Madeline's pov
The coffee shop was my refuge—a chaotic sanctuary of buzzing espresso machines and murmured conversations. The scent of roasted beans wrapped around me as I sat hunched over my tablet, reviewing a sketch of a boutique hotel façade. My future hinged on these designs, though I hated to admit it.
The screen flickered to life with Claire's name flashing across it. Her timing was as impeccable as ever.
"Madeline, you're not going to believe this," Claire said, her voice bubbling with excitement.
"If it's about your cat knocking over another wine glass, I'm hanging up."
"Ha-ha, very funny. No, this is serious. I showed your portfolio to the team at Wolfe Enterprises."
The name made my stomach tighten. Adrian Wolfe—billionaire, real estate tycoon, and, according to every tabloid, the coldest man alive.
"You did what?" I hissed, lowering my voice so the nearby tables wouldn't hear my rising panic.
"Relax," she said, her tone breezy. "They loved it. You're shortlisted for their next project."
"Claire, I'm not some big-shot architect with a flashy firm. I'm barely holding my freelancing career together. Why would they even consider me?"
"Because you're talented, Maddie. And because I made them look at your work."
I exhaled sharply, my mind racing. Wolfe Enterprises was the kind of client that could launch a career—or crush it under the weight of impossibly high expectations.
"Fine," I said, reluctantly. "When's the meeting?"
"Tomorrow morning. Boardroom on the twenty-second floor. Dress like you mean business."
The next morning, I stood in the elevator of Wolfe Enterprises' glass monolith, clutching my portfolio like it was a shield. The mirrored walls reflected a version of myself I barely recognized—hair pulled into a sleek bun, navy blazer that screamed "serious professional." I didn't feel the part.
The boardroom was intimidating. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of the city, and the conference table seemed unnecessarily large, like it was designed to make people feel small.
And then there was Adrian Wolfe.
He stood at the head of the table, reviewing documents with an air of detached authority. Dark hair perfectly styled, charcoal suit tailored to perfection, his presence dominated the room. His eyes—cool, calculating—flicked to me briefly before returning to his papers.
"Madeline Hart," he said, his voice low and clipped. "You're here to pitch your designs for the Oakwood Hotel project."
"Yes," I said, forcing my voice to stay steady. "Thank you for the opportunity."
He gestured for me to begin, his expression unreadable.
I launched into my presentation, outlining my vision for the hotel. "The design integrates modern luxury with the natural beauty of the surrounding landscape. The materials—stone, wood, glass—create a balance between elegance and sustainability."
Adrian's brow arched slightly. "Sustainability sounds expensive. What's your plan for cost control?"
His tone was icy, and I bristled. "Quality isn't cheap, Mr. Wolfe. But a well-designed space will generate long-term value for your clients."
"Interesting theory," he said, his lips curving into a faint, humorless smile.
The room fell silent as he studied one of my renderings. I felt the weight of his scrutiny, the way his gaze seemed to strip away pretense.
"Your designs are bold," he finally said, setting the paper down. "But bold doesn't always mean practical."
Frustration bubbled to the surface. "And safe doesn't always mean memorable. If you want this hotel to stand out, you need something that tells a story."
A flicker of something—amusement? irritation?—crossed his face. "Are you here to lecture me on storytelling, Ms. Hart?"
"No," I said, meeting his gaze head-on. "I'm here to show you that your project deserves more than cookie-cutter designs."
The tension in the room was palpable. Finally, Adrian leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable once again.
"Convince me," he said, his voice like steel.
---
The meeting ended with a terse agreement to proceed to the next phase. As I left the building, my head spun with a mix of emotions—relief, anger, and an unsettling awareness of Adrian Wolfe's presence.
Claire called me as I walked to the subway. "How'd it go?"
"Well, he didn't throw me out," I said. "But I wouldn't call him a fan."
"Adrian isn't a fan of anyone," Claire said with a laugh. "Don't take it personally. He's a perfectionist."
"Perfectionist or control freak?"
"Both."
I sighed, already regretting my decision to get involved with Wolfe Enterprises. But deep down, a part of me relished the challenge. Adrian Wolfe might be cold and demanding, but I wasn't about to let him intimidate me.