Chapter 3: Blueprints and Battle Lines

The grandfather clock in the Vance family foyer chimed three times as Elara spread her architectural drawings across the dining room table with military precision. Every line was perfect, every measurement exact—a testament to the decade she'd spent honing her craft in Chicago's most demanding firms. These blueprints represented everything she'd become: methodical, professional, unshakeable.

She'd changed into her armor—a crisp white button-down and tailored black slacks that screamed competence. Her hair was pulled back in a severe bun, and she'd applied her makeup with the same precision she used for client presentations. If Liam Blackwood thought he could rattle her, he was about to learn otherwise.

The doorbell rang precisely on time, because of course it did. Liam had always been punctual, even at nineteen. Some things, apparently, never changed.

Her mother's voice drifted from the kitchen. "Elara, honey, Liam's here!"

"I've got it," she called back, grateful her parents had conveniently found urgent errands to run. The last thing she needed was her mother offering cookies and small talk while she tried to maintain professional distance.

She opened the door to find Liam on the front porch, work boots scuffed, jeans dusty from the hardware store, a worn leather tool belt slung over his shoulder. He looked exactly like what he was—a small-town contractor—and nothing like the polished architects and developers she usually worked with.

The contrast should have made her feel superior. Instead, it reminded her of summer afternoons when he'd helped her father with various projects, how she'd made excuses to bring them drinks just to watch him work.

"Ms. Vance," he said formally, as if they were strangers.

"Mr. Blackwood." Two could play that game. "Come in."

He followed her to the dining room, his presence filling the familiar space in a way that made the walls seem smaller. She'd forgotten how tall he was, how his shoulders seemed to take up more room than physics should allow.

"These are the plans," she said without preamble, gesturing to the blueprints spread across her mother's polished table. "As you can see, we're opening up the kitchen to create better flow, updating both bathrooms completely, and refinishing the hardwood throughout."

Liam moved to study the drawings, and she caught a whiff of his scent—sawdust and something clean and masculine that made her stomach flip traitorously. She stepped back, putting the table between them like a barrier.

"Interesting approach," he said after a long moment, his tone carefully neutral.

"Meaning?"

"Meaning it's very..." He paused, clearly choosing his words carefully. "Contemporary."

The way he said it made her bristle. "Contemporary is what sells houses, Mr. Blackwood. Open concept, updated fixtures, modern conveniences. That's what buyers want."

"Sure." He straightened, crossing his arms over his chest. "But your parents aren't selling. They're living here for the next six months while they transition to retirement."

"The point is to maximize the home's value—"

"By ripping out everything that makes it theirs?" The question was quiet, but she heard the challenge underneath.

Elara's jaw tightened. "I'm sorry, are you questioning my professional judgment?"

"I'm questioning whether you remember what this house used to mean to you."

The words hit like a slap. How dare he? How dare he stand in her childhood home and presume to lecture her about meaning and memory when he was the one who'd taught her that both were worthless?

"What this house means to me," she said, her voice dropping to the deadly calm tone that made junior architects scramble to fix their mistakes, "is a project that needs to be completed efficiently and effectively. Nothing more."

Something flickered in his eyes—hurt, maybe, or disappointment. Good. She wanted him to hurt the way she had.

"The kitchen renovation alone will take six weeks," he said, returning his attention to the blueprints. "Moving this load-bearing wall requires permits and structural engineering approval. And this bathroom design—" He tapped the paper with one scarred finger. "Won't work. The plumbing lines don't run that way in houses built in the fifties."

"Then we'll reroute them."

"At triple the cost and double the timeline."

"Money isn't an issue."

"Maybe not for you." The words came out harder than he'd probably intended, and she saw him struggle to rein in his temper. "But your parents are on a fixed income now, Elara. They're trying to stretch their retirement savings to cover the Florida move."

She hated that he knew her parents' financial situation. Hated that he'd been here, in their lives, while she'd been building her career in Chicago. Most of all, she hated the way he said her name—not the formal "Ms. Vance" he'd used at the door, but the familiar "Elara" that sounded like coming home.

"I'll cover any overages," she said stiffly.

"Right. Because throwing money at problems always works."

"It works better than making promises you don't keep."

The words hung in the air between them like a loaded gun. She hadn't meant to say it, hadn't meant to crack the professional facade she'd worked so hard to maintain. But the accusation was out now, sharp and cutting and impossible to take back.

Liam went very still. When he looked at her, she saw something dangerous flicker in those blue eyes—not anger, but something deeper and more complicated.

"You want to talk about promises?" His voice was soft, controlled, but she heard the steel underneath. "Fine. Let's talk about promises."

"I don't think—"

"You promised to wait for me that night."

The words hit her like a physical blow. She actually took a step back, her hand finding the edge of the table for support.

"I waited," she whispered, the careful composure cracking. "I waited for hours while you—"

"While I what, Elara? While I made the biggest mistake of my life?"

"While you left!" The words exploded out of her, ten years of buried hurt and fury finally finding their voice. "You asked me to wait, you looked me in the eyes and made me believe—" She stopped, breathing hard, horrified by how close she was to tears.

"You don't know what happened that night."

"I know enough. I know you left without a word. I know you never called, never wrote, never explained why I wasn't worth keeping your promise."

For a moment, he looked like he might tell her. His face was raw with some emotion she couldn't name, and she thought she saw his mouth open to form words that might finally give her the answers she'd spent a decade trying not to need.

But then his expression shuttered, becoming the careful mask she remembered from that last night.

"You're right," he said quietly. "I broke my promise. And I'm sorrier for that than you'll ever know."

The simple admission should have felt like victory. Instead, it felt like loss—as if he'd just confirmed that everything she'd believed about that night, about him, about them, was true.

"We should stick to business," she said, proud of how steady her voice sounded. "Can you do the work or not?"

"I can do it." He turned back to the blueprints, but she caught the way his hands trembled slightly as he rolled them up. "But not like this. These plans... they're good, Elara. They're professional and clean and exactly what you'd design for a client. But they're not what this house needs."

"And what would you know about what this house needs?"

"I know that your mother still makes Christmas cookies in that kitchen every December. I know your dad refinished these floors himself when you were sixteen, cursing the whole time but refusing to hire help because he wanted to do it right. I know this house has good bones and character that shouldn't be stripped away just to follow some design trend."

Each word was a small knife, cutting through her defenses to the soft places she'd tried to protect. Because he was right, damn him. This house did have character, had been filled with love and laughter and family traditions that her sleek, modern renovation would erase completely.

But admitting that would mean admitting that coming home had affected her more than she wanted to acknowledge. And she couldn't give him that power over her. Not again.

"The plans stand," she said firmly. "If you can't execute them as designed, I'll find someone who can."

Liam studied her for a long moment, and she had the uncomfortable feeling he could see straight through her professional mask to the scared girl underneath.

"All right," he said finally. "But when your parents come home to find their kitchen torn apart and their hardwood floors covered in dust, remember that this was your choice."

He headed for the door, then paused with his hand on the knob.

"For what it's worth, Elara, the girl I knew ten years ago would never have designed something so cold."

The door closed behind him with a soft click, leaving her alone with her perfect blueprints and the terrible suspicion that he might be right about more than just the renovation.

She sank into one of her mother's dining room chairs, surrounded by the familiar warmth of home, and wondered when winning had started to feel so much like losing.