The Heart's Blueprint

CHAPTER ONE



The low hum of the city stirred just beyond the windowpane as Eva Milly lay tangled in a mess of sheets, caught between fading dreams and the relentless pull of dawn. The dim light filtering through her blinds painted pale slashes across the bedroom walls, but it did little to warm the chill that clung to her skin. Sweat dampened her brow, her breath still uneven. Another dream? no, memory, had dragged her under again. 



Her mother’s laughter still echoed faintly in her mind, a phantom sound that always came before the silence. Eva squeezed her eyes shut, pressing her fists against them until all she saw were bursts of red and white behind her lids. It had been over twenty years, and still, some mornings felt like that first one after the accident, hollow, raw, senseless. 



She groaned softly and rolled out of bed, her body protesting the movement. The wooden floor was cool beneath her bare feet as she padded into the tiny kitchen of her apartment. Nestled on the top floor of a modest brownstone on Chicago’s quieter West Side, the space was small but safe. Mismatched mugs lined the open shelving, and a vase of dried lavender stood stubbornly cheerful on the kitchen counter. 



She started the coffee pot and leaned against the counter, arms crossed, eyes distant. Her phone buzzed on the table, dragging her back to the present. 



5:00 AM. 

A message from John Cohen, the firm’s manager,and her personal migraine. 

Don’t forget about the new clients today. Be presentable. 



Eva stared at the screen for a long moment before tossing it face down on the table. No good morning. No thanks for your hard work. Just that familiar undercurrent of disdain, barely disguised as professionalism. 



She sighed and moved through her morning motions. Toast popped out of the toaster slightly burnt, as always. She scraped the edges with a butter knife while sipping lukewarm coffee from a chipped mug shaped like a cat,Kylie had gifted it to her last Christmas. “Because you never take anything seriously,” Kylie had teased. “So drink from this and remember life’s not all drama.” 



Kylie. Her best friend, the firm’s receptionist, and the only spark of joy in that sterile office. They had met in college, and despite Kylie’s theatrical flair and Eva’s quiet nature, they had stuck together like mismatched puzzle pieces that somehow fit. 



After eating, Eva stepped into the bathroom. The cracked mirror above the sink caught her reflection,a woman who looked older than twenty-six. Big brown eyes rimmed with fatigue. Soft, full lips pressed into a line. Her thick, curly hair frizzed rebelliously despite the satin bonnet she wore to sleep. She ran her fingers through it, twisted It into a low bun, and secured it with a neutral clip. No makeup. Just moisturizer and the illusion of composure. 



She opened her wardrobe and carefully chose a soft gray oversized blazer and matching high-waisted trousers, the fit loose enough to keep attention away but structured enough for work. Beneath it, a simple ivory blouse, no frills, no bold patterns. Just clean lines and safety. Her shoes were low-heeled loafers, comfortable and quiet. The outfit whispered competence without inviting comment. 



She grabbed her leather satchel, slung it over her shoulder, and stepped out into the crisp morning air. 



Cohent Designs occupied the fifth floor of a steel-and-glass building downtown. A sleek sign hung in the lobby, all clean lines and modern branding, but Eva had long learned that polish didn’t equal integrity. 



As she entered, the scent of brewed espresso and floor polish filled the air. At the front desk sat Kylie, already tapping away at her keyboard with her signature red nails. 



“Hey, sleepyhead,” Kylie chirped, her curly hair piled in a high puff and her expression teasing. “You look like you fought the Grim Reaper and barely made it back.” 



Eva offered a tired smile. “You’re not far off.” 



Kylie leaned in. “John’s been pacing since seven. Probably trying to remember how to spell ‘integrity.’” 



Eva snorted and shook her head. “He texted me at five. Said I should be ‘presentable.’” 



Kylie’s eyes narrowed. “Presentable? What a…. mind. You know if I had HR power for one day….” 



“—he’d be locked in the janitor’s closet with a cockroach and a mirror,” Eva finished for her. 



“Exactly.” Kylie winked. 



With a grateful smile, Eva headed down the hallway to her workspace. Unlike the sterile minimalism of the firm’s aesthetic, her office was a soft rebellion, woven textures, natural tones, fabric swatches, floor-to-ceiling pinboards. A small wooden frame rested on her desk. In it, a photo of her and her mother, Sarah Milly—both laughing, thread and fabric scattered around them like confetti. 



She had barely settled when the door burst open. 



John Cohen. Manager. Misogynist in a tailored suit. 



“Eva,” he snapped, not even glancing at her. “Let me see the proposal for the Jasper couple.” 



She handed it over without a word. 



He flipped through it, nodded once, then said, “You’ll be presenting this with Haja.” 



Eva blinked. “Haja? She didn’t work on this. I’ve been—” 



“She’s part of the team now,” John said curtly. “It’s my call. And Eva, with the way you present yourself, you should be thankful I let you face clients at all.” 



The words hit like a slap. Eva swallowed hard, her fingers tightening around the edge of her desk. But she said nothing. 



John turned and left as quickly as he came. 



The silence that followed was heavier than his presence. Eva sat down slowly, heart pounding. Her eyes found the photo again. 



She turned back to her tablet. But before she could log in, a notification blinked across her screen, an anonymous email. 



No sender. 

Subject line: “Sarah Milly wasn’t an accident.” 



Her blood ran cold.