Gone Was His Jasmine

The following day, the organizing committee of the competition put together a livestream for a podcast at a loft studio somewhere in SoHo. The so-called “roundtable discussion” was, in truth, a carefully orchestrated public stunt for crisis management.

Ethan sat in the lounge chair, still dressed in the Tom Ford suit from the night before. His tie was loose, which made him seem rather hungover, yet it also gave him an air of nonchalance. It was a good embodiment of the “effortless social elite” look that was popular amongst the masses.

When he spoke into the microphone, he assumed his usual ‘mentor’ role.

“Arya is a doer. She works incredibly hard.”

He paused briefly before continuing in an arrogant tone characteristic of a head lecturer from the Harvard School of Design.

“However, I’m sure you all have heard of the term 'less is more’ used widely in architecture. Excessive flair can sometimes lead to an overdone product.”

Then, he abruptly changed the subject and brought Sophie into the conversation.

“Sophie is something else entirely. She is a genius when it comes to creating a curated experience. Her instinct for space is… phenomenal.”

I looked at him and felt my stomach churn.

Overdone?

I spent three whole months in an abandoned factory in the Bronx to cover up countless graffiti spray-painted by gangs. I went door-to-door conducting community surveys. Was that supposed to be overdone?

Meanwhile, Sophie was lounging on a beach somewhere in the Hamptons, drawing up blueprints on her iPad. What part of that was instinctual?

While Architectural Digest and Dezeen commended my design as being refreshingly humanist, my partner was publicly humiliating me on a live stream.

I wanted to offer a retort, but a wave of memories rushed over me, gaslighting me with remarks that I shouldn’t be so sensitive or that it wasn’t that serious.

Since this was all for show, I decided to end the farce.

“Ethan.” I adjusted the microphone before crossly cutting off his sentence with a signature podcaster tone. “That was an excellent speech, but I’ll have to interrupt you for a moment. I need to go to the washroom.”

I took off my headphones before getting up to leave. A wave of silence fell over the studio.

During the intermission, Ethan confronted me in the back alley.

He lit a cigarette and frowned. “Have you lost it? I put this whole thing together to give you some exposure. You were supposed to acknowledge and discuss what you learned from your failure. While you're at it, you should applaud Sophie's talent… It'll do good things for your career.”

So that was his real goal all along.

There had been countless accusations of Sophie being a nepo baby online. That was why he needed me, a “veteran” with technical expertise to vouch for Sophie and to prove that her victory was earned. That was the only way the accusations could be stamped out.

The whole affair was laughable. I shot a look at him.

“Ethan, I’ll give it to you. It’s a pretty good PR strategy.”

I forced a sarcastic smile before continuing, “But I'm just a runner-up. I can’t possibly have the merit to critique the champion, do I?”

With that, I turned and walked away, leaving him to the onslaught of cold gusts of wind in the alley. This time. I was done with the whole song and dance.