Page 1 of Worth the Risk (Worth It All #1)

I’m not usually like this—barging into corporate lobbies like some kind of crusader. But eight hundred and forty-three signatures will do that to a person.

Sure, I’m passionate, but not the confrontational kind.

Not the woman who storms marble-floored fortresses in sensible flats and a blazer that’s seen better board meetings.

Yet here I am, clutching this manila folder like it contains state secrets instead of petition signatures, my heart hammering against my ribs.

Eight hundred and forty-three neighbors who showed up when I knocked on their doors. Eight hundred and forty-three people who believe Highland Community Center is worth saving. Eight hundred and forty-three voices Pierce Enterprises has been ignoring for six months.

“Ma’am, do you have an appointment?” The receptionist’s voice slices through my resolve.

I approach her imposing desk, shoulders back, chin up—the posture my father always said commanded respect. “I need to see Declan Pierce. It’s about Highland Community Center.”

Her manicured fingers never pause in their typing. “Mr. Pierce doesn’t take unscheduled meetings. If you’d like to make an appointment?—”

“I’ve been trying to make an appointment for six months.” Every ignored email, every transferred call sits in those words. “Six months of runarounds while you people plan to destroy everything my father built.”

Now she looks up, her expression shifting from bored professionalism to cautious alarm. “Ma’am, I’m going to need you to lower your voice?—”

“My voice is perfectly reasonable.” I lean forward, palms flat on the cold marble. “What’s unreasonable is a corporation bulldozing a community center that’s served downtown LA for twenty years without so much as a conversation.”

Behind me, the elevator chimes. Expensive shoes whisper across marble. I don’t turn—can’t afford to lose this momentum, not when Jessica is finally reaching for her phone with obvious reluctance.

“Is there a problem here?”

The voice carries the kind of authority that makes spines straighten involuntarily. Deep, cultured, probably used to being obeyed.

Perfect. Someone with actual power.

I turn around, and?—

Putang ina…

I’d done my research the moment we received that impersonal eviction letter.

Declan Pierce, thirty-two, heir to a real estate empire, Harvard MBA, Olympic rower.

Made his billions when a social media startup he’d backed in college exploded into one of the biggest platforms in the world.

A man who moved fast and broke things, then donated enough to charity that people forgot about the casualties.

I’d watched conference videos where he smirked like the world was full of chess pieces he could move at will.

But research doesn’t capture presence.

Declan Pierce is devastating in the way expensive things are—perfectly crafted, elegantly designed, completely untouchable.

The charcoal suit fits like it was cut specifically for his frame, and there’s something about the way he holds himself that suggests he’s never doubted his right to any space he occupies.

“Mr. Pierce.” I force my voice steady, reminding myself why I’m here. “I’m Maya Navarro from Highland Community Center. I’ve been trying to reach you about the Anderson Project.”

Something flickers across his expression—surprise, maybe recognition. Or who knows? Maybe indifference. I can barely think straight.

This is the man who wants to erase my father’s legacy with a signature on a demolition order.

“Miss Navarro, I believe my development team has been in communication with your organization.”

“Communication?” My voice climbs despite my best efforts. “You mean the form letter informing us Highland would be demolished for luxury condos? That communication?”

His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. “Perhaps we should continue this conversation in my office.”

“Perhaps we should.” I clutch the folder like a shield. “I have eight hundred and forty-three reasons why the Anderson Project should be reconsidered.”

We stare at each other across the gleaming lobby. I feel Jessica’s curious gaze, the subtle attention of other employees who’ve slowed their purposeful stride to witness this—David challenging Goliath on his home turf.

“Very well.” He gestures toward the elevators. “Fifteen minutes.”

“I’ll take whatever time I need.”

The corner of his mouth twitches. Annoyance or amusement—impossible to tell. “Fifteen minutes, Miss Navarro. That’s more than most people get.”

The elevator climbs to the thirtieth floor in suffocating silence.

When the doors part, I follow him down a hallway lined with expensive art and floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing the city sprawling below.

Highland is down there somewhere—a small rectangle of hope in the urban maze, its days numbered if I fail here.

Declan’s office screams success in the most impersonal way possible. Massive. Spotless. Dominated by a desk that probably costs more than Highland’s annual budget. Awards and certificates march across the walls like conquests—Pierce Enterprises reshaping Los Angeles one development at a time.

“Please, sit.” He moves behind his desk without sitting himself, silhouetted against the afternoon sun.

“I prefer to stand.” I open my folder, place the petition on his pristine surface.

The letterhead catches the light— Highland Community Center, Founded 2005, Ernesto Navarro .

My throat tightens seeing Papa’s name there, his careful signature on the incorporation papers still visible through the folder’s plastic sleeve.

“Highland Community Center has served the Filipino-American community for twenty years. We provide after-school programs for over two hundred children, job training for adults, cultural preservation classes?—”

“I’m aware of Highland’s... contributions.” He glances at the papers without touching them.

“Contributions?” The word scrapes my throat.

“Highland isn’t just a building, Mr. Pierce.

It’s my father’s dream made real. When he arrived from the Philippines with nothing but hope and twenty-seven dollars, he saw Filipino families struggling alone in a new country.

So he rented a storefront, painted the walls himself, and created a place where we could belong. ”

I touch the petition, Papa’s name still visible on the letterhead.

“Highland is where teenagers learn traditional dances so they don’t forget who they are.

Where Lola Soledad brings her grandchildren when their parents work double shifts.

When Papa died two years ago, the entire community gathered there to honor him—because Highland was his gift to all of us. ”

“It’s a building on prime downtown real estate.” His voice cuts through my passion with surgical precision. “Serving a very small demographic in a city that desperately needs housing.”

My carefully planned arguments crumble. “Small demographic? We serve over three thousand people directly. Those people matter, Mr. Pierce. They have lives, families?—”

“And they’ll still have those things when Highland relocates.”

“Relocates?” My voice cracks. “Where? You’ve made no provisions in any document we’ve seen. You’re not moving Highland—you’re erasing it.”

For the first time, his composure wavers. He reaches for a file, sets it down unopened. “The Anderson Project will provide much-needed housing?—”

“Luxury condos starting at eight hundred thousand dollars.” I’ve done my homework. “That’s not housing for people in this neighborhood. That’s housing for people like you.”

The words slice between us. His eyes narrow, and something dangerous flickers beneath the polish.

“People like me?” Soft voice, steel underneath.

Heat burns my cheeks, but I don’t retreat. “The kind who sees dollar signs where others see home. Who thinks profit margins matter more than people.”

“The kind who understands development creates jobs, generates tax revenue, contributes to economic growth.” He steps closer—expensive cologne, coffee, the weight of a long day. “Who deals in reality instead of sentiment.”

“Sentiment?” My folder tumbles from numb fingers, scattering petition sheets across his pristine carpet.

Papa’s incorporation papers flutter to the floor, his signature face-up like an accusation.

“My father didn’t just build Highland from nothing—he built it with his bare hands.

Painted every wall, installed every light fixture, because he couldn’t afford contractors.

He poured twenty years of sixteen-hour days into that place. ”

I kneel, gathering the scattered legacy.

“The night before he died, Papa made me promise to protect Highland. Not just the building—his life’s work.

His proof that immigrants don’t just take from this country, we give back.

” I stand, papers trembling in my grip. “That’s not sentiment—that’s sacred trust.”

Something shifts in his face. The hard edges soften for a heartbeat, and I glimpse something almost like understanding before it vanishes.

“Your fifteen minutes are up, Miss Navarro.”

I kneel for the scattered papers, hands trembling with fury and something else—an unwelcome awareness of how his proximity affects my breathing, how his voice saying my name sends treacherous flutters through my chest. I stand, clutching the rumpled petition, leaving the sheets by his feet like fallen soldiers.

“This isn’t over.”

“No.” His storm-gray eyes lock on mine. “I don’t imagine it is.”

I walk toward the door, spine straight despite the tears threatening at the corners of my eyes. Months of planning, hoping, fighting—and I’ve failed to move him even an inch.

At the door, I turn back. He’s still watching me with an unreadable expression, Papa’s incorporation papers scattered by his feet like broken promises.

“Six weeks.” My voice doesn’t shake. “That’s all the time you’ve given us before demolition begins.

Six weeks to find somewhere else for eight hundred and forty-three people to gather, celebrate, belong.

” I meet his stare. “My father spent twenty years building something beautiful. You’ll destroy it in six weeks for luxury condos most of our families could never afford. ”

The papers on his floor catch the light—Papa’s careful handwriting, his dream reduced to scattered documents. “I hope it’s worth it, Mr. Pierce. I hope when you’re cashing those checks, you remember the man who built what you’re tearing down.”

The elevator doors close like a coffin lid.

I allow myself thirty seconds to fall apart—thirty seconds for tears, for shaking hands, for the crushing weight of failing Papa’s dying wish. The promise I made to protect his life’s work, and I couldn’t even get fifteen minutes to matter.

Then I wipe my eyes, straighten my shoulders, and start planning.

Highland Community Center survived twenty years in downtown LA. Economic downturns, natural disasters, the slow creep of gentrification. Papa built it to last, and I’ll be damned if I let some privileged CEO tear down what took him a lifetime to create.

It will survive Declan Pierce, too.

Even if part of me can’t stop thinking about the moment his composure cracked, or the way my name sounds in his voice, or the fact that for just an instant, I thought I saw something real beneath all that expensive armor.

Focus, Maya. Papa’s legacy is what matters.

But as the elevator carries me back to ground level, I can’t shake the feeling that this war just became a lot more complicated.