After another three-day cold war with my architect girlfriend over the wedding budget, I found a familiar facade drawing in her pile of discarded drafts. The date in the lower right corner of the drawing was long before we started fighting over the future home project. My fingers tingled as I held the drawing. I knew that drawing too well. Every ratio, every line, I had gone over them again and again over the past six months. And now, the client line clearly showed the logo of a rival company. I pulled out my phone and searched that company’s recent work, and the second the page loaded, it felt like someone had punched me in the stomach. “Cloud Isle Resort Villas — the perfect fusion of modern architecture and natural scenery” On the promo image, that signature building matched the house Mia and I had designed by ninety percent. Only the materials were more high-end, the landscaping more luxurious, and the completion date showed it had been finished four months ago. The comments section was full of praise: [Designer Mia Reed’s masterpiece!] [This is what a building with real warmth looks like.] [I heard this project won her the Rising Star Award.] I exited the page and stared at the award wall in the studio. The Rising Star Award certificate hung right in the center, and the award date was three months ago. Back then, she had been rubbing her temples and telling me, “Ethan, the bidding pressure has been crazy lately. I probably won’t have much energy to keep an eye on the renovation. Should we put the house project on hold for now?” I believed her. I even felt sorry for her and told her the renovation could wait, that her health came first. How ridiculous. I heard the sound of a key turning at the door. I quickly shoved the drawing back under the pile of discarded drafts, and when I turned around, I already had my usual tired look from the past week on my face. Mia Reed pushed the door open and came in with two takeout bags in her hands. “Still mad?” She set the bags on the table and softened her voice. “I brought you that Japanese food you like.” I said nothing. She walked over and hugged me from behind, resting her cheek against my back. “I’m sorry. I was too stubborn about the wedding budget. But I just wanted a perfect wedding. Is that so wrong?” If this had been three days ago, that hug would have softened me. Now all I felt was a chill crawling up my spine. “Mia,” I heard myself say, calm in a way that scared even me, “the Cloud Isle project you won last year, where did the original design inspiration come from?” Her body froze. It was only half a second, but I felt it. “Why are you asking that all of a sudden?” She let go and moved around to face me, a flicker of unnaturalness flashing in her eyes. “It was just… inspiration. You know how creative work is…” “Weren’t we talking one night about what kind of house we’d build if we ever had money?” I cut her off. “I said I wanted a glass house where you could see the whole starry sky, and you said we should plant a tree inside it so the building and nature could grow together.” Her expression slowly changed. “We had a few drinks that night and talked until three in the morning,” I went on. “I even drew a rough sketch, and you laughed and said it looked like a kid’s doodle, then took the pen and changed it.” “The next day, you told me the paper got spilled on by coffee by accident and was thrown away.” Mia’s lips parted slightly, then closed again. She stepped back half a pace, and that tiny movement was like a knife finally stabbing through the last bit of fantasy I had left. “It was just a coincidence,” she finally said, her voice dry. “Design concepts overlap all the time…” “Even down to the hidden door in the bathroom?” I asked. “Even down to the exact curve of the second-floor master bedroom balcony?” The studio was so quiet you could hear the air coming out of the central AC. Mia stared at me. In those beautiful eyes I had kissed countless times, shock and panic were now churning. “You went through my stuff?”
Seven years ago, in the brightly lit hallway of the architecture building, Mia ran into me while carrying a model. KT board scattered all over the floor. She crouched down to pick them up, and when she looked up, her eyes were red. “It’s due tomorrow…” I stayed up with her until four in the morning, helping her recut the materials and adjust the structure. At dawn, she fell asleep with her head on my shoulder, a glue gun still clutched in her hand. Later she said, “Ethan, you make me feel more secure than any drawing ever could.” We graduated together, got into the city design institute together, and then quit together to start our own studio. In the first two years, we squeezed into a 320-square-foot rental apartment, ate instant noodles while sketching drafts, and could be happy for days just from landing a small project. Three years ago, the studio finally got on the right track. She held my face and said, “We can plan our future now.” I bought the apartment we live in now, and both our names were on the deed. She said she wanted to design our home herself, from layout to materials, without anyone else’s help. I believed her. I was even moved by how hands-on she was. “You didn’t throw away that sketch, did you?” I heard my own voice echo through the room. “You refined it, took it to the bidding, won the project, built it, and even got an award for it.” Mia didn’t say anything. She walked over to the workbench, pulled out a tissue, and slowly wiped her hands. She only did that when she was nervous. “So what?” she finally said, not looking at me. “What exactly are you trying to say? It was just an initial idea. I turned it into a complete design. Legally, that’s a work made for hire. The copyright belongs to the company…” “That was our home!” I shouted, the first time in seven years I had ever shouted at her. “It was the future we talked about night after night, the future we imagined over and over! You sold it, Mia. You sold our future!” “Then what was I supposed to do?!” She spun around suddenly, tears welling in her eyes too. “Ethan, you’re always so idealistic! Doesn’t opening a studio cost money? Doesn’t expanding need a name? Do you know how many follow-up projects we got because of Cloud Isle?!” “So that gives you the right to steal?” “I didn’t steal!” Her voice turned sharp. “That was my design too! I put in work too! Yes, the original inspiration came from one of our conversations, but I was the one who turned it into a workable plan! I was the one who drew hundreds of drafts! I was the one who spent three months at the construction site!” “Then why didn’t you tell me?” That sentence threw the room back into silence. Mia opened her mouth, and tears finally fell. But she wiped them away quickly, like she was wiping away something shameful. “Tell you, and then what?” She gave a bitter smile. “Listen to you lecture me about ‘design principles’ and ‘architectural passion’? Or hear you tell me that ‘we can’t trade our dreams for money’?” “Ethan, I’m tired. I don’t want to live in rental apartments anymore. I don’t want to count every penny anymore. I don’t want to see furniture I like and have to wait for a sale. I’m thirty this year. I want real things. Is that wrong?” I looked at her and suddenly felt incredibly unfamiliar. Was this woman in a silk blouse, wearing a watch, with perfect makeup really the same girl who used to bounce in place with excitement after finishing a model? Or had that girl died long ago, dying in one after another midnight struggle for survival, and I was only showing up to her funeral today? “About the wedding budget,” I said slowly, “the extra two hundred thousand you wanted, that was to cover the studio’s cash shortfall, wasn’t it?” Mia’s pupils shrank. Her phone rang at that moment. She glanced at the screen, her face turning even paler, and hung up immediately. “Who was that?” I asked. “A client.” Her answer came too fast. “Which client calls at ten p.m. on a weekend?” “Ethan, enough!” She grabbed her bag. “I don’t have to report every single thing to you! If you think I’m that awful, then we have nothing to say to each other!” She slammed the door on her way out. Just like three days ago. But this time, I didn’t stand there waiting for her to come back. I walked over to the pile of drafts, pulled out that drawing, and spread it flat on the workbench. Then I opened my phone and took a photo of the drawing next to the Cloud Isle promo image on my computer screen. The second the flash went off, I saw my own face reflected in the glass window. Expressionless, eyes cold. Like I was looking at someone else’s story.
Mia didn’t come home all night. At seven the next morning, I got a text from her: [I need a few days to calm down. Don’t come to the studio this week.] I stared at the screen and thought of another day six months ago. That day, she also didn’t come home all night, and the next morning she sent me a similar message: [Last night I stayed too late with a client looking at the site. I slept at the hotel. I’m going straight to the construction site today.] I believed her then. I even replied: [Get some rest. Remember to eat breakfast.] Such a considerate boyfriend. I put down my phone and started systematically checking the studio’s accounts from the past year. We were partners, and Mia had always handled the finances, while I handled design and construction. On the surface, everything looked normal. But what if the design fee from Cloud Isle had never been recorded properly? I opened my computer and logged into the company email—the password was the date we got together. Mia probably never thought I would check that. There wasn’t anything unusual in the inbox. But in sent mail, there was an email from three months ago sent to a private address, with an attachment in a zip file titled “Cloud Isle Final Version.” And the prefix of that private email address was Liam_Private. I opened the contacts and searched for the client contact on the Cloud Isle project. Found it—a general manager with the last name Grant. Before dialing, I hesitated for three seconds. Then I pressed the call button. It rang five times before he answered. “Hello, who is this?” “Hello, Mr. Grant. This is Ethan Blake from Mia Reed Design Studio.” I tried to keep my voice professional. “I wanted to confirm some design details about the Cloud Isle project.” “Designer Blake,” Mr. Grant said warmly, “why are you calling all of a sudden? That project was finished a long time ago, wasn’t it?” “It’s like this. We’re organizing project materials and preparing for the next annual selection. I wanted to confirm the original design communication date. Could you tell me when you first saw the proposal?” “Let me think… it should’ve been last August? Right, the last week of August. Designer Reed came to us with the proposal. The moment we saw it, we were hooked. Especially that ‘starry glass house’ concept. It was incredibly eye-catching.” Last August. The day Mia and I talked about that concept was August 15. “At that time, the plan was already pretty polished, right?” I asked. “Very polished! Full set of drawings, even material samples. Mr. Grant made the decision on the spot.” After hanging up, I sat in front of the computer and didn’t move for a long time. August 15 to the end of August. Two weeks. Two weeks were enough for her to turn a midnight fantasy into a mature business proposal that could win over a client. And enough for her to decide not to tell me about it. I heard keys at the door. I quickly closed the email page and switched to the design software interface. Mia Reed pushed the door open and came in looking like she hadn’t slept all night, but she had changed clothes and put on makeup. “We need to talk,” she said, her tone eerily calm. “About what?” She walked over and put a document in front of me. I looked down. It was a prenuptial agreement. “Sign this, and the wedding goes ahead as planned,” she said. “You get sixty percent of the studio shares, I get forty percent. The house is yours, but you’ll need to compensate me in cash for half the market value. The wedding budget will follow your plan.” I flipped through the terms and stopped on the addendum on the last page: “Both parties agree not to pursue any responsibility from the other regarding the copyright issue of the Cloud Isle project.” “So you’re admitting it?” I looked up at her. “I’m trying to solve the problem.” Mia pulled out a chair and sat down. “Ethan, we’ve been together seven years. Do we really need to tear each other apart over one project? Yes, I should have told you. That was my fault. But that project saved the studio, or we might already be bankrupt.” “Bankrupt?” “Yeah.” She gave a bitter laugh. “Around this time last year, the company had less than a hundred grand left. We couldn’t collect the final payments on three projects, and we wouldn’t even have been able to make payroll the next month. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to worry.” “So you sold the future home we built together?” “That was the only way!” She raised her voice. “The Grants had been looking for a designer for their resort villas. I took the proposal to them, and it won immediately! The design fee was eight hundred thousand, and the four-hundred-thousand deposit came in the next day! Ethan, that was four hundred grand!” I looked at her flushed face, and all of a sudden I just felt tired. “Mia,” I said, “in these seven years, have I ever left you when you were at your lowest?” She froze. “When something happened in your family in your junior year, I worked three jobs to help pay your tuition. When we first started the studio and couldn’t get projects, I put in the money my parents gave me for a house. You said you wanted to study abroad, and I supported you going, while I kept the studio going by myself for a whole year.” My voice was calm, like I was talking about someone else. “I never once thought about giving up on you, or giving up on our shared dream, because of money, pain, or not seeing a future.” “But you did give up,” I said. “The moment you decided to steal our shared future and turn it into money, you had already given up.” Mia’s face turned paler and paler. “If you sign this agreement, we can still keep going.” Her voice started to shake. “Ethan, I was wrong. I really was wrong. But I did all this for our future too…” “There is no us anymore.” I stood up and pushed the agreement back to her. “Mia, we’re done.” She sat there, looking up at me, and tears finally poured down in big drops. For a moment, she looked like that helpless girl from back then again. But I knew that wasn’t real. Just like that starry glass house design looked like a dream from above, while the price tag had long been written underneath it. “I’ll have a third-party audit the studio’s accounts,” I said. “As for the Cloud Isle design fee, I’ll take every cent that’s mine. And as for the copyright issue…” I paused and looked at her suddenly terrified eyes. “What do you think the Grants will do if they find out the original design they paid so much for was really a stolen dream?”
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