The CEO of a Fortune 100 company that DJK had just landed said, “We’d like Arwen Alexander on the team.” Dave and Juliet exchanged quick glances.

“Absolutely!” Dave boomed. “You got it! She’s a keeper, that one!”

All fine. Juliet had been planning to put Arwen on this project anyway. But . . . why had he asked for her by name? Why all this attention? Had Arwen hired a really good PR firm? Was she connected in ways Juliet was unaware of? It wasn’t that the girl—woman—was without talent. But she was a long way from superstar. Maybe someday, but those other greats, like Zaha Hadid, had been dazzling from day one. And Arwen, as solid and reliable as she was, was not dazzling.

That was a minority opinion, apparently.

Arwen was listed as the number one Forty Under Forty in Architectural Review, a “bolt of lightning with her stunning designs and razor-sharp outlook.”

Juliet had turned forty just three months before that article ran. Not being included . . . it stung.

Arwen was quite attractive, which didn’t hurt, but nonetheless, it was a shock for Juliet to see her photo on the front page of the style section in the Los Angeles Times. She was asked to give workshops and even a TED talk.

Apparently, her work was setting the world on fire . . . and Juliet, her boss, was scratching her head. It was great for the firm, this sudden outpouring of adoration, but Juliet was a little . . . baffled. Glad for her success and its echoes on DJK, and yet . . . why Arwen? Juliet had been an architect for more than a decade and a half. She knew brilliance when she saw it, and Arwen was good. She could be great. She was a far cry from brilliant.

Juliet was not the only one to think so.

“I just don’t get it,” muttered Kathy Walker, an interior architect who’d been Juliet’s first female friend at DJK. “Do you?” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “We’ve had better. You’re way more talented than she is.”

“We work in a subjective field,” Juliet said. Kathy was a friend, but also a gossip, and if Juliet said anything that showed the slightest flicker of faith in Arwen, word would spread. Juliet would die before she seemed jealous. Women in architecture had it hard enough without other women backstabbing or gossiping about them.

“Maybe all this adoration is because she’s”—Kathy looked around—“young.”

Oh, that word. That terrifying word. “Don’t be catty. She’s doing great stuff.”

But of course it had crossed her mind. Juliet was only eleven years older than Arwen. But apparently, those were akin to dog years, and it sent a quiver of fear through her, a shameful fear she couldn’t admit to anyone. She’d always been a solid presence in the architecture world, often asked for quotes or sound bytes, speeches, articles.