My Uncle Left Me $50 Million While I Was Living In A Dumpster. My Toxic Ex Just Found Out And Is Suing Me For “marital Assets.” How Do I Make Him Regret Ever Leaving Me?

Jacob leaned closer to scan the portfolio. “She’s 22. No field experience.”

“Neither did I when Theodore believed in me,” I said. “That’s exactly why she belongs here.”

When the 12 fellows arrived that September I gathered them in the fifth-floor studio. Their nerves were obvious, but I wanted them to understand this wasn’t a favor.

“You’re not here because of charity,” I told them. “You’re here because you’re an investment. Theodore Hartfield believed that true innovation comes from varied perspectives. You’ll work on real projects alongside our architects. You’ll be heard, challenged, and sometimes overruled, but you’ll always matter. Welcome to Hartfield Architecture.”

Afterward Emma approached clutching her sketchbook like a shield. “Miss Hartfield,” she said shakily. “Thank you. My parents never understood why I wanted to study this. They said architecture was a nice hobby but not a life.”

I smiled. “Let me guess. They said it’s impractical.”

Her laugh trembled. “Exactly.”

“People who don’t understand passion always try to shrink it,” I told her. “My ex-husband spent 10 years insisting my degree was just a pretty waste of time. Don’t ever let anyone make you small for dreaming big.”

The program was rigorous: 40-hour weeks assisting on firm projects plus independent designs guided by mentors. A few senior staff grumbled about the workload, but most embraced the energy the fellows brought.

By November Emma’s community shelter concept caught the eye of a Brooklyn nonprofit. They wanted Hartfield to lead the build with Emma as the principal designer under supervision.

“This is too much responsibility,” she told me one morning, voice shaking.

“You’re an architect,” I said simply. “Act like one.”

The project became her trial by fire. Some critics accused us of exploiting young designers for publicity, and Architectural Digest requested an interview.

“The Hartfield Fellowship isn’t about cheap labor,” I said when asked. “It’s about tearing down the barriers that keep talent from thriving. Emma comes from a working-class family. She couldn’t afford unpaid internships. This program ensures opportunity depends on skill, not privilege.”

The article ran with portraits of all 12 fellows, bright faces framed by models and sketches. Within a week, three other firms announced similar initiatives.

“You’re changing the industry,” Jacob said one evening as we reviewed blueprints side by side.

I smiled faintly. “I’m just following Theodore’s example, though I can already hear him teasing me for taking a decade to figure it out.”

Over those months Jacob had become more than a colleague. We moved in sync: late nights over design drafts, dinners that turned into hours of conversation. The connection between us was effortless, undeniable, but we kept it professional until the company’s holiday party in December.

That afternoon I’d been at the Brooklyn site with Emma, watching her explain her plans to a room full of contractors. Her voice was steady, her confidence radiant. Seeing her stand where I once couldn’t, sure of her vision, filled me with a quiet pride I hadn’t known I was capable of.

By the time I made it to the party I was late. Hair tousled from the winter wind, cheeks flushed from the cold, and for the first time in years I felt genuinely happy. Jacob spotted me near the bar, his tie loosened, a rare easy smile on his face.

“You missed the speeches,” he said.

“Let me guess,” I replied. “Everyone thanked everyone. Someone made a bad joke. And Melissa from accounting got drunk before dessert.”

He laughed. “Exactly. In that order.”

The DJ shifted to something slow and melodic. Jacob extended his hand. “Dance with me.”

I hesitated. Crossing that line felt dangerous. But then I thought of Theodore’s journal, of how he’d written about faith, rebuilding, and taking risks. Maybe this was one of those moments. “One dance,” I said.

He pulled me close and we moved gently with the rhythm. No words, no masks, just breathing together in time.

“Sophia,” he murmured, his voice barely audible over the music. “I know we promised to keep this professional.”

“We did,” I whispered.

“And I know you’re still healing.”

“I am.”

He took a breath. “But I have to say this. I’m in love with you. Not falling. Already there. Completely, irrevocably. I’ll wait as long as you need, or I’ll step back if that’s what you want. But I couldn’t go one more day pretending I don’t feel this.”

My heart pounded. Fear flickered. That old instinct to retreat, to protect myself. But stronger than that was the part of me Theodore had rebuilt—the one that knew life’s best designs require risk.

“I’m terrified,” I admitted. “Richard made me question everything. What if I’m not ready? What if I ruin this?”