Page 27 of Between Passion and Revenge, Part One (The Griot Chronicles #1)

SHAE

M y resolve is put to the test two days later, when Storm and I meet to present our proposal for Professor Hansen’s class.

I expect Storm to give me the third degree about why I haven’t met with him in person, choosing to work asynchronously on the project materials and giving him the driest responses to his texts.

I should have known that Storm Sandoval would be a man undeterred.

“I think you’re gonna wear a track in the hardwood if you keep pacing like that.” Storm sounds amused as we stand outside the classroom. We’re next up for the mock pitch competition hosted inside, and there are several prominent business owners, as well as a city official here to judge.

And there’s Professor Hansen himself, with his gradebook and a readiness to fail everyone who crosses the threshold.

“Sorry, I just…I just want this to go well,” I say, shuffling through my notecards for the dozenth time.

Storm leans against the wall with his hands in his pockets and his ankles crossed. He looks like a Calvin Klein model— except he’s wearing too many clothes, which truly is a shame. And goddamn, he smells so good.

Focus, Shae!

“We’re going to do more than well. We’re gonna win, Shae,” he says, his tone oh-so-easy.

I’m not as sure as he is. Despite all my schooling, volunteer hours with mPOWER, and the civic duty I’ve completed with my father, I’ve never had to pitch anything to anyone.

Storm probably has seen or participated in at least a hundred things like this.

“Hey,” Storm says, stopping my pacing with a firm hand on my wrist. Immediately, my body responds to the action, and I freeze, looking at his fingers curling around my hand.

“What happened to your knuckles?”

Fresh cuts span the tops of his fists, like he scraped them against concrete.

Storm pulls his hand away and inspects the wounds. After a second, he shrugs and says, “Comes with the territory.”

Huh?

“Get over here,” he murmurs, and fuck, now I have another issue. I’m turned on.

“Y-yes?” I ask, stuttering a bit when he pulls me into his body. Then, I melt as his arms wrap around me.

It’s a hug. A simple hug that shouldn’t affect me as much as it does. But with his energy wrapped around me and his arms bracing me close to him, I do the only thing I can do.

I relax.

I breathe.

I borrow some of his strength.

“Repeat after me,” Storm says. “Everything I touch turns to gold.”

I draw back, studying him. “What?”

He raises an eyebrow. “You gonna do what I told you or nah?”

I grin when he smirks, and I repeat the statement.

“Great. Now say, ‘I have everything I need to be successful in this moment.’”

“I have everything I need to be successful in this moment,” I repeat. He breathes in and out to a slow cadence, and he doesn’t have to instruct me to follow his lead.

We take deep breaths, still holding each other, for minutes, long minutes, until he disrupts the stillness.

“Feeling stronger?”

Stronger. I like that. It’s like he knows that “better” isn’t the goal, but accessing strength is.

And it seems like he’s given me some of his.

This is so damn dangerous.

“Yes,” I say. “We’re ready. Let’s rock this.”

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 we deserve to.

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 up from 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 get access to capital. They get access to ownership . 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.

“Well done,” the city manager says. “That was one of the most well-rounded, socially grounded, and fiscally viable proposals we’ve heard today.”

Storm inclines his head. I try to smile, but adrenaline thrums in my limbs, and I’m afraid if I try to hold anything but a neutral expression, I’ll look like I’m having a fit.

A man in a navy pinstripe suit leans forward, his expression thoughtful but probing. “I’m intrigued by the cooperative ownership model. But how would you handle conflicts between co-founders, especially if a startup implodes or pivots mid-cycle?”

Storm steps in.

“Excellent question. We’re implementing a tiered dispute resolution structure that’s modeled partially after how co-ops and credit unions resolve member disagreements.

It starts with peer mediation, moves to an advisory panel review, and then to binding arbitration if necessary.

That way, the community resolves its own disputes before they ever reach litigation. ”

The man nods, making a positive sound.

Another judge, a woman with a stack of stapled papers in front of her, speaks next. “And what’s the ask? You’ve got the plan, the passion—but what would it take to get this off the ground?”

I finally find my voice again. “An initial $500,000 in seed funding. $300,000 for program development and build-out, $150,000 for the first round of founder stipends and admin salaries, and $50,000 for legal and accounting. You’ll see our projections and analysis of the market cap in the deck in front of you, but the short of it is we anticipate being operational within nine months of funding. ”

I pause, then add: “And by year three, we project being self-sustaining.”

There’s another silence—shorter this time. The city manager glances at the other panelists and says, “Thank you both. That concludes our questions.”

Storm and I exchange one last glance, and goddamn it if I don’t feel absolutely giddy.

This. This is the stuff that sets my soul on fire: building, innovating, crafting a fully realized something out of nothing.

This is…this is magic.

Professor Hansen clears his throat, and Storm and I stop in unison. The professor scribbles something on the notepad in front of him slowly, as if he has all the time in the world. When he finally does look up, his gaze is cool and exacting.

“Miss Rivers,” he says.

“Yes, Professor?”

“You’ve had a tendency in my class to lead with ideals rather than logistics. But today, you showed me you’ve finally learned how to balance both.”

My mouth falls open slightly, but I recover.

“Thank you, sir.”

“And Mr.Sandoval,” Hansen adds, tapping his pen once more, “I’ll admit—I expected arrogance. But instead, I saw poise. And partnership.”

Storm shrugs a little, his voice even. “I had a good teammate.”

Hansen’s expression doesn’t change, but there’s some hidden message in the way his eyes narrow. I think it’s a positive thing.

“That’s all. You’re dismissed.”

We walk out of the room in silence, but as soon as the door clicks shut behind us, I collapse against the hallway wall and let out a ragged breath.

Storm leans in close and whispers, “Told you we’d win.”

I release a shaky laugh, feeling on the edge of hysterics.

“Yeah, you did.”

As much as I don’t want to admit that he’s right about something, well, he is right about this.

That presentation couldn’t have gone better. I feel high, light, like I’m floating on air.

“We need to celebrate,” Storm blurts out. Confusion must be super apparent on my face, because he chuckles a bit.

“What, you don’t want to hang out with me?” Storm asks, clutching at his chest as if I’ve wounded him.

“You’re too damn goofy, Storm,” I say, trying to be stern but my lips twitch into a smile against my will.

That’s just…that’s just what he does to me.

“Well… I2I is one of my favorite songs from my childhood, so…” He takes a step forward, forcing me toward the wall until my back hits the cold plaster. He licks his lips, and on anyone else, it’d be an immediate “ew,” but on Storm Sandoval?

Hello, panties. Sorry to drench you.

“You think I haven’t noticed?” he says, his voice low, and I forget the fact that we’re standing outside our classroom.

“Noticed what, Storm?” I reply, my voice just as soft as his.

“That you’ve been ignoring me, Sweetness. How am I supposed to make you fall in love with me if you’re always running away?”

My breath traps in my chest.

“Stop playing, Storm,” I whisper. The side of his mouth kicks up in a cocky grin.

“You think I’m playing, Shae?” He leans closer—so close I can feel his minty breath fanning across my lips.

“I…” the single syllable rasps out of me, but Storm doesn’t move.

We stay like that for a long moment. Too long, it feels like, and not nearly long enough.

But Storm must recognize something in my expression, something I struggle to deal with even within my mind, because instead of pushing more—pushing for what he wants and what he knows I really want as well—he tilts his chin up and places a delicate kiss on my forehead.

It’s like all the chaos in my mind stops, and I’m transported to a place where things are simple, life is fair, and it makes sense for Storm Sandoval to be with me.

“I’m not giving up on us, Shae,” he murmurs, his lips still pressed to my skin.

“I know you aren’t, Storm,” I reply. And that’s what I’m afraid of.