Chapter 1 

Avrielle

The morning light streaming through my Crown Heights apartment catches the dust motes dancing above my inspiration board, and I can't help but smile. Fabric swatches in rich jewel tones cascade across the cork surface like a waterfall of possibility. Deep emerald velvet. Burnished copper silk. Midnight blue linen that feels like butter between my fingers. This is what dreams look like before they take shape.

"Avi, you're doing that thing again." Marcus's voice carries from the kitchen, tinged with that familiar affection that still makes my chest warm after three years together.

"What thing?" I call back, though I already know. I'm touching my earrings—the vintage gold hoops my mother gave me for my twenty-first birthday—twisting them between my fingers as I study the board.

"The thing where you disappear into your head and forget the rest of the world exists." He appears by the door to my home office, coffee mug in hand, looking effortlessly handsome in his pressed white shirt and navy slacks. Marcus has this way of making everything look easy, even Monday mornings. "We're supposed to meet the architect in an hour."

My stomach doesn't care about the two cups of Earl Grey I've already consumed. Today's the day. After months of planning and saving and dreaming, we're finally going to see our house—well, the plot of land that will become our house. Our forever home in the Catskills, where Marcus can write his novels in peace and I can create spaces that make people fall in love with living.

"I'm ready," I tell him, though I'm still in my silk pajama set, my natural curls wrapped in a satin scarf. "Just let me grab a quick shower."

Marcus crosses the room and wraps his arms around me from behind, pressing a kiss to my temple. He smells like his expensive cologne and morning coffee, familiar and comforting. "You know this is really happening, right? Our dream house. Our future."

I lean back into his chest, letting myself sink into this moment. This is what I've wanted since I was seven years old, sketching floor plans in the margins of my school notebooks. A home that's entirely mine—ours—built from the ground up with love and intention.

"I know," I whisper, and I do. I really do.

An hour later, I'm standing in what will someday be our living room, but right now it's just a cleared patch of earth surrounded by towering pines. The October air is crisp against my skin, and I've wrapped myself in my favorite oversized cardigan—the one in burnt orange that Marcus says makes my eyes look like liquid gold.

"So the main structure will face southeast," Marcus is saying to our architect, gesturing toward the slope that leads down to the small lake. "We want to maximize the natural light in the morning."

I'm only half-listening because I'm busy imagining. Kitchen island here, with pendant lights that cast warm pools of light. Built-in bookshelves there, filled with Marcus's first editions and my collection of design books. A reading nook by the window where I can drink my morning tea and watch the seasons change.

"Ms. Moore?"

The voice cuts through my reverie, and I turn to find a man watching me with pale blue eyes that seem to see straight through me. This must be Luke Halvorsen, the architect Marcus found through some connection at the magazine where he works. I've seen his portfolio—all clean lines and modern angles, glass and steel and spaces that feel more like art installations than homes.

He's taller than I expected, probably six-two, with sandy blond hair that looks like he's run his fingers through it and forgot to fix it. His skin is pale in that way that suggests he spends more time indoors than out, and he's wearing all black—black jeans, black sweater, black boots. Even his notebook is black.

"I asked what your vision is for the interior flow," he says, and there's something in his tone that makes my spine straighten. Not rude, exactly, but... dismissive? Like he's already decided I'm going to be difficult.

"Well," I start, smoothing my hands down my dark jeans, "I'm thinking we open up the main living areas. No walls between the kitchen and living room. I want it to feel like one big, welcoming space where people naturally gather."

Luke's pen hovers over his notebook. "That's not structurally sound given the load-bearing requirements of the second floor."

"I'm not asking you to remove load-bearing walls," I say, my voice getting that edge it gets when someone assumes I don't know what I'm talking about. "I'm talking about creating sight lines and flow. There are ways to support the structure without boxing people into separate rooms."

His eyebrows lift slightly, and I catch Marcus shooting me a look that says play nice. But I'm not being difficult. I'm being thorough. This is my house, my sanctuary, and I'll be damned if I let some brooding architect turn it into a sterile museum.

"The preliminary plans call for a more traditional layout," Luke says, flipping through his notebook. "Separate dining room, closed-off kitchen, defined living spaces."

"Those are your preliminary plans," I point out. "Not mine."

Something flickers in those pale eyes—surprise, maybe? Or irritation. It's hard to tell with him. "I was hired to design a functional family home, not a warehouse."

"And I was hired to make it beautiful," I shoot back. "Open concept doesn't mean warehouse. It means family meals that don't isolate the cook. It means being able to watch kids play while you're prepping dinner. It means—"

"We don't have kids," Marcus interrupts gently, stepping closer to me. "Maybe we should focus on what we actually need right now."

The words sting more than they should. We've talked about kids, of course. Someday. When his career is more established, when I've built my client base, when we're settled. Always someday.

"Right," I say, forcing a smile. "Of course."

But Luke is still watching me, and I have the unsettling feeling that he heard everything I didn't say. That he knows the someday conversation is more complicated than Marcus makes it sound.

"What about the kitchen?" Luke asks, and I'm grateful for the subject change. "I assume you have strong opinions about that too."

"I do." I pull out my phone and show him the inspiration photos I've been collecting for months. "I want a large island for prep work and casual dining. Quartz countertops, but not the stark white kind—something with movement and warmth. And I want open shelving mixed with upper cabinets."

Luke glances at the photos, then back at me. "Open shelving requires constant maintenance. Everything on display has to be perfectly organized at all times."

"That's not a problem for me."

"It's a problem for resale value."

I blink. "We're not planning to sell. This is our forever home."

"Everyone says that," Luke replies, making notes in his little black book. "But circumstances change. Divorce, job loss, death—"

"Jesus, Luke," Marcus laughs, but it sounds forced. "Way to kill the mood."

Luke doesn't apologize. He just continues scribbling, his pen moving in quick, efficient strokes. I watch his hands—they're long and elegant, with calluses on the fingertips that suggest he does more than just draw pretty pictures. There's a thin scar running along his left forearm, disappearing under his sleeve.

"I'm not trying to be pessimistic," he says without looking up. "I'm being practical. Good design accounts for multiple scenarios."

"Good design also accounts for how people actually want to live," I counter. "Not just how they might want to sell."

This time he does look up, and I catch something in his expression before he shutters it away. "And how do you want to live, Ms. Moore?"

The question is simple, but the way he asks it—quiet, direct, like he actually wants to know—makes my breath catch. I'm suddenly aware of how close we're standing, how the afternoon light catches the silver threads in his pale eyes.

"I want to live joyfully," I say, and I mean it. "I want a home that feels alive. Where people laugh and cook and make messes and clean them up together. Where there's always music playing and plants growing and room for spontaneous dinner parties."

Luke's pen has stopped moving. He's just looking at me now, and I feel heat creep up my neck under his scrutiny.

"That's a lot of pressure for four walls and a roof," he says finally.

"Maybe for someone who doesn't believe in magic."

"I believe in engineering."

"Of course you do." I can't keep the exasperation out of my voice. "Let me guess—you probably think throw pillows are frivolous and candles are fire hazards."

"Throw pillows are uncomfortable and candles are fire hazards."

Marcus clears his throat. "Okay, maybe we should table the philosophical differences and focus on the timeline. When can we break ground?"

But I'm not ready to let this go. This man is going to design my home, and if he thinks joy is impractical, we're going to have problems.

"What's the point of a house if it doesn't make you happy?" I ask Luke. "If it's just a structure, just function without feeling?"

"The point," he says, closing his notebook with a snap, "is shelter. Everything else is decoration."

The word hits me like a slap. Decoration. As if everything I do, everything I love, everything I've built my career on, is just superficial nonsense.

"Right," I say, my voice carefully controlled. "Well, I guess we'll just have to agree to disagree on that one."

Marcus is looking between us like he's watching a tennis match, and I realize we've been standing here arguing for ten minutes about philosophy instead of discussing square footage and budgets.

"So," Marcus says, clearly trying to steer us back on track, "the timeline?"

Luke reopens his notebook, all business again. "Six months for plans and permits. Another eight to ten for construction, depending on weather and whether your decorator here decides she wants to move any more walls."

Your decorator. Not even interior designer. Decorator.

"My stylist," I correct him. "Interior stylist. There's a difference."

"Is there?"

The question is casual, but there's something underneath it that makes my jaw clench. Like he's testing me. Like he assumes I'm just another client's girlfriend who watches too much HGTV and thinks she knows about design.

"Interior decorators work with existing spaces," I explain, my voice steady despite the irritation thrumming through me. "They choose furniture and fabrics and artwork. Interior designers alter layouts and work with architects during construction. Interior stylists do both, but we specialize in creating cohesive visual narratives that reflect how people actually live."

Luke's eyebrows rise slightly. "Visual narratives."

"Yes. The story a space tells about the people who inhabit it."

"And what story is this space going to tell?"

I glance around the empty lot, at the trees and the distant lake and the mountains rising beyond. At Marcus, who's checking his phone and probably thinking about the article he needs to finish before his deadline. At this stranger who seems determined to build us a beautiful prison.

"I don't know yet," I admit. "But I'll know it when I see it."

Luke studies me for a long moment, then makes another note. "Fair enough. I'll have initial concepts to you by next week."

"Looking forward to it," I say, though I'm not sure I mean it.

As we walk back to the car, Marcus slips his arm around my waist. "That went well," he says, and I can tell he's trying to convince himself as much as me.

"Did it?"

"You two just need to find your rhythm. He's supposed to be one of the best architects in the Hudson Valley. Very exclusive client list."

I nod, but I'm thinking about those pale eyes and the way Luke looked at me when I talked about living joyfully. Like he couldn't quite understand what I meant. Like joy was a foreign concept.

"He thinks I'm frivolous," I say as Marcus opens the car door for me.

"He thinks you're passionate. There's a difference."

Maybe. But as we drive away from what will someday be our home, I can't shake the feeling that Luke Halvorsen and I are going to clash over a lot more than open shelving and load-bearing walls.

The man clearly doesn't believe in magic.

Good thing I have enough for both of us.