Julia didn’t usually check her phone the moment she stepped into her office, but today she did. She hadn’t expected anything from Melissa—she wasn’t that naive—but she still felt a flicker of hope that maybe there would be an update. Something. Anything.

But there was nothing.

Her inbox held the usual chaos: client notes, revision requests, a reminder about a staff meeting, an invoice she’d forgotten to send. She scrolled quickly, then more slowly, then checked her spam folder just in case. Still nothing. The absence itself felt pointed.

She set the phone face down on the desk and pulled her sketchbook closer, pretending to focus on a layout for one of her new clients. But her lines kept coming out wrong—angles too sharp, spacing slightly off. Her pencil scratched the paper harder than necessary. She erased, drew again, erased again.

By ten thirty, she had three missed calls from her manager, two new requests from clients, and exactly zero communication from Melissa.

The tightness in her chest spread slowly, like a hand pressing down.

She grabbed her phone again.

This time, she didn’t wait. She dialed.

The call rang twice before going to voicemail.

Julia hung up, jaw clenching as her foot tapped against the chair leg. She dialed again. This time, Melissa’s voicemail picked up immediately.

She didn’t leave a message.

Instead, she got up from her chair and stepped outside the office, needing the hallway’s open air more than she needed privacy. She tried again. Voicemail.

Her frustration simmered into something hotter.

She texted:

**Hi Melissa, I need an update on Lot 47. Please call me back today.**

She hesitated, then added:

**It’s important.**

She hit send.

A moment later, her manager walked by. “Julia, quick question about the Whitman project,” he said, holding a stack of samples.

“Give me two minutes,” she said.

He nodded and walked off, but she could tell he noticed something was off. Julia wasn’t usually this curt. She wasn’t usually this anything. She kept her tone professional, her expression composed, her schedule airtight. Today that version of her felt like a costume that didn’t fit.

Her phone buzzed.

She looked fast—too fast—and felt ridiculous when she realized it wasn’t Melissa at all. Just a group text from her coworkers.

She exhaled sharply, pressing her phone hard between her palms.

What bothered her wasn’t only the house, or the delays, or the fact that they’d been lied to. It was the way Melissa had smiled at them during the tour months ago, answering every question with an easy confidence that now felt scripted. Rehearsed. Deliberate. Like she’d known the house wouldn’t be finished on time and said all the right words anyway.

Julia hated that kind of dishonesty more than anything. She worked in design, a field full of people who exaggerated timelines, pretended problems didn’t exist, and used charm like currency. She’d built her career specifically by not being like that.

Her phone buzzed again.

She looked.

**Melissa Hart:  

Hey Julia! Super busy this morning. What's up? :)  

Can we chat later?**

Julia stared at the message, her jaw tightening.

The smiley face felt like a slap.

She typed a full paragraph, deleted it, typed another, deleted again. Finally she wrote:

**We need a real update. Today. The house still has multiple issues. Please call me.**

She hit send before she could soften it.

The reply came quickly:

**Totally hear you! I’ll check with the team. It’s been crazy on site.  

I’ll call when I can.**

No time. No details. No responsibility.

Julia pressed a hand to her forehead.

She typed:

**Call me before noon. Please.**

She stared at the screen for almost a minute. Three dots appeared, disappeared, appeared again. Then finally:

**Trying my best ❤️**

Julia nearly laughed. Not because it was funny, but because it was so absurd she couldn’t believe she was reading it. She locked the phone before she said something she’d regret.

She walked back into her office, grabbed her notebook and the Whitman project samples, and forced herself to focus. Her manager was waiting near the conference table.

“Everything okay?” he asked.

“Fine,” she lied, flipping open the notebook.

They talked through the material options, lighting layouts, and color palettes. Julia kept her tone steady, her notes organized, her suggestions clear. But her mind was split between the conversation and her phone sitting face-down on the table.

After the meeting, she sat at her desk again, staring at the window. A delivery truck rolled by, honking at someone double-parked. People walked to lunch, laughing about things she couldn’t hear. She had a stack of work waiting—she just couldn’t make her brain sit in one place long enough to do it.

At eleven forty-five, she checked her phone again.

No call.

No new messages.

Julia stood, grabbed her blazer, and headed for the elevator. If Melissa wasn’t going to call, she would make sure Melissa had to see her.

On the way down, she texted Aaron:

**I’m going to the sales office. I’ll update you later.**

He responded almost immediately:

**Do you want me to come?**

She stared at the message. Her first instinct was to say yes. But she remembered yesterday’s silence, this morning’s distance, and the way he apologized to David even when nothing was his fault. She wasn’t angry at him, not really—but she didn’t want to manage his discomfort while managing her own.

**It’s okay. I’ve got it.**

She didn’t wait for his reply.

She drove across town, cutting through traffic with a focus she didn’t feel anywhere else today. When she pulled into the lot outside the sales center, she saw Melissa’s car in its usual spot. Good.

Inside, the office smelled like new carpet and lemon-scented cleaning spray. The waiting area was too bright, too staged, like a hotel lobby designed by someone who’d never stayed in one.

Melissa looked up from her desk when Julia walked in. Her smile came instantly—the practiced, glossy kind she used on clients.

“Julia! Wow, what a surprise!”

Julia didn’t return the smile. “We need to talk.”

Melissa’s expression flickered, barely noticeable. “Of course! Let’s sit.”

They walked toward a small table near the window. Melissa tucked her hair behind her ear with a perfectly rehearsed movement.

“So,” Melissa said lightly, “what’s going on with the house?”

“You tell me,” Julia replied.

Melissa blinked once. “We’re handling a few delays, but everything’s on track.”

Julia leaned in. “Melissa, I was there yesterday. It’s not on track.”

Melissa’s smile thinned. “Construction is unpredictable. You know how it is.”

“No,” Julia said. “I know when someone is avoiding giving real information.”

Melissa shifted in her seat. “Look, I’m trying to get updates, but the team is swamped—”

“Then stop telling us everything is fine,” Julia said, her voice low but steady. “Because it isn’t.”

Melissa exhaled, her patience slipping. “I’m doing my job, Julia.”

“No,” Julia said again, “you’re doing damage control.”

The room went quiet. A copier beeped in the background. Outside, a car door slammed.

Melissa leaned back. “If you want answers, talk to the site supervisor.”

“I have,” Julia said. “He said they’re behind. You said they were ahead. Someone’s lying.”

Melissa’s eyes sharpened. “Are you accusing me of something?”

“I’m asking for the truth.”

Melissa hesitated just long enough to confirm Julia’s suspicion.

Then she smiled again—tight, defensive.

“I’ll send you a full update by the end of the day.”

“You said that last week.”

“I mean it this time,” Melissa insisted.

Julia held her gaze. “I need more than promises.”

Melissa crossed her arms. “I don’t know what else you want me to say.”

Julia stood. “I want you to stop pretending everything is fine when clearly it isn’t.”

Melissa didn’t stand. She just watched her, expression unreadable.

Julia walked toward the door, pulse pounding. She felt anger, yes, but also something deeper—fear. Fear that this was the beginning of something bigger than a delayed house. Fear that things were slipping out of her hands.

Her phone buzzed as she stepped outside.

Aaron.

**How did it go?**

Julia typed:

**Not good. I’ll tell you later.**

She got into her car and closed the door, letting the silence settle.

This wasn’t just about the house.  

It was about everything they’d hoped it would fix.  

And now, it felt like another thing falling apart.