The Architect of Her Heart

Stella Lane believed in new beginnings. It was the entire premise of the whimsical children’s books she illustrated for a living, and it was the mantra she repeated to herself as she hauled the last box into her new, ridiculously small New York apartment. Though “apartment” was a generous term. It was more of a shoebox with a view. But the view! A slice of the glittering Manhattan skyline, a promise of the life she was so determined to build for herself, far from the suffocating grip of her family’s expectations and failures.

She had spent every last cent of her savings on the deposit and first month's rent, but as she looked out at the city lights beginning to flicker on, a hopeful smile touched her lips. Here, she could finally be just Stella, the artist.

The day had been a whirlwind of unpacking boxes and wrestling with flat-pack furniture. Exhausted and covered in a fine layer of dust, she decided her first official act as a New Yorker would be to take out the trash. Donning her favorite pair of fluffy bunny slippers and a worn-out t-shirt that had seen better days, she dragged the overflowing garbage bags into the hallway.

She was propping the apartment door open with a box when a sudden gust of wind from an open hallway window slammed it shut.

Click.

The sound was devastatingly final. Stella stared at the closed door in horror. Her keys, her phone, her wallet—all sitting innocently on the kitchen counter inside.

“No, no, no,” she whispered, jiggling the handle fruitlessly. She was locked out. In her pajamas. In a building where she knew no one. Mortification, hot and swift, washed over her. She slumped against the door, burying her face in her hands, her bunny slippers feeling particularly foolish.

Just as a wave of despair threatened to overwhelm her, the door to the adjacent apartment opened. Stella’s head snapped up.

A man stepped out. And what a man. He was tall, dressed in a perfectly tailored dark suit that probably cost more than her entire apartment. His dark hair was artfully disheveled, and his face was all sharp angles and chiseled perfection, like a statue brought to life. He stopped dead when he saw her, his cool grey eyes taking in her disheveled state—the bunny slippers, the smudged cheek, the look of sheer panic.

For a moment, he just stared, an eyebrow arching in silent, amused inquiry. Stella wished the floor would swallow her whole.

“Locked out?” he asked, his voice a low, smooth baritone that did funny things to her insides.

She could only nod, her cheeks burning.

He didn’t laugh. He didn’t mock her. He simply walked over, inspected the lock, and then pulled a slim, metallic card from his wallet. With a few deft movements she couldn’t quite follow, there was another, softer click. He pushed the door open.

“You should get that lock fixed,” he said, his tone neutral, but she could see the corner of his mouth twitching.

“I will,” she squeaked, scrambling to her feet. “Thank you. Thank you so much. I’m Stella, by the way. Stella Lane. I just moved in.”

“Liam Harrison,” he replied, his gaze lingering on her for a second longer than necessary. “Welcome to the neighborhood, Stella Lane.”

He gave her a curt nod, and then he was gone, striding down the hallway toward the elevators, leaving her standing in her doorway with her heart hammering against her ribs. It was partly from the humiliation, but mostly, she had to admit, it was from the way he’d said her name, and the ghost of a smile she’d seen in his impossibly handsome eyes.