Accidentally Permanent🔖❤️

KIARA

At 8:17 a.m. on a Tuesday, I was standing in the middle of a hotel lobby, arguing with a man who believed a building’s historical significance could be measured in the number of zeroes on an invoice.

It was not how I’d planned to spend my morning.

Then again, I’d also planned to become the sort of woman who drank eight glasses of water a day, went to bed before midnight, and didn’t keep grudges against people who cut in front of her in supermarket queues.

We all had dreams.

“Miss St. Clair, nobody is suggesting we demolish the entire building.”

Mr. Rahman said this with the careful patience of a man who had already decided I was being difficult.

I folded my arms.

“You suggested replacing the marble staircase”

“Part of it.”

“With glass.”

“A modern intervention.”

“A glass see through transparent staircase”

“A modern intervention.”

I looked at him.

He looked at me.

The hotel lobby hummed quietly around us. Behind him, the original marble flooring had been polished for the first time in years. Sunlight came through the tall windows and caught on the brass railings, which someone had finally stopped trying to replace with glass.

I pointed towards the staircase.

“You’re standing in a building with original timber panelling, marble flooring and your solution is see through glass’ Like okay Mr Cinderella apparently we went back to the ancient days of fables and fairy tales”

“It would bring the property into the twenty-first century.”

“The twenty-first century has windows.”

His mouth tightened.

I immediately regretted nothing.

The Meridian Hotel had been closed for almost four years. The ownership group wanted to reopen it as a luxury property, which meant everyone involved had suddenly become very interested in the wordsheritage,premium, andguest experience.

They were less interested in the inconvenient part.

The building actually had to survive.

My firm had been brought in for the preliminary heritage assessment. I was the architect assigned to the restoration proposal, which sounded much more glamorous than it actually was.

Mostly, it involved spreadsheets, site measurements, arguing with contractors, and discovering that somebody had painted over something important sometime in 1987.

Still.

I liked it.

Buildings made sense to me.

People were considerably less reliable.

“The original structure is one of the reasons the Meridian is valuable,” I said. “If you alter it beyond recognition, you’re not modernising the hotel. You’re removing one of the things people are paying to experience.”

Mr. Rahman glanced at the drawings spread across the temporary table.

“You’re emotionally attached to the building.”

I almost laughed.

“No.”

He raised an eyebrow.

I corrected myself.

“Professionally attached.”

“That sounds suspiciously similar.”

“That’s because you don’t work with architects.”

“Clearly.”

There was a pause.

Then he tapped the cost estimate.

“This is almost twenty percent higher than the redevelopment option.”

“Because restoration costs money.”

“So does redevelopment.”

“Yes, but at least with restoration you get to keep the building.”

He sighed.

I looked down at my notes before I said something that would get me removed from the project.

That was becoming a recurring professional skill.

The Meridian mattered to me more than it should have.

I knew that.

I just wasn’t ready to explain why.

Not to Mr. Rahman.

Not to the ownership group.

Not to anyone.

My father’s old drawings were still in a cardboard tube in the back of my wardrobe.

I’d found them years after his death, mixed in with old invoices and rolled-up plans. The Meridian was one of the projects he’d worked on early in his career.

His original restoration proposal had never been completed.

I’d been too young to understand what that meant at the time.

Now I understood it perfectly.

Sometimes a building could outlive the people who fought for it.

Sometimes it could be standing right in front of you, waiting for someone to decide whether it was worth saving.

“Miss St. Clair?”

I looked up.

Mr. Rahman was watching me.

“Sorry.”

“I said the ownership group will review all proposals next week.”

I nodded.

“And?”

“And I’d like your revised costings by Friday.”

“I’ll have them tomorrow.”

He looked surprised.

“I thought you wanted more time.”

“I want more time. You want them tomorrow.”

A beat.

“Tomorrow it is.”

I gathered my drawings.

As I slid the last sheet into my portfolio, my phone buzzed.

MAYA:Lunch?

I typed back.

If you promise not to ask me about work.

Three dots appeared.

So no lunch then.

I smiled.

“Everything all right?” Mr. Rahman asked.

“Perfect.”

He gave me the wary look of a man who had learned that my definition of perfect was flexible.

I left before he could ask.

The heat hit me the moment I stepped outside.

Kuala Lumpur at mid-morning had no interest in subtlety.

I adjusted my bag and checked my phone again.

MAYA:What did you do?

Nothing.

You only say “nothing” when you’ve done something.

I argued with a client.

Ah. So Tuesday.

I laughed under my breath.

Maya had known me long enough to recognise my moods from punctuation.

I started towards the road, keeping my pace steady.

The site visit had gone longer than expected, and my left leg was starting to ache. Nothing unusual. I slowed down a little and shifted the weight of my portfolio to my other hand.

I had learned years ago that there was no prize for pretending I could move at someone else’s pace.

There was always another appointment.

Another staircase.

Another person who was in a hurry.

I didn’t need to be.

My phone buzzed again.

This time it wasn’t Maya.

It was an email.

I glanced at the sender.

Meridian Hotel Restoration Project

My steps slowed.

I opened it.

Dear Ms. St. Clair,

Following the evaluation of the submitted proposals, we are pleased to confirm that your firm’s restoration proposal has been shortlisted for the next stage of the Meridian Hotel Restoration Project.

I stopped walking.

A man behind me muttered something when he had to step around me.

I didn’t hear him.

I read the email again.

Shortlisted.

I stared at the word.

Then I scrolled.

The next stage would be a presentation before the ownership group’s executive committee.

The meeting would take place Thursday morning.

The executive chair would attend.

I kept reading.

And then I saw the name.

Sebastian Singhania.

I stared at it for a long moment.

There were people you forgot.

People you remembered.

And then there were people whose names could change the temperature of your entire day.

Sebastian belonged firmly in the third category.

I locked my phone.

Unlocked it again.

Read the name once more, as though it might magically become someone else.

It didn’t.

Of course it didn’t.

Six years ago, Sebastian Singhania had walked into a project meeting wearing a charcoal suit, carrying three architectural reports, and disagreeing with me before we’d even been properly introduced.

Six years later, apparently, he was going to be sitting across from me while I presented the most important proposal of my career.

Fantastic.

Absolutely fantastic.

My phone rang.

“Maya.”

“Tell me.”

“No.”

“Tell me.”

“You don’t even know what it is.”

“I know you. Something happened.”

I sighed.

“I got shortlisted for the Meridian.”

There was silence.

Then—

“KIARA.”

I smiled despite myself.

“Yes.”

“Oh my God. That’s huge.”

“I know.”

“You got it.”

“Not yet.”

“You got shortlisted. That’s basically the universe putting a tiny crown on your head and saying, ‘Please don’t screw this up.’”

“Very encouraging.”

“Who else is on the committee?”

I looked at the email again.

I already knew the answer.

“Maya.”

“What?”

“Guess.”

There was a pause.

Then a delighted gasp.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Sebastian?”

I closed my eyes.

“Yes.”

She made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a scream.

“Oh, this is going to be good.”

“This is not going to be good.”

“This isexcellent.”

“He hates me.”

“He does not hate you.”

“He absolutely does.”

“You two argue every time you’re in the same room.”

“Exactly.”

“That is not the same thing.”

“It is when it’s Sebastian.”

Maya laughed.

I leaned against the wall outside the site entrance.

For a moment, the excitement of being shortlisted came rushing back.

The Meridian.

My proposal.

A chance to do something that mattered.

Something that had started long before I ever knew Sebastian Singhania existed.

I looked at the email again.

The opportunity was mine.

Whatever happened in that boardroom, I wasn’t going to let Sebastian—or anyone else—make me feel as though I’d only earned my place because someone had decided to let me have it.

I had earned it.

I knew my work.

I knew the building.

And I knew exactly what I wanted.

“I’ll be fine,” I said.

Maya went quiet.

Then, more gently, “I know you will.”

I smiled.

“Thank you.”

“Also—”

“No.”

“You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

“I know you.”

“Wear something devastating.”

I laughed.

“Goodbye, Maya.”

“Wear. Something. Devastating.”

I ended the call.

Then I looked once more at the email.

Thursday. 10:00 a.m.

My stomach did a small, irritating flip.

Not because I was nervous about the presentation.

Obviously.

It was because Sebastian Singhania was going to be there.

That was all.

Nothing else.

Certainly not because, despite six years of telling myself otherwise, I still remembered the exact shade of his eyes.

That would be ridiculous.

I put my phone away.

The city moved around me.

Cars honked.

Someone was arguing with a delivery rider.

A bus pulled away from the curb.

Life continued.

And I stood there with my portfolio under one arm and the biggest opportunity of my career sitting in my inbox.

The Meridian was finally giving me a chance.

I wasn’t going to waste it.

Not for a building.

Not for my father.

And definitely not for Sebastian Singhania.

Even if he was, unfortunately, very good at looking like trouble in an expensive suit.

I started walking.

Thursday could take care of itself.

For now, I had work to do.