ever said to me."
"I'm always honest," Max protested.
"No," Aurelia corrected gently. "You're always precise. It's not the same thing."
The distinction felt important somehow. Felt like one of those lines Aurelia kept drawing that made Max question everything she thought she knew about herself.
"You showed me your sketches," Max said, changing tack. "Why?"
Aurelia seemed thrown by the pivot. "I don't know. It felt... relevant."
"To what?"
"To understanding each other." Aurelia moved to the couch, sinking onto its plush surface with the fluid grace that characterized all her movements. "To seeing the parts we keep hidden."
Max remained standing, uncomfortable with the vulnerable turn in the conversation. This had been a mistake. She should leave. Should return to the safety of professional distance and controlled interactions.
"I wasn't pretending either," she said instead, the words escaping before she could stop them.
Aurelia looked up, surprise evident in her eyes.
"In Geneva," Max clarified. "It wasn't... situational. Not entirely."
Something softened in Aurelia's expression. Not triumph or satisfaction, as Max might have expected. Just quiet acknowledgment of a truth they'd both been circling.
"Sit," Aurelia said, patting the couch beside her. "Please."
Max hesitated, then crossed to join her, maintaining a careful distance between them.
"I'm still angry about Elena," she admitted.
"I know," Aurelia replied. "You have every right to be."
"But I'm also..." Max trailed off, searching for the right word. "Curious."
"About?"
"What happens now."
Aurelia smiled—not her usual sharp, knowing smile, but something softer. More genuine. "That makes two of us."
Outside, rain continued to fall, washing the city clean. Inside, something shifted between them—not resolution, not quite, but possibility. An opening where there had been a wall.
Max didn't reach for Aurelia. Didn't close the distance. But she didn't leave either.
And for now, that was enough.
---
Aurelia
They talked for hours.
Not about Geneva, not directly. Not about Elena, after those first tense exchanges. But about other things—architecture and design, corporate expectations and family legacies, the paths they'd chosen and the ones that had been chosen for them.
It wasn't friendship, exactly. The competition remained, the tension simmered. But something had softened, had become warmer, more honest.
By midnight, the rain had stopped. The city glistened beyond the windows, wet and bright against the darkness.
"I should go," Max said, glancing at her watch.
Aurelia nodded, though part of her wanted to ask her to stay. "It's late."
They stood, the evening's unexpected intimacy already beginning to recede as reality reasserted itself. Tomorrow, they would return to their professional roles. Would sit across conference tables and debate sustainability initiatives and pretend this night hadn't happened.
But it had. And it had changed something, however slightly.
"The official statement about Elena will be released on Friday," Aurelia said as they walked to the elevator. "Just so you know."
Max nodded, processing this information with her usual careful neutrality. "Thank you for telling me."
A pause, pregnant with things unsaid.
"Goodnight, Aurelia," Max said finally, stepping into the waiting elevator.
"Goodnight, Max."
The doors closed between them, and Aurelia stood alone in her loft, the space suddenly feeling larger, emptier than before.
She moved to the window, watching as Max's car pulled away from the curb below, disappearing into the midnight traffic of a city that never truly slept.
They hadn't resolved anything, not really. Hadn't defined whatever existed between them. Hadn't acknowledged the way Geneva had shifted their relationship from professional rivalry to something more complex, more dangerous, more potentially rewarding.
But they had talked. Had seen each other more clearly than perhaps ever before.
And in the world of corporate masks and careful performances they both inhabited, that felt like its own kind of miracle.
Aurelia retrieved her wine glass, taking a slow sip as she considered what tomorrow might bring. More meetings. More debates. More careful navigation of the complicated territory between them.
But also, perhaps, more moments of unexpected honesty. More glimpses behind the walls they'd both built so carefully.
More recognition of the truth they'd discovered in Geneva—that beneath their public personas, beneath the fire and ice, they understood each other in ways no one else could.
And that, Aurelia thought, was worth exploring, regardless of the risk.
Even if it burned them both.