Page 24 of Worth the Risk (Worth It All #1)

Four to three.

That’s all it took to destroy everything my father built, everything I’ve fought to preserve, everything these families depend on.

Four hands raised for demolition. Three for preservation. Highland Community Center condemned by Harrison Gordon’s single deciding vote after a tied board—so close I can still taste the possibility of victory that slipped away when he chose profit over partnership.

I sit in my car outside Pierce Enterprises for several minutes after storming out of their boardroom, my hands gripping the steering wheel as I try to process what just happened.

Through the tower’s glass walls, I can see tiny figures moving through their corporate lives, probably already discussing construction timelines and quarterly projections while Highland’s death sentence becomes another agenda item.

Declan fought for us in there. I have to give him that. He called for the formal vote, challenged Harrison publicly, advocated for Highland with a passion that surprised even me. For a moment, when the vote was tied at three-three, I actually believed we might win.

But corporate democracy has a way of crushing hope with surgical precision.

The drive back to Highland passes in a blur of downtown traffic and numbing fury.

Not the hot rage I felt in Pierce Enterprises’ boardroom, but the cold, calculated anger that comes from watching intelligent people make morally bankrupt decisions while congratulating themselves on their fiduciary responsibility.

I park outside Highland and sit for a moment, staring at the building that’s been sentenced to death.

In six weeks, bulldozers will tear down these walls.

In six weeks, twenty years of community history will become rubble so Pierce Enterprises can build luxury condos for people who will never understand what this place meant.

I force myself to get out of the car and walk through Highland’s front doors, stepping into the main hall where our community had gathered this morning with such hope.

Around me lie the scattered remains of what was supposed to be a celebration. Coffee cups and pastries Rosa brought for the good news we expected. Banners the teenagers made reading “Highland Forever.” Flowers from Mrs. Hidalgo’s garden to mark our victory.

All of it now feels like decorating a funeral.

“Maya?” Rosa’s voice cuts through my stunned silence. She stands in the kitchen doorway, dish towel in her hands, face bright with hope. “Any word from Pierce Enterprises?”

I look around Highland’s main hall at the dozen community members still here, waiting for an update.

Tita Sol organizing tomorrow’s after-school program schedules.

Carlo setting up computers for evening ESL classes.

Families who’ve made Highland their second home for decades, all trusting me to save what we can’t bear to lose.

How do I tell them it’s over?

How do I tell them I failed?

“Pierce Enterprises voted for demolition.” The words come out flat, emotionless. “Highland is going to be torn down.”

The silence that follows is deafening. Rosa drops her dish towel. Tita Sol stops organizing papers. Carlo looks up from the computer he was fixing, his teenage face confused and hurt.

“But your presentation,” Tita Sol says slowly. “The research, the financial projections—surely they saw the benefits of preservation?”

“They saw them.” I stand on unsteady legs, walking to the windows that look out toward downtown LA where Pierce Enterprises’ tower rises like a monument to corporate power. “They just didn’t care.”

“What about Declan?” Lianne asks quietly. “What about the collaboration?”

What about Declan? What about the man who spent Tuesday night telling me he was falling for me, who promised he’d advocate for Highland with everything he had, who made me believe that some things mattered more than profit margins?

“I don’t know,” I admit. “I don’t know anything right now except that Highland has been sentenced to death.”

My phone buzzes with a text from Declan?—

Maya, I’m so sorry. Can we talk tonight? I need to see you.

I stare at the message, trying to process what there is to talk about. But after everything that’s happened, what’s left to discuss?

“I need some air,” I tell Lianne, heading toward Highland’s front door.

“Maya, wait?—”

But I’m already outside, walking toward the small park across from Highland where children play on weekends and families gather for impromptu picnics. The late afternoon sun casts long shadows between the buildings, and for some reason, the beauty of the light makes everything hurt worse.

My phone rings. Declan’s name on the caller ID makes my chest tighten.

“Maya.” His voice is rough, exhausted. “Thank God you answered.”

“What’s there to say, Declan? Your board voted for demolition. Highland is finished.”

“It’s not finished. There are options, alternatives?—”

“Stop.” The word comes out sharp, like a knife cutting through the last thread of hope I’ve been clinging to.

“Just stop, okay? I don’t want to hear about alternatives or relocation assistance or community partnerships.

Highland is going to be demolished. Everything my father built is going to be erased so Pierce Enterprises can build luxury condos. ”

“Maya, I know you’re hurting, but there might still be ways to?—”

“Ways to what? The board voted for demolition, Declan. Harrison made sure of that.” The words taste bitter as I sink onto a park bench, suddenly exhausted. The math is brutal but honest. Even with Declan’s vote, Highland might still have lost. “So we never had a real chance.”

“We had a chance. Patricia and Donovan voted for preservation. That’s something.”

“Something.” I laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “I sat in that room and watched Highland die, Declan. I watched your board treat my father’s legacy like a line item on a budget spreadsheet. And the worst part is, I actually believed this collaboration meant something.”

“It did mean something. It does.”

“Does it? Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like Highland gets torn down regardless of how much research I did, how compelling my presentation was, or how many people signed my petition.

” The bitterness in my voice surprises even me.

“Maybe you were right from the beginning. Maybe Highland was always going to lose.”

“I never said that.”

“You didn’t have to. Your board said it for you.” I stand, needing to move, needing to do something other than sit here feeling helpless.

“And I’m going to fight that decision.”

“How? It’s over.”

“I’ll find another way.”

The words sound hollow, like promises made in desperation rather than confidence. “What if there isn’t another way? What if this is just how the world works—corporations win, communities lose, and idealistic community organizers learn hard lessons about power?”

“Is that what you think happened here?”

I look back toward Highland, its windows glowing with the warm light of evening programs that will end in six weeks.

“I think I fell for a fantasy. I thought passion and research and good intentions could overcome money and corporate politics. I thought...” I trail off, unable to finish the sentence.

“You thought what?”

“I… I don’t know what I thought…” I let my voice fade until silence stretches between us, broken only by the sound of the distant traffic.

“I understand why you need time,” he says finally, his voice hollow. “But Maya, this isn’t over. Highland isn’t over. I won’t let it be.”

The line goes dead, leaving me staring at my phone and the weight of promises that feel impossible to keep.

I sit in the park for another hour, watching Highland’s windows glow with warm light as evening classes begin.

Inside, community members are going about their normal routines—teenagers working on homework, adults practicing English, seniors playing cards and sharing stories.

They don’t know yet that their gathering place has an expiration date.

When I finally walk back into Highland, the building hums with its usual Monday evening energy. But now I see it differently— not as a thriving community center but as a condemned building where people are living out their final days of normalcy.

“Maya.” Tito Ricky emerges from my office, his expression grave. “Lianne told me about Pierce Enterprises’ decision. I’m sorry.”

“What are Highland’s legal options?” I ask without preamble.

“Limited. Pierce Enterprises owns the property, has all necessary permits, and followed proper procedures for community notification.” Tito Ricky settles into one of the folding chairs, suddenly looking older than his sixty-five years.

“We could file challenges based on environmental impact or historic significance, but those would only delay demolition, not prevent it.”

“How long could we delay it?”

“Six months, maybe a year if we’re very lucky and very strategic.”

“Then that’s what we’ll do. Buy time, look for alternatives, keep fighting until there’s nothing left to fight with.”

“Maya.” Tito Ricky’s voice is gentle. “Sometimes knowing when to surrender is as important as knowing when to fight.”

“I’ll never surrender Highland. Not to Pierce Enterprises, not to anyone.”

“Even if fighting means destroying yourself in the process?”

I think about Declan’s phone call, about the way his voice cracked when he tried to explain the board’s decision.

I think about the last night we spent together, about feeling safe and cherished and hopeful about our future together.

I think about the choice between protecting my heart and protecting Highland.

“Highland is worth any sacrifice,” I say. “Including my own.”

But as I say the words, I wonder if I’m trying to convince him or myself. Because the truth is that losing Highland hurts less than the thought of losing Declan, which makes me question everything I thought I knew about my priorities and my purpose.

“Anak.” Rosa appears with a cup of coffee and the kind of knowing look that suggests she sees through my carefully constructed emotional armor. “You look like someone who’s lost more than a building.”

“Highland is more than a building.”

“Highland is a community center. Important, valuable, worth fighting for, but still just a building.” Rosa settles beside me, her presence warm and comforting. “The young man who was learning to dance Tinikling, who helped with dishes after the festival—he’s not just a building.”

“He’s the CEO of the company that’s going to destroy Highland.”

“He’s a man who looked at you like you hung the moon.” Rosa sips her coffee thoughtfully. “Men like that don’t come along often, Maya. Buildings can be rebuilt. Hearts... hearts are harder to repair.”

“Highland can’t be rebuilt. This specific place, with its history and memories and community connections—once it’s gone, it’s gone forever.”

“And love? Once that’s gone, is it gone forever too?”

The question hits too close to home. Because the truth is that I’m not just mourning Highland’s future—I’m mourning the future Declan and I imagined together.

The possibility of building something meaningful that combined community advocacy with business innovation.

The dream of proving that profit and purpose could coexist.

“Rosa, what if I made a mistake? What if I let my feelings for Declan cloud my judgment about what’s best for Highland?”

“What if you did? Mistakes can be corrected if the people involved care enough to do the work.”

“He didn’t save Highland. After everything—the collaboration, the research, the promises—he couldn’t convince his own board to preserve one community center.”

“Maybe he couldn’t. Or maybe he’s still trying.” Rosa stands, collecting her coffee cup. “Before you decide that young man is your enemy, make sure you understand what battles he’s fighting on his side of this war.”

After Rosa leaves, I sit alone in Highland’s main hall, listening to the sounds of community life continuing around me.

Children’s laughter from the after-school program.

Adult voices discussing current events in the ESL class.

The quiet concentration of teenagers working on homework at the computer stations.

All of it scheduled to end when Pierce Enterprises’ demolition crews arrive.

My phone, which I turned back on to coordinate Highland’s evening programs, buzzes with a text from Declan?—

I’m not giving up on Highland. I’m not giving up on us. Please don’t give up either.

I stare at the message, trying to decide whether it represents hope or false promises. Declan says he’s not giving up, but his board has already voted for demolition. What exactly is he planning to do that he couldn’t accomplish during the collaboration?

And more importantly, do I have the emotional strength to trust him again, knowing that Highland’s future—and my heart—hang in the balance?

I delete his message without responding and turn my attention back to Highland’s evening programs. Tomorrow I’ll start exploring legal challenges and community organizing strategies. Tomorrow I’ll figure out how to fight Pierce Enterprises without Declan Pierce as an ally.

Tonight, I just want to sit in my father’s community center and remember what it feels like to be home, before home disappears forever.