The Last Blueprint

The Harrington Heiress

Victoria stared at her phone, willing it to ring.

Behind her, Catherine paced the Sterling Architecture office, her heels clicking on the marble as she fumed.

"He threatened Julian," Catherine said for the third time. "He physically threatened him."

"You said he didn't touch him," Victoria replied, still looking at her phone.

"The intent was there. You should have seen his face—absolutely feral. Your brother was terrified."

Victoria doubted that. Julian had never been terrified of anything in his life. Startled, perhaps. Caught off guard. But terrified? She turned to face her mother.

"What exactly did Julian do?"

Catherine's expression tightened. "He was defending your interests. Those blueprints—"

"Were Ethan's father's work," Victoria interrupted quietly. "Ethan told me about them once. Thomas Cole's final design."

"Created during your marriage—"

"Thomas died a year before our marriage." Victoria's voice was firmer now. "You know that."

A flicker of discomfort crossed Catherine's face. "Julian was acting in good faith."

"Julian burned them, didn't he?"

Silence.

Victoria closed her eyes. She'd known Ethan for seven years, been married to him for five. He was many things: too quiet, too stubborn, too content to stay in the background, but he'd never been violent. Never raised his voice, never lost control.

Until now.

She picked up her phone and dialed his number. It rang once, twice, then went to voicemail. She tried again. Same result.

"He's not answering," Victoria said.

"Good," Catherine replied. "Let him cool off. He'll come crawling back once he realizes what he's walking away from."

But Victoria wasn't so sure. Something about this felt different and final.

She dialed again but nothing.

The Harrington Estate stood in the Hudson Valley, dark and imposing. Ethan's truck rattled up the long gravel drive, past overgrown gardens and crumbling statuary.

He parked in the circular courtyard and stepped out. The November wind cut through his jacket, carrying the smell of dead leaves and old money.

"You're early."

Ethan turned. A woman stood on the steps, arms crossed, wearing jeans and a heavy sweater that couldn't quite hide her aristocratic bearing. She was perhaps thirty, with dark hair pulled into a practical ponytail and eyes that assessed him like an equation that didn't quite balance.

"Ethan Cole," he said.

"I know who you are." She descended the steps with the confidence of someone who owned everything she touched. "Isabelle Harrington. Marcus is my grandfather."

"He called me about structural issues—"

"I know what he called you about." Isabelle stopped a few feet away, studying him with open skepticism. "What I don't know is why he thinks you can help when three engineering firms have already declared this place unsalvageable."

"Maybe they missed something."

"They spent months working here—thousands of paid hours and detailed reports.” Isabelle gestured toward the estate. "They all reached the same conclusion: the foundation is compromised, the water damage is too extensive, and the cost of repairs would exceed the value of rebuilding from scratch."

"And you agree with them?"

"I agree with data." She tilted her head. "What makes you different, Mr. Cole?"

Ethan looked past her at the Gothic facade, noting the pattern of cracks in the stonework, the way certain sections seemed to settle unevenly. "Let me see the west wing."

"That's the worst section—"

"I know. That's why I want to see it."

Isabelle regarded him for a long moment, then nodded. "Follow me."

The west wing was a mess. Water stains covered the walls. The floors sagged, and parts of the ceiling had fallen, exposing rotten beams. The air smelled damp and moldy.

"Engineers condemned this entire section," Isabelle said, handing Ethan a flashlight. "Foundation failure, they said. Nothing to be done."

Ethan moved through the space methodically, running his hands along walls, pressing against floors, examining the angles where walls met ceilings. Isabelle watched with her arms crossed, her expression a mixture of curiosity and doubt.

He knelt beside a particularly warped section of flooring, pressing his palm flat against the wood. Then he moved to the exterior wall, examining the pattern of cracks in the plaster. His father's voice echoed in his memory: Architecture is detective work. Every building tells you what's wrong if you know how to listen.

"Do you have the original construction plans?" Ethan asked.

"From 1889? Yes."

"What about renovation records?"

"Some. Why?"

Ethan stood, brushing dust from his hands. "The problem isn't foundation failure. It's water."

"We know there's water damage—"

"No, I mean the water is the cause, not the symptom." He pointed toward the far wall. "Sometime in the 1950s, someone did renovation work. They redirected groundwater flow—probably when they added modern plumbing. See how the damage pattern runs perpendicular to the original foundation lines?"

Isabelle stepped closer, following his gesture.

"They channeled groundwater directly under this section of the foundation," Ethan continued. "Over decades, it eroded the support structure. The foundation didn't fail, it sank. Different problems, different solutions."

"That's..." Isabelle trailed off, her skepticism cracking. "That's why the damage is worse on this side."

"Yes."

"And the engineers?"

"They saw foundation failure and stopped looking. They treated the symptom without finding the disease." Ethan turned to face her. "The estate can be saved. You need to redirect the water back to its original flow path, reinforce the affected foundation sections, and repair the structural damage. Expensive, but not impossible."

Isabelle stared at him. "Our engineers spent three months analyzing this building."

"They looked at the wrong things."

"And you figured this out in five minutes?"

"Seven," Ethan corrected quietly.

For the first time, something like respect flickered across Isabelle's face. Then the sound of running footsteps shattered the moment.

"Miss Isabelle!" The housekeeper, Mrs. Chen, appeared in the doorway, breathless and panicked. "It's Mr. Marcus—he's collapsed!"

They found Marcus Harrington crumpled on the floor of his study, one hand clutching his chest, the other reaching for nothing. He looked pale and could barely breathe.

"Grandfather!" Isabelle dropped to her knees beside him.

"I'm calling 911," Mrs. Chen said, already pulling out her phone.

"No." Marcus's voice was barely a whisper, but firm. "No hospitals."

"You need—"

"I'm eighty-seven years old," Marcus interrupted, forcing his eyes open. "I know what I need." His gaze found Ethan. "Did you... figure it out?"

"Yes," Ethan said simply.

"Can you fix it?"

"Yes."

A smile ghosted across Marcus's pale lips. "Hire him, Isabelle. Whatever he wants. Thomas Cole's son... will save my estate."

"Grandfather, we need to get you to a hospital," Isabelle insisted, but Marcus's hand found hers.

"Promise me," Marcus whispered. "Promise you'll hire him."

"I promise. Just stay with us."

Marcus's eyes fluttered closed.

"Grandfather!"

But the old man had lost consciousness, his breathing thin but steady. The paramedics arrived minutes later despite his protests, and Isabelle rode with him in the ambulance, barking orders to Mrs. Chen about which doctors to call.