Connor Hayes should have been in his truck, hands finally off the tools, mind finally off the day. Instead he stood outside a restaurant that looked like it belonged to people who never had to scrub conduit glue off their fingers.

His phone lit up again.

Tyler: You better show up, Connor. She’s perfect for you.

Connor stared at the message until the glow dulled. He smelled like copper wire and drywall dust from running electrical all day at the downtown office building. A tear tugged at the collar of his shirt where it had caught on a conduit bracket, like the world had tried to snag him and keep him right where he was.

He’d already canceled twice. Once because his dad’s pharmacy bill hit the mailbox like a brick. Once because he’d gotten home too late and too tired and the idea of small talk felt like lifting a beam alone.

Three weeks ago, Tyler had set this up with the confidence of a man who believed romance could be scheduled like a fantasy football draft.

Connor shoved the phone into his pocket and pushed through the restaurant door.

Warmth hit him first. Then the dim light. Candles glowed on every table like little, careful secrets. Soft music tried to be intimate but got swallowed by the layered noise of conversation. Connor paused inside the entrance and scanned for the familiar awkwardness of a blind date: someone sitting too straight, checking their phone too often, holding themselves like they were waiting for judgment.

That’s when he saw her.

Corner table by the window. Auburn hair twisted up neat and tight, navy blazer over a white shirt. She sat alone, staring at her water glass like it might offer a decision if she stared hard enough. Her posture was so straight it looked painful. Then Connor noticed her hand.

Her fingers were wrapped around the glass so hard her knuckles had gone white.

He took one step.

The front door swung open behind him.

Cold air rushed in, sharp as a reprimand. A man in an expensive gray suit walked past Connor fast, too fast, like he was trying to arrive somewhere before someone changed their mind about letting him in. He scanned the room and his eyes locked on the woman at the corner table.

He walked straight to her.

“Jenna,” he said.

His smile stretched wide but didn’t reach his eyes. It was the kind of smile people used when they thought a room was a chessboard and everyone else was still learning how the pieces moved.

The woman stood. She didn’t smile back. She offered her hand like they were closing a business deal.

“Lawrence.”

Connor’s stomach dropped.

He knew that name. Not personally, but in the way a lot of working people know certain names. The way you know a storm is coming before you see the clouds because your bones start to ache.

Lawrence Hartwell. Commercial real estate investor. The kind of guy who bought buildings people loved and turned them into something nobody needed. Tyler had mentioned him before, in the tone he reserved for men who treated pressure like a hobby.

Lawrence sat without waiting for Jenna to sit first. Jenna sat slowly, controlled, like she refused to let his tempo become hers.

Lawrence slid a thick manila folder across the table. It landed right in front of her water glass with a finality that sounded like a door closing.

“Let’s keep this simple,” Lawrence said, voice smooth like he’d practiced it in the mirror. “You sell me the Riverside property tonight. We sign. I make all your headaches disappear.”

Jenna’s thumb rubbed the edge of the folder. Small movements. Repetitive. Not panic.

Focus.

“I’m not selling,” she said.

Lawrence’s smile stayed glued on.

“Then you’re choosing the hard way.”

“I’m choosing my way.”

Lawrence leaned closer. His voice dropped low, and Connor had to strain to catch it over the restaurant’s soft clatter.

“Permits missing. Deliveries delayed. Delays that cost you thousands a week. None of it’s personal, Jenna. It’s just how things work.”

Jenna’s smile had no warmth in it. “You don’t chase people this hard unless you want something they won’t give you.”

Lawrence’s eyes sharpened. Then he noticed Connor still standing near the entrance, frozen between leaving and stepping in.

Lawrence tilted his head like he’d spotted an old tool he’d once used.

“Connor Hayes,” he said. Surprise, almost pleased. “Small world.”

Connor didn’t answer right away.

He looked at Jenna instead. At her controlled face. At her knuckles still pale around the glass. At the folder that sat there like a threat wearing office stationery.

Connor walked over. His boots were loud on the wood floor, announcing him before his voice did. His heart didn’t race. It settled, steady, the way it did when he was about to fix something that could hurt someone if it stayed broken.

He didn’t look at Lawrence. He looked at Jenna.

“Does he even know what you actually want?” Connor asked her.

His voice was quiet, but it cut clean.

Jenna’s eyes narrowed just a fraction. Warning.

Then they steadied. “This isn’t the place, Connor.”

Lawrence’s smile tightened. “This isn’t the place,” he echoed, like he owned the phrase. “I’m conducting business.”

Jenna set the folder down slowly, like she was setting down a weapon she didn’t want to use yet. “This is exactly the place,” she said. “Because you like witnesses.”

Lawrence forced a laugh, a sound that tried to be casual and landed sharp. “Fine. Witnesses. Here’s the deal.”

He tapped the folder.

Connor caught the header: NOTICE OF LIEN.

“You’ve got three days to counter,” Lawrence said, “or I file.”

Jenna didn’t touch it.

Connor reached over and flipped it open just enough to see the numbers. Then he closed it again, careful not to let Lawrence see his reaction.

“These numbers don’t match the work,” Connor said.

Lawrence’s grin turned ugly, like the mask slipping. “That’s between me and Jenna.”

Jenna stood. “We’re done.”

Lawrence didn’t move.

“Not even a counteroffer?” Jenna asked, voice flat.

“I’ll see you in court,” she continued, as if the words were already signed.

Lawrence’s eyes gleamed. “You’ll see me before that.”

Jenna didn’t flinch. She picked up her bag and walked toward the door.

Connor followed.

Outside, the air was cold and damp. Mist hung around the streetlights like something trying to hide. Jenna stopped under a lamp and exhaled like she’d been holding her breath since Lawrence sat down.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” she said.

Connor rubbed his thumb over the callus on his palm, a habit when he didn’t want to show nerves. “I couldn’t watch him corner you.”

“He wasn’t cornering me.” Jenna’s eyes were hard now. “He was checking if I’d fold. And I didn’t.”

A beat.

Then her voice softened, just enough to let the gratitude through without losing the armor. “Thank you.”

The restaurant door opened again. A man stepped out, older, silver hair, suit that actually fit. His eyes looked like they’d read a thousand contracts and never been impressed by any of them.

Morris Klene.

Connor recognized him from a construction lawsuit Tyler had told him about last year. Morris was the attorney who didn’t raise his voice and still made grown men sweat.

Morris joined them without drama. He didn’t introduce himself. He didn’t ask permission. He simply arrived, like an inevitable fact.

“Lawrence approached you here,” Morris said. “That’s not a question.”

“Yes,” Jenna replied.

Morris’s jaw flexed. “All right. We pivot.”

Jenna turned to Connor.

“Connor, I need you on site at the Riverside building tomorrow morning. Seven sharp.”

Connor blinked. “What?”

“And I need the truth every time,” Jenna continued, “even when it’s ugly.”

Morris nodded as if Jenna had just read his mind. “Documentation. Photos. Timestamps. Receipts. If something feels off, don’t assume it’s a mistake.”

Jenna’s gaze stayed forward. She stared down the street, but Connor had the sense she wasn’t seeing pavement or headlights. She was seeing how a man like Lawrence worked. How he slid influence into corners and called it normal.

“Lawrence watches everything I do,” Jenna said.

Connor nodded once. “Then we stop giving him fog to hide in.”

Jenna looked at him then, really looked. “You don’t owe me anything, Connor.”

“Maybe not,” Connor said, “but I don’t like men who win by breaking things.”

Morris pulled out a business card and handed it to Connor. “Tomorrow. Seven. Don’t be late.”

He walked to a black sedan parked down the street.

Jenna watched him go.

“Why me?” Connor asked.

Jenna finally looked tired for a second, like the posture she’d held all evening had weight. “Because Tyler said you’re the kind of person who finishes what they start. And because Lawrence doesn’t know you’re coming.”

She walked to her own car, a dark blue sedan with a dent in the passenger door, and drove away without looking back.

Connor stood under the streetlight holding Morris’s business card.

His phone buzzed.

Tyler: How’d it go?

Connor stared at the address printed under Morris’s name. Then he texted back.

Connor: Weird. I’ll explain later.

He didn’t sleep much that night.

He kept thinking about Jenna’s white knuckles on that folder. About Lawrence’s smile when he said she’d see him before court. About the way Jenna’s gratitude had slipped out like a small truth she didn’t let people see often.

At 6:30 a.m., Connor was already in his truck.

The Riverside building was only ten minutes away, but he wanted to be early. Early meant control. Early meant you got to see the problem before the problem saw you.

The building looked worse than he expected.

Three stories of old red brick that had seen better decades. Half the windows were boarded. The front door was propped open with a cinder block, like it had given up on pretending it could keep anyone out.

From the parking lot, Connor could smell old concrete and wet wood. The kind of smell that meant time and water had been doing damage while nobody watched.

Connor grabbed his tool belt and stepped inside.

The first floor was a disaster.

Warped studs. Stair framing that looked like it had been built by someone who skipped the chapter on load-bearing. Cheap bolts where structural fasteners should have been. Connor crouched near a support beam and ran his hand along the base.

The wood was soft.

Not just old. Not just rotting.

Soft in a way that felt… assisted.

This wasn’t normal wear.

This was neglect, or sabotage.

“You’re early.”

Jenna’s voice came from behind him.

Connor turned.

She wore dark jeans and work boots, flannel shirt rolled up to her elbows. Her hair was still twisted up, but looser now, like she’d allowed the day to take a little of her control. Blueprints were tucked under one arm.

“So are you,” Connor said.

She stepped closer, set the blueprints on a sawhorse. “Show me.”

Connor walked her through it, pointing with a pencil, tapping with his knuckle where it mattered. Headers that weren’t bearing weight. Studs not anchored. Electrical work that would get someone banned from holding a screwdriver.

“This isn’t just sloppy,” Connor said. “It’s dangerous.”

Jenna didn’t argue. She asked questions. The right questions.

“Can we fix it?”

“Yes,” Connor said, “but it’s going to take time. We need temporary shoring. Adjustable steel posts to take the load off until we can replace the beam.”

“Do it.” Jenna flipped open a notebook like she’d been waiting for the word. “I’ve been tracking expenses. The invoices don’t match the deliveries. Hardware, treated lumber, structural fasteners… all short.”

Connor’s jaw tightened. “That’s not sloppy. That’s theft.”

Jenna’s eyes stayed calm, but something sharpened behind them. “I suspected. That’s why I started watching.”

Connor moved toward the security conduit near the wall. The conduit was there, but the cable inside was cleanly cut. Not frayed. Not chewed by rodents. Cut with a blade.

“Your cameras are dead,” Connor said.

Jenna didn’t flinch. “Lawrence had them cut before you came on the job.”

Connor exhaled through his nose. “Then how do we prove anything?”

Jenna opened her bag and pulled out a small camouflage case. Inside was a trail camera, the kind hunters strapped to trees.

“Battery powered,” she said. “Motion activated. I installed it behind the old service elevator. Corner blind spot. I didn’t tell Morris yet.”

Connor gave her a slow nod. Respect rose in his chest, not the kind that came from admiration alone but from recognition. Jenna wasn’t helpless. She was strategic. She was building a fight the way Connor built structures: with supports, with redundancies, with evidence that could hold weight.

“Good,” Connor said. “Keep it quiet.”

They worked all morning.

Connor ran laser level lines. Jenna checked moisture readings with a meter Connor hadn’t known she owned. They built the shoring square: steel posts, tight brace plates, everything documented with photos and timestamps.

At nine, Connor’s apprentice, Jake, showed up with lumber. He took one look at Jenna and raised his eyebrows at Connor like he was watching a plot twist.

Connor ignored him. Jake could be curious later. Today was about keeping a building and a woman from being crushed by a man who called himself a businessman.

At noon, Jenna set two sandwich boxes on a plank across sawhorses. Pastrami on rye. Turkey on wheat.

“That’s… specific,” Connor said.

“It’s efficient,” Jenna replied, expression unreadable.

They ate standing in sawdust and weak sunlight through dirty windows. The building still looked like chaos, but now it was the kind of chaos with a plan.

By the end of the week, they had a rhythm.

Jenna brought coffee every morning. Black for Connor, almond milk in hers. Then, without either of them acknowledging the shift, almond milk started showing up in Connor’s truck. A carton tucked in the cooler, like a quiet vote of trust.

Small things stacked into routine.

Her reading glasses ended up in Connor’s console. A spare tape measure lived on his dash. A box of zip ties appeared in Jenna’s bag because she saw the crew run low and refused to let them lose momentum over something that cheap.

Late Friday night, Connor stayed to fix a door hinge. The building was empty. Just Connor and the sound of wind rattling boarded windows.

As he tightened the screws, a sharp sting hit his thumb. Splinter.

“Sit down.”

Jenna stood in the doorway. Connor hadn’t heard her come in.

“I’m fine,” Connor said automatically.

Her tone didn’t rise. It simply pinned him. “Connor. Seat.”

He sat on the workbench.

Jenna walked over with a small metal case. Tweezers. Antiseptic. Bandages.

“Architect school?” Connor asked, trying to lighten it.

“Model making,” Jenna replied. “Balsa wood is brutal.”

She turned Connor’s hand palm up, leaned in, fingers steady. She pinched the splinter and pulled it free with one quick tug. Then she dabbed antiseptic like she was sealing a promise: careful, thorough, done.

“Thank you,” Connor said.

Jenna didn’t let go right away. Her thumb brushed his palm once, brief grounding. Then she stepped back like she’d reset a line she didn’t want to cross by accident.

“We pull the trail camera footage tonight,” she said.

Her voice was steady again, but Connor saw the tension at the corners of her mouth. The fight was real. It was costing her sleep. It was costing her breath.

They waited until the building was completely empty. Jenna retrieved the camera from behind the service elevator and slid the memory card into her laptop.

The screen filled with clips.

Nighttime motion triggers. Shadows. Rats. Dust.

Then Lawrence appeared.

Not a worker. Not an inspector.

Lawrence himself, wearing a dark coat and a baseball cap pulled low. He walked straight to their shoring wall like he knew exactly where the weak point was.

He crouched, unscrewed a brace plate, slid it into his coat pocket.

Then he stood and smiled.

Not big. Just a crooked half-lift.

Like a man who’d just played a winning card.

Jenna’s voice went thin. “He’s trying to make your work fail.”

“He’s trying to make someone get hurt,” Connor said.

Jenna clicked to another clip. A man Connor didn’t recognize swapped structural bolts for shorter ones. Lawrence stood in the background watching, hands in pockets, like he was supervising a crime the way some people supervised landscaping.

Jenna sat back slowly. “He’ll call it fake.”

“Then we stack proof,” Connor said. “Supply chain records. Warehouse footage.”

Jenna’s eyes sharpened. “Hartwell Supply.”

Connor nodded. “Lawrence’s own warehouse.”

Jenna grabbed her phone. “I’m calling Morris.”

Morris arrived at Riverside the next morning. He ended a phone call the second he saw Connor and Jenna standing at the sawhorse with the laptop open.

Jenna handed him a thumb drive with the trail camera footage. Morris plugged it in and watched Lawrence unscrew the brace plate. His face didn’t change, but when Lawrence’s half-smile appeared on screen, Morris’s jaw flexed hard.

“Good,” Morris said. “This is strong. Now we make it undeniable.”

Morris had a friend at Hartwell Supply: Eddie Campos, the night manager. A favor owed from a workers’ comp case.

By midday, they were walking into the massive concrete warehouse on the edge of the industrial district. Loading docks. Forklifts beeping. Fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. Diesel and cardboard thick in the air.

Eddie met them at the security office, nervous but willing. Morris didn’t waste breath.

“We need loading bay footage last three weeks after hours,” Morris said, “and access logs under your credentials.”

Eddie hesitated. “That’s sensitive information.”

Morris’s tone stayed flat. “You’re about to be subpoenaed. I’m giving you the chance to be on the right side before corporate makes you the scapegoat.”

Eddie swallowed and logged in.

Three weeks back.

There it was.

Lawrence’s black sedan rolling into Bay 2 at 11:34 p.m. Lawrence stepping out. A worker in a Hartwell uniform handing him a cardboard box. Badge swipe visible. Timestamp clear.

“Print that,” Morris said. “Export the clip. Highlight the access log entry.”

Eddie did everything. Printed stills. Exported footage. Saved logs.

Morris slid him a business card. “If anyone pressures you, call me immediately.”

Eddie pocketed it like it was a life vest.

They walked out with a chain of evidence.

Trail camera footage. Surveillance video. Access logs. Stills. Timestamps.

In the parking lot, Jenna exhaled like she’d been holding the weight of the building in her lungs.

“Finally,” she whispered.

Morris’s eyes stayed hard. “Now we set the trap.”

Two days later, a city inspector showed up at Riverside.

Connor was unloading treated lumber with Jake when a white truck pulled in, city seal on the door. A man stepped out with a clipboard and the kind of face that said he’d already decided what he wanted to find.

Jenna arrived at the same time, swapped her heels for boots in the parking lot, tied her hair back tight.

She leaned toward Connor. “He’s not our usual contact.”

“Then we treat him like a stranger with power,” Connor murmured.

The inspector introduced himself as Torres and immediately started pointing.

“Electrical. Temporary supports. Dust control. Stop-work order is on the table if I see violations,” he said.

Jake stiffened. The foreman muttered something under his breath.

Connor held up a hand. Silent command. Calm wins.

“Understood,” Connor said. “Walk with me.”

Connor led Torres through the site like he was giving a tour, not begging for mercy. Permits taped to the wall in plastic sleeves. Load ratings stamped on the steel posts. The shoring wall labeled, numbered, documented in a binder Jenna had built with the intensity of someone assembling armor.

Jenna stayed two steps behind, phone out. Not filming faces. Filming evidence. Posted permits. Torres’s clipboard. The timestamp on her lock screen.

Strategy in plain sight.

Torres stopped at the second-floor bay and tried to frown at the shoring.

“Who designed this support system?” he asked.

“I did,” Connor replied. “Based on the structural engineer’s recommendations. I can pull the engineer’s letter if you want it.”

Torres blinked. “You have an engineer’s letter?”

Connor nodded. “Because we don’t guess with load.”

Jenna cut in, calm. “We can email it to you while you’re here.”

Torres assessed her, softened a fraction. “All right. Show me dust mitigation.”

Connor showed him plastic sheeting, a box fan with a filter, negative pressure setup. Fire extinguishers. First aid station. Everything Torres tried to poke, Connor had already reinforced.

By the front door, Torres paused. “You’ve been reported multiple times.”

Jenna didn’t flinch. “By who?”

Torres hesitated.

Connor nodded like he’d expected it. “Let me guess. The reports started after we replaced the original contractor.”

Torres didn’t answer, but his silence did.

Jenna’s voice stayed even. “If you get another report, Inspector Torres, call my attorney directly. Morris Klene.”

Torres’s eyebrows jumped. He handed Jenna a slip of paper. “No stop-work order. But keep your documentation tight.”

“We will,” Connor said.

When the truck drove off, Jake exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for an hour.

Jenna turned to Connor. “That was Lawrence.”

“Yeah,” Connor said. “He’s trying to drain you with friction.”

Jenna’s mouth tightened. “Then we out-document him.”

That afternoon, Jenna proved she wasn’t just writing checks. She walked the site with a label maker and punch list. Photographed serial numbers on hardware boxes. Delivery tags on treated lumber. Stamped grade marks on every structural beam.

Jake watched, baffled. “What are you doing?”

Jenna didn’t look up. “Building a timeline.”

Connor watched her work, precise and relentless and quiet. Something settled in his chest. Not pity. Not the urge to rescue.

Respect.

The next day, a man Connor didn’t recognize showed up. Clean jacket. Expensive boots. He leaned against the doorway like he belonged, looked at Jenna, looked at Connor, smiled without warmth.

“Connor Hayes,” he said. “Name’s Blake. I work with Lawrence.”

Connor didn’t shake his hand. “What do you want?”

Blake shrugged. “Just making sure the work is up to standard.”

Jenna’s gaze sharpened. “You’re not an inspector.”

“No,” Blake said, eyes staying on her too long, “but I’m paid to notice things.”

Connor stepped forward, not aggressive, just enough to block Blake’s view of Jenna. Calm authority.

“You notice this?” Connor said. “You’re trespassing. Leave now or I call the police and file a report.”

Blake laughed. “You think cops care about a renovation site?”

Jenna’s voice stayed steady. “Cops care about a man who keeps showing up where he isn’t welcome.”

Blake’s smile thinned. He looked at Connor again, then backed off with a lazy shrug. “Fine. But tell Jenna to read her mail.”

He walked away.

Jenna’s fingers tightened around her clipboard.

“He’s pushing,” Connor said. “He wants you reactive.”

Jenna lifted her chin. “Then we stay quiet and lethal.”

“Legally,” Connor said dryly.

Jenna gave the faintest smile. “Legally.”

That night, Morris called.

“Lawrence filed a second lien notice,” he said. “It’s garbage, but it’s meant to scare your lender.”

Jenna’s voice was calm. “What do we do?”

Morris answered like a man who never panicked. “We do what you’ve been doing. We show proof. We remove doubt. And we keep you out of private confrontations.”

Jenna’s gaze flicked to Connor.

“No private confrontations,” Connor agreed.

“If Lawrence corners you again,” Morris continued, “you call me. If he corners you on site, Connor calls the police and gets a report number. We stack real-world barriers so no one can ask why you didn’t just leave. We make leaving a documented action.”

After the call, Jenna stayed late. She sat on an upturned bucket while Connor measured a stair stringer.

“You’re not required to be here,” Connor told her.

Jenna didn’t look up from her notes. “I’m not required. I’m invested.”

Then, softer: “Lawrence keeps trying to make me feel like this building is a mistake. Like I’m foolish for wanting something that’s mine.”

Connor kept his hands steady on the tape measure. “He’s scared.”

Jenna looked up. “Of what?”

“Of you,” Connor said, “when you’re not tired.”

Her eyes held his a beat too long. The air shifted, quiet and charged. Connor set the tape down carefully, like the moment could snap if handled wrong.

“Connor,” Jenna said, voice low, “why are you doing this?”

It wasn’t about shoring walls anymore.

Connor met her gaze. “Because he doesn’t get to rewrite your reality. And because I don’t like men who win by breaking things.”

Jenna swallowed, nodded once, accepting it. Then, because she was Jenna, she reached for practicality like it was a railing.

“Tomorrow,” she said, “we replace the compromised joist line before the weather turns.”

Connor smiled a little. “Yes, ma’am.”

Her brows lifted. “Don’t call me that.”

The tension didn’t disappear. It sharpened into something useful.

Two nights later, the storm hit.

Wind first, low and relentless. Then rain in sheets that hammered the brick. Connor’s phone buzzed at eleven.

Jenna: Riverside. Something’s wrong.

Connor was in his truck before the second ring ended.

Jenna stood under the awning when he pulled up, coat pulled tight, hair damp, face pale but controlled.

“The second floor bay,” she said. “I heard a crack.”

Connor grabbed his headlamp and ran inside.

The building groaned under the wind. Rain rattled tall windows. Every gust made old beams complain.

On the second floor, Connor’s light hit the shoring wall.

A brace plate was missing.

One steel post leaned just enough to spike Connor’s pulse.

“Back,” Connor snapped.

Jenna stepped away but didn’t run. She planted near the stairwell, phone ready.

Connor dropped to his knees, braced the post with his shoulder, shoved a wedge under the base. His fingers found hardware: field spares he’d insisted on ordering. The storm slammed the windows again. A sharp crack overhead.

Wood flexing under stress.

“Can you fix it?” Jenna asked, voice tight.

“I’m fixing it,” Connor said, driving screws fast until his wrist burned.

Jenna was there instantly, holding her phone beam exactly where he needed it. No panic. No shaking hands. Just light, steady, like she’d decided fear didn’t get a vote.

Connor tightened the last screw until it bit.

He eased his shoulder away.

The post held.

The wall stayed square.

“You just saved my building,” Jenna whispered.

“No,” Connor said. “We did.”

A slam echoed from below like a door thrown open. Footsteps, fast.

Jenna’s eyes flicked to Connor’s. “Someone’s inside.”

Connor moved first, stepping in front of her. His headlamp cut down the stairwell.

A figure climbed.

Dark coat. Moving like he knew the layout.

Lawrence.

He looked up and froze when he saw them. Then his mouth curled and his hands slid into his pockets like he was taking a casual stroll through someone else’s life.

“Jenna,” Lawrence said. “You really shouldn’t be here.”

Jenna’s spine went iron. “Neither should you.”

Lawrence’s gaze slid to Connor. “Still playing hero, Connor.”

“You cut the shoring,” Connor said.

Lawrence shrugged. “Old buildings. Accidents happen.”

Jenna’s voice snapped sharp. “You’re on camera.”

Lawrence’s smile paused. Just a breath. Then he recovered. “What camera?”

Jenna raised her phone. “A steady one.”

Lawrence’s eyes flicked to it too quick. Then he stepped back, recalculating. “Go home,” he said smoothly. “Sign tomorrow. Save yourself the trouble.”

Jenna stepped forward half a pace. “Selling now isn’t peace, Lawrence. It’s letting you win.”

Lawrence’s jaw twitched. “You think you can beat me with lines like that?”

“No,” Jenna said. “I beat you with proof.”

For a moment, Lawrence’s face looked like it forgot how to smile.

Then he turned and bolted.

Connor chased.

Boots slipped on wet steps, but Lawrence hit the first floor fast, slammed through a door into the storm. A sedan roared. Tires spun. Tail lights vanished into rain.

Connor stood in the doorway, chest heaving, soaked through.

Jenna came up behind him and touched his arm. “Are you hurt?”

Connor looked down. Scraped knuckles. Blood mixing with rain.

“It’s nothing,” he said.

Her gaze held his. “Don’t lie to me.”

“It’s a scrape,” Connor admitted.

Satisfied, Jenna stepped closer. The storm noise faded into background.

“Tell me to stop,” she said, voice barely above the rain.

Consent, clear and trembling, offered like a truth she couldn’t swallow back.

Connor shook his head. “I won’t.”

Jenna kissed him hard.

Honest collision, like the storm stripped away every excuse they’d been using as shelter. Her hands gripped his shirt at the waist. Connor held her back, steady, protective, careful not to turn the moment into something that took from her instead of meeting her.

When she pulled away, her eyes were clear.

“That doesn’t shift the facts,” Jenna said.

“No,” Connor replied. “It shifts the stakes.”

“Good,” Jenna whispered, and the word sounded like a vow.

The next day, Morris called an emergency meeting at the bank.

Plain room. Harsh lighting. A bank representative. Two city inspectors. Morris. Jenna. Connor.

And, because Morris had predicted Lawrence couldn’t resist his own spotlight, Lawrence walked in ten minutes late, suit perfect, smile practiced.

He saw Jenna and Connor sitting side by side. His eyes tightened for half a second, then smoothed.

Morris stood.

“We’re here because the delays at Riverside weren’t mismanagement,” he said. “They were interference.”

Lawrence laughed. “Come on, Morris.”

Morris clicked a remote.

The screen lit up.

Trail camera footage: Lawrence entering Riverside after hours, removing brace hardware, pocketing it, smiling.

Silence dropped so hard it felt like gravity.

Lawrence leaned forward. “That’s fake.”

Morris didn’t blink. “Battery-powered trail camera installed by Jenna. Not connected to the building network. No system to tamper with.”

Jenna’s voice was calm. “And you recommended the original contractor.”

Morris clicked again.

Surveillance video: Lawrence’s sedan at Bay 2. 11:34 p.m. Worker handing him a box. Badge swipe visible. Timestamp visible.

Morris held up printed stills and highlighted access logs. “Exported by Eddie Campos under his own credentials.”

One inspector leaned in. “What was in the box?”

“Structural hardware,” Connor said. “Brace plates. Heavy-duty fasteners.”

Lawrence snapped, “You can’t prove intent.”

Morris opened a folder and slid printed screenshots across the table.

Messages from a burner number to the previous contractor. Payment transfers. And one line that made the room go cold:

Make it look like his work fails.

Lawrence’s face drained of color like someone had unplugged his confidence.

The bank representative’s voice went flat. “Mr. Hartwell, you’re done here.”

Lawrence stood too fast. Chair scraping.

His eyes locked on Jenna. “You think you’ve won?”

Jenna met him without blinking. “I think you finally lost.”

Lawrence’s gaze flicked to Connor, disgust sharp. “This is what you chose. A contractor.”

Jenna answered instantly. “I chose the man who builds, not the man who takes.”

Lawrence’s mouth twisted. He stormed out.

Morris didn’t celebrate. He simply said, “We file the injunction today.”

Weeks passed.

Riverside kept standing.

Connor’s crew rebuilt what Lawrence tried to weaken. Damaged members replaced. Framing corrected. Electrical work redone properly. Every step documented. Jenna stayed present, not hovering, not helpless. She moved through the site with purpose, her competence quiet but constant.

One afternoon, Jenna climbed down from a ladder, sawdust on her sleeve, and looked at Connor with a faint smirk.

“You’re not simple,” she said.

Connor pretended to be offended. “Is that a complaint?”

“No,” she replied. “I used to think simple was the goal. Now I want clear. I want solid. The kind of life you can lean your weight on.”

Connor stepped closer. “Tell me to stop.”

Jenna shook her head once, slower than the storm had been, more deliberate. “I won’t.”

They kissed again, not desperate now. Not a collision.

A choice.

When they pulled apart, Jenna said, “We still have to finish the stairwell.”

Connor laughed. “Yes, Jenna.”

The day the inspectors signed off, Morris handed Jenna an envelope.

“Clear,” he said. “No liens. Injunction holds. Lawrence’s lawyer requested time, but he’s bleeding options.”

Jenna scanned the paperwork, then closed it like sealing a chapter. She looked at Morris. “Thank you.”

Morris nodded, then looked at Connor. “Good work, Connor.”

Connor nodded back. “So was yours.”

Morris left.

Sunlight filled the space through tall windows. The building felt steady now, like it could breathe. Jenna turned to Connor.

“Do you know what makes me happy?” she asked.

Connor studied her face. Controlled, but no longer clenched.

“The building standing?” he guessed.

“Yes,” Jenna said.

“Proof in your hand?”

“Yes.”

“Sleep?” Connor added.

Jenna laughed, real and brief and sincere. “Also yes.”

Connor stepped closer. “And what else?”

Jenna’s voice softened. “Someone who doesn’t ask me to shrink.”

Connor’s chest tightened, because it wasn’t romantic fluff. It was the kind of statement you made when you’d been asked to shrink your whole life and finally got tired of folding yourself like a receipt.

“This isn’t a rebound,” Jenna said, almost like she was warning herself.

Connor nodded. “I don’t do rebounds.”

Jenna’s smile warmed. “Good.”

Two months later, they ate sandwiches on the studio floor of Riverside. Furniture hadn’t arrived yet. Pastrami for Connor, turkey for Jenna. Her reading glasses still lived in Connor’s truck. Almond milk still waited in his cooler.

The routine wasn’t a speech.

It was proof.

Jenna leaned her head against Connor’s shoulder.

“He wanted me tired,” she murmured. “Afraid.”

Connor angled his body, giving her a wall to lean on. “And you didn’t give it to him.”

“We didn’t,” Jenna corrected.

She kissed Connor’s jaw, quick and controlled, like punctuation.

“Tomorrow we pick the conference table,” Jenna said.

Connor groaned. “Please don’t tell me it’s another efficient decision.”

Jenna’s smile turned wicked. “It is.”

Connor’s phone lit up.

A message from his dad.

Connor froze.

Jenna noticed instantly. “What’s wrong?”

Connor looked at her, then at the screen.

“My dad just got engaged.”

Jenna blinked. “That’s… good, isn’t it?”

Connor exhaled. “Yeah. Except…”

He turned the phone toward her.

There was a photo.

His father, smiling in a way Connor hadn’t seen in years. And beside him, a woman with auburn hair twisted up neat.

Jenna.

Smiling.

Engaged.

Jenna’s face went pale so fast Connor felt it like a drop in temperature.

“Connor, I…” Jenna stood, backing up, hands shaking. “I didn’t know. I swear I didn’t know you were his son. Your last name… he never mentioned. I never…”

Connor stood too, the room suddenly too small.

“So what now?” Connor asked.

Jenna’s eyes were desperate but honest. No manipulation. No excuses. Just the terrifying weight of consequences.

“I can’t marry him,” Jenna said, voice cracking slightly. “Not after this. Not after us.”

Connor swallowed. “He’s my father.”

“I know,” Jenna whispered, tears threatening but held back by sheer will. “And that’s why I have to handle it right.”

She stepped closer carefully, as if Connor might shatter. She reached for his hand.

“I’ll tell him the truth,” she said. “That I met someone and I can’t go through with it. I won’t tell him it’s you. Not yet. He deserves dignity. You deserve time. But I will end it.”

Connor’s chest felt tight, like a strap pulled too far.

“You’d do that?” Connor asked.

Jenna nodded. “I told you I chose the man who builds. I meant it.”

Her fingers tightened around his. “I’ll handle it. And when the dust settles, if you still want this… if you still want us… I’ll be here.”

Connor pulled her close, pressed his forehead to hers. “No more fog,” he whispered.

“No more fog,” Jenna echoed. “Just truth.”

Three months later, Jenna had ended her engagement with honesty. Not cruelty. Not humiliation. She sat with Connor’s father and told him she couldn’t marry him because her heart was somewhere else. She didn’t expose Connor. She didn’t weaponize the situation to make herself the victim. She told the truth as cleanly as possible, and she took the discomfort that came with it.

Connor expected his father to rage.

But his father surprised him.

He went quiet. He asked questions. He hurt, yes. But he didn’t lash out.

Later, when Connor finally told him everything, his father sat for a long time with his hands folded, looking older than Connor remembered.

Then he sighed.

“I wanted someone who made me feel… less alone,” his father admitted. “I thought she was that. I can’t be angry at her for being honest. And I can’t be angry at you for finding something real.”

Connor’s throat tightened. “Dad…”

His father held up a hand. “If you build your life the way you build your work, son… then it will hold.”

It wasn’t approval wrapped in fireworks.

It was something better.

A man choosing love for his son even while his own disappointment still lived in the room.

On a warm afternoon, Connor and Jenna sat on the finished studio floor of Riverside. The conference table Jenna picked stood in the corner, solid and clean-lined, waiting for the future. Her reading glasses still lived in Connor’s truck. Almond milk still lived in his cooler.

Routine again.

Proof again.

Jenna leaned against Connor. Connor kissed the top of her head.

“We built this,” Jenna whispered.

Connor looked around at brick and sunlight, at clean beams and safe supports, at a place that had survived sabotage and storm.

“Yeah,” Connor said. “We did.”

Jenna’s hand found his. Light. Steady.

“No storm coming,” Jenna murmured.

Connor squeezed once. “Just solid ground built right.”

And for the first time in a long time, Connor believed it.

THE END