Maeva stared at the schematic, the elegant lines of her vision for the Altarin annex mocking her from the screen. The intricate lattice work of the facade, the terraced gardens cascading down to the invisible river — every detail was etched into her memory, the product of countless sleepless nights. Garrick had stolen her magnum opus, her dream. He hadn't just taken her clients; he'd taken her future. “He’s going to claim it as his own,” Maeva said, her voice a low thrum of disbelief. Her fingers curled into tight fists. “He’ll present *my* vision to the Altarin Royal family.” The irony was a bitter tang on her tongue. The one commission that could save her firm, the one she’d been meticulously preparing for years, was now her ex-fiancé’s weapon. Bexley’s face was pale beneath her riot of violet hair. “We need to do something. We can’t let him get away with this.” Maeva pushed away from the desk, a surge of adrenaline sharpening her focus. “No. We don’t just ‘do something.’ We make him regret the day he ever crossed us.” She began pacing the cramped office, the worn floorboards groaning under her agitated steps. The rhythmic squeak of her sneakers was a counterpoint to the frantic beat of her own pulse. Suddenly, a gurgling sound erupted from the tiny kitchenette. Water began to spurt erratically from the faucet, then cascaded over the counter, forming a rapidly expanding puddle on the floor. The workspace's ancient plumbing, a relic of its previous tenant, had finally given up. Soren, who had been quietly observing from the couch, unfolded himself with languid grace. He approached the sputtering sink, his gaze contemplative. “Looks like the old girl’s sprung a leak.” He reached out, twisting the stubborn handle, but the stream only intensified, splashing onto his pristine linen shirt. He merely tilted his head, unperturbed. Maeva threw her hands up. “Great. Just great. As if I didn’t have enough on my plate, now I need a plumber. Which I can’t afford. Because Garrick blacklisted me from all the local suppliers, which probably includes plumbers who get their parts from those suppliers.” The words tumbled out, a raw confession of vulnerability she immediately regretted. She saw Soren’s jawline tighten almost imperceptibly. “No problem,” Soren said, his voice a calm balm against her rising panic. He turned to her, a soft, encouraging smile playing on his lips. “I can fix it.” Maeva scoffed. “You? You look like you’ve never held anything heavier than a champagne flute.” Soren chuckled, a low, melodic sound. “There’s a first time for everything, isn’t there? Give me a list of parts, and I’ll be back before you can say ‘architectural marvel’.” “Right,” Maeva muttered, already pulling up a plumbing supply website. She jotted down a list of obscure fittings and a replacement U-bend. “Don’t expect miracles. And don’t spend too much. We’re on a ramen budget, remember?” Soren gave her a casual salute and strode out, leaving Maeva to stare at the escalating puddle. He returned an hour later, not with pristine, packaged parts, but with a brown paper bag from ‘Ye Olde Salvage Shack’ on the less reputable side of the Zenith Design District. He produced a tarnished brass fitting, a slightly bent U-bend, and a roll of industrial-grade plumber’s tape, all looking decidedly pre-owned. “Bargains,” he announced, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “They said this U-bend has character.” Maeva watched, utterly bewildered, as Soren, a man who looked like he belonged on the cover of a luxury magazine, knelt by her grimy sink. He shed his linen jacket, revealing a taut expanse of arm, and began to work with a surprising focus, muttering to himself about ‘torque’ and ‘sealing coefficients.’ He even managed to get some grime on his expensive-looking watch. It was absurd, endearing, and utterly unexpected. Meanwhile, Bexley, armed with a tablet and a discreet bugging device shaped like a USB stick, had already slipped out of the studio. Her mission: infiltrate Lydell & Associates. Disguised in a generic delivery uniform and clutching a sealed box of ‘urgent architectural samples’ – actually just packing peanuts – she navigated the sleek, intimidating lobby of Garrick’s firm. Her ribs rattled with tension as she approached the reception desk. “Deliver for Mr. Lydell,” she chirped, affecting a breathless, ditzy persona. “Urgent, high-priority, from ‘Quantum Dynamics’.” “Just leave it,” the glacial receptionist said, barely glancing up from her monitor. “Oh, no, can’t do that,” Bexley insisted, feigning distress. “Company policy. Has to be signed for by Mr. Lydell himself, or his assistant. It’s for the *Altaran Royal* project.” The magic words worked. The receptionist’s posture stiffened. She made a call, then pointed Bexley toward the design wing. “Third floor. Assistant will meet you.” Bexley’s palms sweated as she rode the elevator. She knew the layout of Garrick’s firm intimately from her time there with Maeva. Her target: the server room, or at least a powerful network terminal near Garrick’s private office. She needed to plant the bug and, if possible, initiate a data siphon for their stolen 3D rendering assets. Back at the draft room, the sink, against all odds, stopped leaking. Soren triumphantly tightened the last fitting, a faint smudge of grease marring his cheek. “Behold, the triumph of repurposed plumbing!” he declared, rising to his feet. Maeva stared at the now-functional faucet, a strange warmth unfurling in her chest. “I… I don’t believe it. You actually fixed it.” “A man of many talents,” Soren replied, his gaze soft as it met hers. He moved to the small, cluttered stovetop. “Now, about that ramen budget. Instant noodles, I presume?” They stood shoulder to shoulder, Maeva chopping the solitary spring onion she’d found in the back of the fridge, Soren stirring the boiling water. The cheap steam rose, carrying the faint, comforting scent of MSG. Soren's arm brushed hers, a sudden friction that made her throat seize. The chaos of the day, the threat of Garrick, the impossible commission—it all receded, replaced by the simple, domestic rhythm of shared hunger. She found herself leaning into his space, a foreign, almost reckless act of trust. Just as Soren reached to steady her, his hand gently finding her waist, her phone buzzed with an incoming email. The sender: Garrick Lydell. The subject line read: “So sorry about your little ‘setback’… xo Garrick.” The tender moment shattered. Maeva snatched her phone, her eyes narrowing as she read the sneering words. It was a thinly veiled gloat, a confirmation that he knew about the cyber-attack and the stolen client. Her anger, banked for a moment, roared back to life. “That bastard,” she hissed, her fingernails digging into the phone’s casing. “Everything alright?” Soren asked, his voice carefully neutral, though his eyes held a steely glint. “No, nothing is alright! He’s just rubbing it in, the smug, conniving—!” Before she could finish, the overhead lights flickered violently, then plunged the room into darkness. A soft *thunk* echoed from near the old breaker box. “Oh, for the love of—!” Maeva exclaimed, completely derailed from her fury. “Now what?!” “Oops,” Soren said, a hint of contrition in his voice. “Must have leaned against the breaker switch. My apologies.” He fumbled in the sudden gloom. Maeva didn’t notice his other hand swiftly pulling out his phone, his thumb flying across the screen with practiced speed. He located Garrick Lydell’s contact, scrolled to a specific encrypted field, and with a single, decisive tap, deleted the unique VIP access code for the upcoming Architechnica Symposium. Just as the lights flickered back on, illuminating Soren’s innocent, apologetic expression, a sharp rapping echoed through the doorway. Maeva frowned, glancing at the door. Who could it be at this hour? She pulled it open, her hand still tingling from the residual anger. Standing on her doorstep were two imposing men in perfectly tailored dark suits, their faces impassive. Their eyes, however, held a cold, unwavering intensity that made the hair on her arms prickle. “We are here to speak with His Highness,” one of them stated, his voice devoid of inflection, his gaze fixed over Maeva’s shoulder, directly at Soren.

Thrifting and Theft