Chapter 2 — Margot's Ultimatum

Eva

The rhythmic clicks of Eva’s heels against the polished marble floors of Margot’s office echoed faintly, sharp and deliberate, a metronome steadying her nerves. The space, perched at the top of an elegant, century-old building with ornate molding framing its high windows, overlooked a patchwork of the city’s Gothic spires and sleek high-rises. The office was exactly as she remembered it: precise, pristine, and unyielding. Bookshelves lined with architectural tomes and framed blueprints stood like sentinels against the walls, their symmetry a testament to Margot’s demand for order. The faint scent of old paper mingled with the jasmine perfume Margot always wore—a fragrance as sharp and enduring as its owner.

Eva held her bag tightly to her side, her knuckles whitening as she approached the broad oak desk. Each step felt heavier as the weight of the restoration project loomed over her like the shadow of a crumbling archway. She had walked into this office countless times before—presenting designs, absorbing critiques, or simply listening to Margot dissect the world with her scalpel-keen insights. But today was different. Heavier.

Margot sat behind the desk, utterly composed. Her sharp gray eyes scanned a set of documents with the precision of a surveyor, her posture as poised as the architectural lines she so revered. Not a strand of her silver-streaked hair was out of place, her chignon as impeccable as the room itself. Without looking up, she made a small, decisive gesture toward the chair opposite her.

“Sit,” Margot said, her tone clipped but not unkind, more command than invitation.

Eva lowered herself into the chair, smoothing her pencil skirt as she did. The leather creaked faintly beneath her, a sound that seemed to amplify the silence. For a moment, the only noise was the soft scratch of Margot’s pen, punctuated by the faint rustle of paper. Eva swallowed, her throat dry, her pulse skittering like a bird against glass.

Finally, Margot laid her pen aside and leaned back slightly, fixing Eva with a gaze that felt as though it could strip away every layer of pretense. “You’ve had a few days to think about the theater, I trust?”

“Yes,” Eva replied, her voice steady but tightly wound. She clasped her hands over her bag, fingers fidgeting absently with the edge of the strap.

“And?” Margot prompted, one brow arching in expectation.

Eva hesitated, the weight of her thoughts pressing down on her chest. “It’s… an extraordinary building,” she began, choosing her words carefully. “The history is palpable the moment you step inside. It feels alive in a way, even in its decay. But it’s also…” Her voice faltered as images of fractured windows, faded velvet curtains, and blackened beams flashed through her mind. “It’s overwhelming.”

Margot’s brow arched higher, her expression unreadable but edged with faint impatience. “Overwhelming,” she repeated, as though testing the word for weakness. “Yes, well, that’s the nature of such projects. If you’re expecting clarity, ease, or convenience, Eva, you’re in the wrong line of work.”

“I’m not expecting ease,” Eva said quickly, her cheeks flushing. “I just—”

“What you’re facing is the essence of restoration,” Margot interrupted, her words landing with the weight of iron. “The theater is a puzzle. It’s your job to decide how the pieces fit together, which ones to preserve and which ones to replace. That’s what makes it art, not simply labor.” She leaned forward slightly, her gaze sharpening. “The question is whether you’re ready to rise to the challenge—or let it bury you.”

Eva’s stomach knotted, her breath hitching despite her attempts to remain composed. Margot’s unwavering bluntness cut like a chisel, but it wasn’t meant to wound. It was meant to carve away hesitation. Still, the sting sank deep.

Margot’s tone softened slightly, though her posture remained imperious. “The firm’s reputation is, of course, at stake here,” she continued, folding her hands on the desk. “This project wasn’t handed to us lightly. It could have gone to any number of competitors, but they came to me because of my record of delivering the extraordinary.” Her gray eyes narrowed slightly. “I chose you for this because of your unique ability to see both the poetry and the precision in architecture. Your eye for detail, your instinct for balance… even your hesitation, frustrating though it may be, speaks to your care. But care without conviction is useless.”

The words settled over Eva like a lead weight. She blinked, startled by the unexpected compliment buried amidst the critique. Rare as Margot’s validation was, it didn’t erase the sharp edge of her expectations. If anything, it intensified them. For a moment, the memory of a failed project early in her career surfaced—a small restoration where her cautious design choices had been dismissed as uninspired. The sting of that critique still lingered, an echo of her deepest fear: that she wasn’t enough.

“I’ve started sketching,” Eva offered cautiously, reaching into her bag. Her fingers brushed over the worn leather of her sketchbook, the familiar texture grounding her. She placed it on the desk and flipped to a page of rough outlines—a mixture of details from the theater’s facade and tentative ideas for its revival. “These are just concepts, preliminary—”

“Let me see,” Margot said, cutting her off with a small wave of her hand.

Eva slid the sketchbook across the desk, her pulse quickening as Margot began to examine it. The room fell silent again, save for the quiet rustle as Margot turned each page with deliberate care. Her expression remained inscrutable, her gray eyes flicking across the sketches with the precision of a draftsman assessing blueprints.

“These are careful,” Margot said finally, her tone measured. “Perhaps too careful.”

Eva’s heart sank, though she tried not to let it show. “I was trying to respect the theater’s original design,” she explained. “To honor its history.”

“That’s noble,” Margot replied, still studying the sketches. Her finger hovered over an ornate detail—an intricate carving of cherubs Eva had tried to replicate. “But nobility alone doesn’t restore buildings. Restoration is about balance—honoring the past while making it relevant to the present.” She turned a page, her gaze lingering on a tentative sketch of the marquee. “This,” she said, tapping the drawing, “is timid. It preserves the theater’s decay rather than reimagining its potential. Where’s the boldness? The vision?”

The words hit their mark, sharp and unrelenting. Eva felt the sting of them, her grip tightening in her lap. “I just… I’m afraid of losing what gives it meaning,” she said quietly.

Margot finally looked up, her expression softening just enough to reveal the faintest glimmer of something that might have been empathy. “Eva, every decision you make will feel like a betrayal to someone—whether it’s to the building’s history, its future, or your own instincts. That’s the nature of this work.” Her voice lowered, almost as if confiding something personal. “But hesitation is its own form of destruction. If you remain frozen in uncertainty, the theater will remain as it is: a ruin.”

Eva’s gaze dropped to her hands, her fingers trembling slightly. She wanted to argue or explain, but Margot’s words rang too true to dismiss. They echoed the doubts she’d carried since stepping into the theater’s shadowy interior.

Margot sat back, folding her arms. “There’s a reason I gave you the chisel,” she said, her tone quieter now. “It’s not just a tool; it’s a reminder. Restoration is not about perfection. It’s about finding the beauty in imperfection, in the cracks and fractures.” Her lips curved in the faintest smile—a flicker, gone almost as quickly as it appeared. “There’s beauty in boldness, Eva. And the theater deserves nothing less. Don’t be afraid to find it.”

Eva stood, clutching her sketchbook as though it were a lifeline. She turned toward the door, her mind already racing with thoughts of how to improve her designs.

“Eva,” Margot called just before she stepped out. Eva paused and turned back, meeting her mentor’s unwavering gaze.

“Do it for the theater,” Margot said softly. “Do it for yourself.”

The words lingered as Eva stepped into the crisp autumn light beyond the office. The city sprawled below her, its Gothic spires and modern high-rises shimmering in the golden hue of the late afternoon. She inhaled deeply, feeling the weight of her sketchbook in her hands. It was the same as it had always been—worn, familiar—but somehow it felt heavier now, as though it had absorbed the enormity of what lay ahead.

And yet, as she stood on the edge of her next move, she also felt something else: a flicker of resolve. The theater was a puzzle waiting to be solved, and for the first time, she believed she might be capable of piecing it together. One line at a time, one idea at a time. Slowly but surely, she would find the balance between preservation and innovation, fear and boldness.

She opened the sketchbook as she walked, the leather warming beneath her touch. And with a faint but determined smile, she began to sketch anew.