The week following the conference, Santiago Calatrava, one of the actual living legends of architecture, was quoted saying Arwen Alexander was the most exciting new voice out there.

Susan sent Juliet an e-mail. Guess I was wrong about Andrea Bocelli. What do I know?

A week later, Arwen was nominated for the AIA Young Architects Award and the Moira Gemmill Prize for Emerging Architecture.

No one at DJK had ever been so recognized. Juliet’s friends, those women at the table in Chicago, went silent. Arwen was on the rise, and you didn’t cast aspersions on a woman on the rise no matter what she did or did not bring to your field.

It was the elephant in the room. If there were any men who shared the opinion that Arwen was a Bocelli, not a Pavarotti, they didn’t dare say it, especially after Santiago had praised her.

Arwen was no dummy. Without saying a word, the dynamic in the office changed. She stopped popping into Juliet’s office to chat, or asking if she wanted to grab a glass of wine before heading home. Her clothes got better—she’d always had style, but now it was Armani and Christian Louboutin, Tom Ford and Prada. She bought a Tesla. She moved from a rental in downtown New Haven to an incredibly hip and spacious loft in a former manufacturing building and had a party for the entire staff plus spouses, and did all the cooking herself. Apparently, she’d developed a passion for Northern Indian cuisine when she spent a summer there during college. Oliver, who had lived in New Delhi for a few years as a teenager, said Arwen’s samosas were the best he’d ever had. Traitor.

Architects were paid well. But not that well. Family money? A rich lover? Arwen never mentioned anyone, and she lived in the loft alone. As far as Juliet knew, she was single.

Juliet still offered input and guidance on Arwen’s projects, because that was her job . . . but there was that tremor. Arwen seemed to tolerate her advice now, not seek it. Dave and the rarely seen Edward Decker, the D in DJK and the other living partner, stopped by Arwen’s office to chat when Edward graced the New Haven office with his presence. Once, it had been Juliet he stopped by to see.

It was chilling. It was as if architecture were a river, and Juliet had been a white-water rafter for all these years. Suddenly she’d been turned into a rock, the water flowing around her, the raft way, way ahead.

Well. She was a rock sitting in a conference room who had better get to work while she still had a job. Her phone chimed, reminding her the girls had a half day. Oliver had taken off three days on Christmas break, so this was definitely her turn.

Leaving the office early had never felt like a liability before.