Gone Was His Jasmine

Before I left, Jack invited me to a party at a private club on the east side of the city.

“It’s a networking event reserved for the elites. They’re all bigshot partners.”

The only reason I went was not for me, but for Lisa instead. Before I left for good, I had to make sure she and the team were left in good hands, preferably assigned to a respectable project.

The event was held in a century-old villa built with mahogany, where waiters carted around trolleys made with silver. When I instinctively helped the waiter hold the cumbersome oak door open, he looked at me gratefully. I thought it was the only genuine human interaction I’d had all day.

I could hear the sound of laughter and conversation spilling through the ajar door.

“I’m going to be honest, Ethan. Arya’s blueprint was as perfect as they come. I don’t know how you have the heart to rip it from her.”

Then, I heard Ethan’s voice. There was the usual mark of arrogance in his voice, the kind that was distinctive of Ivy League graduates, albeit mixed with the taste of scotch whiskey.

“I don’t know what to tell you. There were problems with the design. I can’t sacrifice my integrity as a juror just because she sleeps with me, can I? It’s business at the end of the day.”

Then, I heard someone defending me. It sounded like Michael’s voice. “Her on-site project in the Bronx is very elaborate and well done–”

“Her vision is too narrow.” Ethan dismissed his remark candidly. “We can talk about her talent when she starts doing real architecture instead of fiddling around with measly ‘kitchen renovations’ and ‘shop decoration’ projects.”

I stood outside the entire time and didn't even feel mildly affected. I had long become immune to his theatrics of belittling me in front of his peers to demonstrate how “objective” he was.

Then, I opened the door and found a seat at the end of the table. I worked like a professional saleswoman that night; all I did was endorse Lisa and her team to every architect willing to listen to me.

“Lisa has had a lot of experience working with the brownstone buildings in the Brooklyn district. She is very attentive when it comes to historical details.”

At one point, I caught the interest of a visiting MIT professor. He commended my opinion on the adaptive use of material when it came to working on heritage buildings. He was a very witty man and told a few clever jokes about Boston’s terrible traffic and their brutalist architecture, which gave me a nice chuckle.

Throughout the entire conversation, Ethan twirled his glass of Macallan 18 without taking a sip from it. He fixed a sinister look on me the entire time. When they were leaving, he suddenly yanked me out of the crowd and shoved me into his Tesla parked on the side of the road.

The moment the door shut, I found myself in a claustrophobic space filled with a suffocating smell. It was a mixture of the smell of expensive leather, cigar smoke, his Tom Ford cologne, and a hint of Chanel No. 5 that did not belong to me.

“Were you flirting with another man in front of me?” His voice came out as a deep rumble. I could see the anger in his eyes.

“It’s just networking,” I said, trying to open the door.

Suddenly, he crossed his arm over the length of my body before pinning me against the car window, trapping me in the corner of the passenger seat.

“I’m in the top rung of the architecture industry in New York. Is there anything that I cannot do for you?” he questioned.

I could smell the liquor on him when he drew closer.

“Did you have to be all over those second-rate scholars like some kind of beggar?”

I felt a wave of exhaustion wash over me when I looked at him.

He would never understand. A few years back, Lisa went out all to help me secure a junior draftsman position in a project led by him. She drank so much at a networking event that she had to be rushed to the ER.

Upon hearing about the news, his reply was a dismissive text, “Tell her to behave professionally.”

This time, I hissed at him, “I don’t want to owe you any more favors, Ethan.”

I turned away. The MIT professor I spoke to had given me several of his close contacts in the Bay Area of California, but I made sure not to tell him about it.

At this point, he loosened his Hermès tie and allowed his voice to soften. This was his usual way of earning my sympathy after abusing me.

“Listen, honey. I have a new project for commercial development. It just so happens that I need a project coordinator…”

Just then, my phone vibrated.

It was a text from Lisa that read, “The flight is confirmed. I’ll see you in San Francisco.”

With that, I curtly rejected his offer before opening the door to step outside. The gust of chilly night air blasting in my face was a welcome relief from the repulsive smell of his perfume.

“Ethan.” I stood by the roadside with my back facing the dazzling streetlights as I said, “We're going our separate ways from now on. I’m good on my own.”