Chapter 2 - The Letter They Never Wanted Me To Read
The envelope was thin.
Almost too thin to contain something important.
But Connor’s expression told me it was anything but ordinary.
He carefully lifted the page from behind my drawing, as if he was afraid touching it too quickly might damage something valuable.
I watched his eyes move across the first few lines.
Then he looked at me.
Not at the bill.
Not at the expensive restaurant surrounding us.
At me.
“Amber,” he said quietly. “Do you know who wrote this?”
I shook my head.
“No.”
My voice sounded smaller than I wanted.
I reached for the paper.
For a second, I expected him to stop me.
Instead, he handed it over.
The handwriting was unfamiliar.
Elegant.
Precise.
The kind of handwriting that belonged to someone who took their time choosing every word.
At the top of the letter was a name.
Evelyn Carter.
I frowned.
I knew that name.
But I couldn’t place it.
Then I read the first sentence.
Amber,
I saw your work at the Chicago Architecture Student Exhibition eight months ago.
My breathing changed.
I remembered that exhibition.
Barely.
It had been one of the few moments in my life when I felt like I belonged somewhere.
I had spent weeks preparing my collection.
Black-and-white drawings of Chicago buildings at night.
Not just buildings.
Stories.
Every window represented someone.
Every empty street represented a moment people forgot.
I remembered standing beside my artwork, waiting for someone to notice.
Hundreds of people walked past.
Some stopped.
Most didn’t.
My parents didn’t even come.
My father said he had a business dinner.
My mother said she wasn’t interested in “student projects.”
I remembered pretending it didn’t hurt.
Then I continued reading.
Your drawings were different from everything else displayed that evening. You didn’t draw buildings. You captured what people leave behind inside them.
I swallowed.
Nobody had ever described my work like that.
Not my professors.
Not my employers.
Not my parents.
The letter continued.
I wanted to speak with you after the exhibition, but you left before I could find you. I asked the organizers for your contact information, but they were unable to share it.
Then, three months later, I found your portfolio online.
I froze.
Online?
I had uploaded some of my work to a small artist website.
Nothing serious.
Just a place where I kept my drawings.
The letter continued.
I believe you have something rare. A way of seeing the world that cannot be taught.
I would like to discuss a possible opportunity with you.
Please contact me.
At the bottom was a phone number.
And a company name.
Carter Urban Design Group.
My fingers tightened around the paper.
Connor noticed.
“You know that company?”
I looked up.
“No.”
But I had heard of it.
Everyone in Chicago’s architecture world had.
Carter Urban Design Group was responsible for some of the most famous restoration projects in the city.
They worked with museums.
Historic buildings.
Luxury developments.
The kind of company my father respected.
The kind of company that would never use the word “hobby” when talking about design.
Connor looked at the portfolio again.
“How long have you been creating these?”
“Since I was a kid.”
“And your parents know?”
The question landed harder than I expected.
I looked at the bill.
The note.
The empty chairs where they had been sitting.
Then I answered.
“They know.”
Connor was quiet.
“What did they say?”
I laughed once.
Not because it was funny.
Because the answer was too painful.
“They said I was wasting my potential.”
Connor looked confused.
“But this…”
He pointed at the drawings.
“This is potential.”
I looked away.
For years, I had trained myself not to believe compliments.
Especially about my art.
Because every compliment from someone else had been followed by doubt from home.
“You’re talented, but…”
“You’re creative, but…”
“You should think realistically, but…”
The word after “but” always mattered more.
Connor closed the portfolio slowly.
Then he looked toward the bill.
“I’m going to ask you something.”
I nodded.
“Do you want me to call your parents?”
My first instinct was yes.
I wanted them to come back.
I wanted my father to look me in the eye and admit he had gone too far.
I wanted my mother to apologize.
I wanted the entire restaurant to watch them walk back through those doors and realize they had underestimated me.
But then I remembered the note.
Let’s see how failure finds her way out of this one.
They weren’t waiting to help me.
They were waiting to prove something.
“No,” I whispered.
Connor studied my face.
“Are you sure?”
I closed the letter.
“Yes.”
For the first time that night, the answer came easily.
I was sure.
Connor nodded.
“Then let me make a call.”
I immediately shook my head.
“No. I can’t ask someone to rescue me.”
“I didn’t say rescue.”
He tapped the portfolio.
“I said opportunity.”
Before I could respond, he walked away.
I watched him cross the restaurant.
He stopped near the host stand and spoke quietly into his phone.
A few guests glanced toward me.
Normally, I would have lowered my head.
Tonight, I didn’t.
I looked down at my drawings instead.
The same drawings my father called little pictures.
The same drawings my mother said would never pay my bills.
For the first time, I wondered if maybe they were wrong.
A few minutes later, Connor returned.
His expression was different.
More serious.
“Amber.”
I looked up.
“Yes?”
“There’s something you should know.”
My stomach tightened.
“What?”
He placed his phone on the table.
A message was open.
From an unknown number.
Connor looked uncomfortable.
“I didn’t send this.”
I stared at the screen.
The message was short.
But it made my entire body go cold.
Someone had already contacted him.
Someone who knew I was here.
Someone who knew about my portfolio.
The message said:
DO NOT LET HER LEAVE THE RESTAURANT UNTIL I SPEAK WITH HER.
I looked at Connor.
“Who sent that?”
He didn’t answer immediately.
Because another message appeared.
This time with a name.
May you like
And the moment I saw it, I forgot how to breathe.
It was from my father.
