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He looks into my eyes, searching my face, and I can feel the moment when he decides he’s going to kiss me. I want it so much—I want his lips on mine and for him to merge us together into something I don’t understand, but maybe the Universe does.

But then, the door flings open and two red-faced classmates file out of the room one after the other, signaling it’s showtime.

“This is your baby, Shae. You know what to do,” Storm murmurs, pushing a stray strand of hair behind my ear. The tenderness in the touch infuses something else into my spirit.

Maybe it’s hope.

We step into the classroom like we own it.

Or at least, like wedeserveto.

Storm walks beside me, tall and unbothered, while I keep my chin lifted, pretending I’m not five seconds from a heart attack. Professor Hansen’s raised brow says he’s already skeptical, and the other judges—power suits and resting bored faces—look upfrom their notes. One of them is the city manager, a woman with sharp eyes and a tight smile.

I grip my notecards in one hand, but I don’t look at them. I don’t need to.

Storm hands out the stapled presentation decks to each judge and takes his place off to the side, arms behind his back.

Channeling the power of all my ancestors, I step to the podium.

“Good afternoon,” I begin, voice clear. “My name is Shae Rivers. This is my partner, Storm Sandoval. And today, we’re proud to present our proposal. Introducing the BronzeLight Incubator—a community-owned, community-driven business accelerator designed to close the racial wealth gap where it starts: at the foundation of opportunity.”

A few heads lift and Hansen’s brow twitches.

I press forward.

“Bronzeville was once a beacon of Black economic power. We called it the Black Metropolis in the early twentieth century. A place where tailors, bankers, artists, doctors, and tech tinkerers—yes, even back then—built legacies without asking permission. And then, like too many Black neighborhoods, it was redlined, divested, destroyed, and left to decay.”

I glance around the room, then to Storm.

“We believe that power can return—not through pity or charity, but through ownership. Equity. An infrastructure that honors both the culture and the capital required to build the future.”

Storm steps forward now, his voice smooth like silk, cutting like steel.

“BronzeLight is more than an incubator. It’s a cooperative, so it’s structured like other employee-owned businesses but built for entrepreneurs. That means our members don’t just getaccess to capital. They get access toownership. Stake-holding. Profit-sharing. A say in how the space evolves.”

A pause, and then….

“We’re targeting underrepresented founders in three key growth sectors: fintech, healthtech, and automation-forward industries—places where the minority presence is under five percent, despite the innovation potential in those communities.”

I pick up from there, back in my rhythm.

“Participants will receive a year of support: a modest living stipend, mentorship, access to microloans, tech support, and most importantly, shared equity in the businesses they help build. We’re not creating a pipeline to VC exploitation. We’re building intergenerational wealth from the ground up.”

Another pause.

Storm looks out at the panel.

“BronzeLight isn’t about saving anyone. It’s about removing the barriers that were designed to keep us out. We’re not asking for permission. We’re just asking for a runway.”

Silence. Good silence.

And then I step forward for the close.

“Our generation has the tools. The ideas. The drive. What we need is space. Space to breathe, to build, to belong. BronzeLight gives us that, and Bronzeville is where it begins.”

For a moment, the room is completely still.

Then the city manager leans back in her chair and claps. Once. Twice. Then a few others join in—reluctant, maybe, but respectful. There’s a slow ripple of nods and low murmurs of approval from the panel. Even Hansen taps his pen against his notebook, his only tell.