Page 2 of Worth the Risk (Worth It All #1)

As soon as the elevator doors close behind Maya Navarro, the silence in my office feels deafening.

Her final words echo in the space she’s vacated, each syllable cutting deeper than the rest. My father spent twenty years building something beautiful. You’ll destroy it in six weeks for luxury condos.

Eight hundred and forty-three families. The number sits on my chest like a stone.

I move to the windows overlooking downtown Los Angeles, pressing my palm against the cool glass as Maya’s accusations replay in my mind. Six months of silence. No transition assistance. No alternative programming locations. No support for families who’ve depended on Highland’s services for decades.

That can’t be right. Pierce Enterprises has protocols for community displacement—comprehensive transition programs I personally approved three years ago when I took over from my father.

When we develop properties that house community services, we don’t just shut them down without offering alternatives. We’re not that kind of company.

Are we?

The thought sends ice through my veins. I’ve spent three years trying to modernize Pierce Enterprises, to move beyond my father’s more ruthless approaches to development.

Community engagement initiatives, transition support programs, stakeholder communication protocols—I implemented all of it to ensure we weren’t the corporate bulldozer Maya clearly believes us to be.

But if Highland has been stonewalled for six months...

I press the intercom button. “Jessica, what transition support have we offered Highland Community Center since we informed them of the building’s demolition?”

There’s a pause—the kind that makes my chest tighten with dread. Jessica’s voice crackles through, hesitant. “I’ll need to check with Mr. Gordon’s office. He took over that file about six months ago.”

Harrison Gordon. My father’s former right-hand man, current Chairman of Pierce Enterprises’ board, the man who supposedly taught me everything about responsible development. The man who reports to me but somehow managed to control Highland’s case for six months without my knowledge.

“Get me everything,” I say, voice deceptively calm. “Every email, every letter, every phone log. And Jessica? Do it quietly.”

“Of course, Mr. Pierce.”

I end the call and return to the window, Los Angeles sprawling beneath me like a circuit board of ambition and broken promises.

The afternoon light slants through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting long shadows across the pristine hardwood.

Everything in this office speaks of control, of power carefully wielded, yet somehow Harrison has been operating completely outside my oversight.

Maya’s words circle my thoughts like vultures.

Six months of being shuffled around and given the runaround while you people plan to destroy everything my father built.

The fire in her dark eyes when she said it—deep brown with flecks of amber that caught the light—as they held mine without flinching.

The way her voice cracked slightly when she spoke about her father’s dying wish, the promise she made to protect his legacy.

She’s beautiful, but not in the polished, predictable way of the society women who typically orbit my world. Maya Navarro has substance. Depth. The kind of passionate conviction that radiates from every gesture, every word, every defiant tilt of her chin when she faced me down in my own office.

When she spoke about Highland Community Center, about the families depending on its services, her entire being seemed to vibrate with purpose.

Twenty-seven dollars and a dream that became a community center serving three thousand people.

My father came to Los Angeles with considerably more capital, but the drive was the same—build something, leave a mark, create a legacy that would outlast the man who built it.

Highland’s entire annual operating budget is roughly $180,000 according to the financial documents my team compiled months ago. Less than what I spend on wine in a year, yet they’ve built something that’s lasted twenty years and serves thousands of people.

But if Harrison has been systematically ignoring their requests for basic communication...

My inbox fills with six months of correspondence—or rather, Highland’s increasingly desperate attempts at correspondence.

Email after email from Maya and other board members, each one more carefully worded than the last. Professional inquiries about relocation assistance.

Requests for meetings to discuss transition timelines.

Proposals for temporary space during construction.

Offers to work with Pierce Enterprises on community impact mitigation.

None of them answered. Not a single reply in six months.

I scroll through Maya’s messages, watching her tone evolve from hopeful to frustrated to grimly determined.

Her early emails are almost apologetic, as if she’s afraid of taking up too much corporate time.

I understand how busy your schedule must be, but when you have a moment, we’d love to discuss Highland’s future. .. Professional. Respectful. Patient.

By month two, there’s steel beneath the politeness. We’ve submitted three formal requests for meetings and haven’t received acknowledgment. As Highland serves over 3,000 community members, we need to begin planning for service continuity...

By month three, she’s citing legal precedents and community impact studies. Los Angeles Municipal Code requires 90-day notice for displacement of community services. We received 60 days for lease termination with no discussion of transition assistance...

By month four, her emails become more frequent, more urgent. Children’s after-school programs end in eight weeks with no alternative location identified. Families are asking questions we can’t answer because Pierce Enterprises won’t respond to our communications...

Month five brings barely controlled desperation. We’ve attempted contact through every available channel. Twenty-seven phone calls to your office have been transferred or gone unreturned. This is not acceptable business practice...

By month six, she’d stopped emailing altogether. Instead, she was in my lobby with a folder full of signatures and a heart full of righteous fury, given fifteen minutes to plead her case to the CEO who’d been oblivious to her community’s plight.

The intercom crackles. “Mr. Pierce? Mr. Gordon is here to see you.”

Perfect timing. “Send him in.”

Harrison enters with the practiced ease of someone who’s shaped this company longer than I’ve been alive.

At sixty-two, he’s everything I used to think I’d become—silver-haired, expensively dressed, utterly unmoved by what he’d dismiss as “sob stories about community centers and immigrant dreams.” He settles into the leather chair across from my desk as if he owns it.

“Declan, I understand you had an interesting visitor this afternoon.” His tone carries the casual authority of a man who’s been Maxwell Pierce’s voice for decades, even two years after my father’s death.

“Maya Navarro. She’s concerned about Highland Community Center’s transition process.”

Harrison’s laugh is sharp, humorless. “Transition process? That’s a generous way to describe it. The woman stormed our lobby demanding meetings she has no right to expect.”

Something cold settles in my stomach. “What compensation has Highland received for their displacement?”

“Standard notice. Sixty days, as required by law.” He adjusts his tie with casual indifference. “They’ve had six months to figure out their situation since we terminated their lease.”

“And assistance? Moving costs? Program transition support? Alternative space recommendations?”

His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “What are we, a charity? Those aren’t legal requirements, Declan, and you know it.”

The pieces click with sickening clarity. “Harrison, what happened to our community displacement protocols? The transition programs I approved when I took over?”

“Suggestions, not requirements.” He waves a dismissive hand. “I prefer efficiency over hand-holding.”

Heat rises in my chest. “Hand-holding? We’re talking about a community center that serves three thousand people. Highland has been operating for twenty years—this isn’t hand-holding, it’s basic corporate responsibility.”

“Corporate responsibility is to our shareholders, not every neighborhood organization that thinks they’re entitled to special treatment.

” Harrison’s voice sharpens with the authority of a man who’s been having this argument longer than I’ve been in business.

“We provide legal notice, they find alternative arrangements. Simple.”

I stand, pacing to the windows. “Why wasn’t I involved in Highland’s case from the beginning?”

“Because I’ve been handling community relations since your father founded this company thirty-five years ago.

” The paternal tone creeps in—the same voice that used to comfort me after Maxwell’s more brutal business lessons, now wielded like a weapon.

“And because I know better than to let personal feelings interfere with business decisions.”

“Personal feelings?” I turn back to face him. “This is about our reputation. About not creating exactly the kind of community opposition we’re dealing with now. Maya Navarro organized eight hundred and forty-three signatures in six months because we gave her no other choice.”

“Opposition we can manage with legal teams and security contractors.” Harrison stands, straightening his suit with practiced authority. “What we don’t do is blur the lines between corporate strategy and community charity work.”

“Since when is basic communication charity work?”

“Since it encourages dependency and entitlement.” His eyes narrow. “Declan, your father never would have questioned these methods. Maxwell understood that business success requires difficult decisions, not community hand-holding.”