Gone Was His Jasmine

“Ethan’s new project listing is about to be closed! It’s for a prime location in the heart of Brooklyn! Aren’t you going to try to fight for it?”

Lisa grabbed my arm firmly.

I took a look at my phone and saw that there were unread messages.

“I’m not going.”

Lisa’s hand trembled with rage, causing her to spill her oat latte onto the table.

“What do you mean you’re not going? That was your design! He robbed you at the award ceremony!” She was yelling at this point. “He’s taking advantage of you!”

“What about it?” I interrupted her lethargically.

Of course, I realized he was taking advantage of me.

Four years ago, we were holed up in a shoebox apartment somewhere in Chinatown, working on a project in the Lower East District. In that place where even the vermin avoided, we spent our days drawing up blueprints.

After we became successful, he became the darling of the New York Times, while I remained unknown. When I tried to fight for at least a bit of credit for the design, he smiled briskly and practically executed me in front of all the shareholders in the conference room.

“Arya, you shouldn’t let your feelings cloud your judgment. It’s very unprofessional.”

He hardly needed to raise his voice to make me come off as the laughingstock of the entire company. I was reduced to a useless doll with a pretty face, trying to climb the corporate ladder by latching onto her boyfriend.

“There are some things he was right about.” I said while looking at Lisa with a vacant look in my eyes, “I’m not cut out for this.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“I’m tired, Lisa.”

When I said that, I felt like I was cutting off the last thing that kept me going. All those dreams we had about winning the Pritzker Prize for architectural design, those vows of leaving a mark on the Manhattan skyline were gone.

The urgent wailing of an ambulance siren filtered through the windows. The sound was slowly fading off into the distance, a metaphor of my symbolic death in the final year of my contract.