He Deleted My Name From Every Design. I Deleted Him From My Life. Chapter 01
I had spent seven years drawing designs at Adrian Whitmore’s architecture firm.
Seven years.
And my name had never appeared on a single project.
He told me,
“Having your name on the design credit will make people think you got the opportunity through connections.”
I believed him.
Three months after Sophie Carter joined the firm, her name appeared on her very first design proposal.
He said,
“She needs encouragement.”
My designs were submitted to competitions.
But when the winners list was announced, the name written there was Sophie Carter’s.
I went to ask him for an explanation.
In front of everyone, he said—
“Claire’s designs aren’t strong enough to represent this architecture firm.”
“And besides, Claire and I are just colleagues.”
With just a few words, he erased seven years of us.
I didn’t argue.
I simply deleted every way to contact him and bought a ticket out of the city.
……
The day the shortlist for the International Emerging Architect Award was released, I worked until 2 a.m.
On my way home, I bought a cup of hot soup from a convenience store and stood outside, slowly drinking it.
The soup was too hot.
I blew on it, then sent Adrian a message.
“The shortlist came out. I made it.”
Read.
No reply.
I sent another message.
“Did you see it? I wanted to share this with you.”
Five minutes later, his reply came.
“Are you asking me to pull strings with the jury for you?”
My hand froze around the cup.
The soup spilled over and burned the back of my hand.
After Adrian’s mother disappeared with the architecture firm’s startup funds, the thing he hated most was people who got ahead because someone gave them special treatment.
For seven years, I never made our relationship public.
I never asked for design credit on any of my projects.
I never fought for the awards that should have been mine.
I handed away every achievement that should have had my name on it.
All because I wanted to prove—
I, Claire Bennett, was not someone who got opportunities because of connections.
I opened social media and checked it.
Sophie Carter had posted an update.
The photo showed a brand-new independent studio.
Floor-to-ceiling windows.
A long white desk.
A bouquet of white roses sitting on top.
The caption read:
“Thank you, Mr. Whitmore, for this gift. I’ll keep working hard.”
I recognized that studio.
It was the one that had become available at the firm last month.
I had applied for it three times.
Every single time, I was rejected.
Adrian had once told me,
“You don’t need your own space right now. It would be a waste of resources. Wait until there’s a major project.”
Sophie Carter had only been there for three months.
And she got it immediately.
I threw the soup away.
I couldn’t eat anymore.
On my way back to the architecture firm by taxi to pick up my drawings, I saw Adrian’s car parked outside.
He was bending down, helping Sophie Carter take something out of the trunk.
A full box of drafting tools.
“Use these for now. If you need anything else, just let me know.”
“Mr. Whitmore, these are so expensive. I can buy my own…” Sophie Carter said softly, sounding hesitant.
“Good designers need good tools. You shouldn’t settle when it comes to your work.”
His voice was gentle.
“You have talent.”
I stood several feet away.
For seven years, every drafting tool I used had been paid for by me.
He had never once asked whether I had enough.
I once asked if I could apply for expense reimbursement.
He only looked at me.
“Budget is tight right now. You’ll have to manage.”
Sophie Carter noticed me.
“Claire? You’re still not home this late?”
Adrian followed her gaze.
His eyes rested on me for less than a second.
Then he looked away.
“Let’s go. I’ll drive you home. We have an early site visit tomorrow.”
Sophie Carter smiled at me.
“Claire, do you want a ride too? It’s on the way.”
Adrian didn’t even turn around.
“You can take a taxi. Sophie lives in the opposite direction.”
But in the end, he would still return to the home we once shared.
So what exactly counted as “on the way”?
The car drove away.
I stood there.
The night wind lifted the hem of my skirt.
I watched the direction where his taillights disappeared.
I had watched that same direction for seven years.
Back then, he would drive from South District to North Heights just to pick me up after my late nights at work.
Now, I was no longer someone he was willing to take a detour for.
The next day, the architecture firm had to select a submission for the Emerging Architect Award.
My design proposal ranked first.
It was the mixed-use development project that had received unanimous approval from the client last quarter.
That afternoon, the jury results came out.
My project was rejected.
Sophie Carter’s proposal was selected.
I checked the jury evaluation records.
Among the five jury members—
Adrian gave me:
52. And he gave Sophie Carter:
96. Out of all five jurors,
he gave me the lowest score.
I stared at that number.
A ringing filled my ears.
He knew better than anyone.
He knew how many sleepless nights I had spent finishing that proposal.
He had reviewed every sketch.
He had approved every revision.
He had once told me:
“This design is mature.”
And then—
he gave me 52 points.
“Why?”
I stood in the hallway.
My voice was so quiet that almost no one could hear me.
No one answered.
By the time I got home, my entire body was covered in cold sweat.
Adrian sat at the dining table eating beef stew.
He cut a piece of meat with his knife.
“About today’s jury review…”
“You gave me 52 points and Sophie Carter 96.”
“Why?”
He put down his fork and wiped his mouth with a napkin.
“Because I had to avoid making people think I was being unfair.”
“Making people think you were being unfair?”
“People at the firm have already started talking about us. If I gave you a high score, no matter how good your design was, they would say I was favoring you because of our relationship.”
“So I had no choice but to give you the lowest score and bring down your overall ranking.”
“I was protecting you.”
I stared at him.
“Adrian, after seven years, which one of my projects ever succeeded because of you?”
“Every client approval, every presentation, every defense meeting…”
“When was I ever not the one standing there, earning everything myself?”
He picked up his glass and took a sip of water.
“Your problem is that you let your emotions get the better of you.”
“When Sophie Carter presented that day, the client was nodding the entire time.”
“Her ability to communicate her designs was clearly stronger than yours.”
“So you’re admitting you gave her 96 points because she knew how to present herself, not because her design was better?”
He stood up and threw the trash away.
“Claire, can you stop blaming everyone else whenever something doesn’t go your way?”
“You lost. That’s all there is to it.”
I clenched my fists.
My nails dug into my palms.
“If I had lost because I wasn’t good enough, I would accept that.”
“But I lost because of your 52 points.”
“You’re the reason I went from first place to fourth.”
“You did this.”
He glanced at me, impatience flashing across his face.
“That’s the difference between you and Sophie Carter.”
“If it were her, she would smile, congratulate everyone, and move on.”
“Instead of constantly complaining.”
“But you?”
“You always let your emotions control you.”
