Page 25 of Worth the Risk (Worth It All #1)
“Site preparation begins in three weeks,” Harrison announces. “Highland Community Center has been cooperative with the relocation process, which should minimize community opposition during demolition.”
Highland has been cooperative. The phrase makes my jaw clench.
Maya has spent two weeks coordinating Highland’s evacuation with the efficiency of someone who’s accepted defeat, who’s channeled her considerable organizational skills into adaptation rather than resistance.
From Pierce Enterprises’ perspective, her leadership during the transition makes our demolition timeline much smoother.
From my perspective, watching Maya manage Highland’s dissolution while refusing to speak to me has been excruciating.
“Any concerns about community backlash during demolition?” Patricia asks, though her question sounds perfunctory rather than genuinely concerned.
“Highland’s director has been very professional about the transition,” Harrison replies, and I catch the pointed way he emphasizes “professional.” “No protests, no media campaigns, no legal challenges. The community appears to have accepted the board’s decision.”
Because Maya chose survival over symbolic resistance. Because she’s proven she can lead Highland through its worst crisis without anyone’s help, including mine. Because she’s evolved beyond needing rescue from corporate CEOs who make promises they can’t keep.
“Declan?” Harrison’s voice cuts through my internal processing. “You’ve been quiet this morning. Any observations about the transition process?”
Five pairs of eyes focus on me, and I realize this is another test. Harrison has been conducting these subtle evaluations for two weeks, probing whether my judgment remains compromised by personal feelings, whether I can represent Pierce Enterprises’ interests despite my advocacy for Highland’s preservation.
“The transition has proceeded more smoothly than anticipated,” I say carefully. “Highland’s leadership demonstrated exceptional organization and community coordination during a difficult process.”
“Highland’s leadership.” Donovan Rice leans forward slightly. “You mean Miss Navarro specifically?”
Another probe. Another opportunity to prove my professional objectivity by discussing Maya like she’s a business problem rather than the woman I fell for while learning traditional dances in her community center.
“Miss Navarro’s management of Highland’s relocation has been impressive from a logistical standpoint,” I reply. “Coordinating program transitions across multiple partner organizations while maintaining service continuity requires significant organizational skills.”
It’s true, professional, and completely inadequate for describing what I’ve witnessed over the past two weeks.
Maya has accomplished something extraordinary—leading Highland’s community through devastating loss while preserving everything that actually matters about their gathering place.
She’s proven that Highland’s value was never about the building Pierce Enterprises is demolishing.
She’s also proven she doesn’t need me to save what she cares about most.
“Good,” Harrison says with approval that feels like condescension. “I’m glad to see you’re maintaining appropriate perspective on the situation.”
Appropriate perspective. As if my “inappropriate perspective” was the problem rather than Pierce Enterprises’ inability to recognize Highland’s value before voting for its destruction.
“Now, regarding the Westside project,” Harrison continues, opening another folder.
“Given the Anderson Project’s success, the board is considering expanding our approach to similar community-adjacent developments.
Declan, I’d like your assessment of acquisition opportunities in areas with comparable community resistance patterns. ”
I stare at Harrison, processing what he’s asking.
Pierce Enterprises wants to replicate the Highland model—identify community centers and gathering places, acquire the properties, demolish existing facilities, and build luxury developments that serve entirely different populations.
They want me to use everything I learned from Highland’s destruction to target other communities for the same fate.
“I’m not sure I understand the question,” I say slowly.
“Community organizations often occupy valuable real estate at below-market rates,” Melanie explains. “Highland demonstrated that these groups can be encouraged to relocate voluntarily if the process is managed professionally. We’d like to identify similar opportunities.”
“You want me to find other community centers to demolish.”
“We want you to identify underutilized properties with development potential,” Harrison corrects. “Properties where community organizations might benefit from relocation assistance and partnership opportunities.”
The euphemisms are careful, corporate, designed to make systematic community displacement sound like business strategy. But the underlying message is clear—Highland was a template, not an exception. Pierce Enterprises wants to scale this approach across Los Angeles.
“What kind of timeline are we discussing?” I ask, though every instinct tells me to refuse immediately.
“Preliminary market analysis within sixty days. Property acquisition strategy within six months.” Harrison makes notes on his tablet. “This could position Pierce Enterprises as the premier developer for transit-adjacent community sites.”
Transit-adjacent community sites. Another euphemism for the gathering places that anchor neighborhoods, that provide services for families who can’t afford alternatives, that preserve cultural traditions and support networks for communities Pierce Enterprises has never bothered to understand.
“I’ll need time to consider the scope and methodology,” I tell Harrison.
“Of course. But Declan, I want to emphasize the importance of this project for your continued leadership development within the company.” Harrison’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Successfully implementing community-responsive acquisition strategies could establish you as an industry innovator.”
The threat is subtle but unmistakable. My future at Pierce Enterprises depends on proving I can replicate Highland’s destruction on a larger scale. That I’ve learned the right lessons from Maya’s heartbreak and Highland’s dissolution.
That I can be trusted to prioritize profit over the principles that made me question Pierce Enterprises’ approach in the first place.
After the meeting ends, I retreat to my office and close the door, needing space to process what just happened.
Harrison wants me to become the architect of systematic community displacement.
To use my relationship with Maya, my understanding of Highland’s value, my insight into community dynamics to identify targets for corporate acquisition.
It’s the logical evolution of Pierce Enterprises’ business model. It’s also a betrayal of everything Maya taught me about what makes developments valuable beyond their profit margins.
My phone sits on my desk, Maya’s contact information just a few touches away.
For two weeks, I’ve been drafting and deleting messages, trying to find words that might bridge the gulf between Highland’s destruction and the feelings that developed between us.
Every attempt sounds like excuse-making or damage control.
But this morning’s meeting changes the stakes. Harrison isn’t just asking me to accept Highland’s demolition—he’s asking me to ensure that Highland becomes the first casualty in a much larger campaign.
My computer chimes with an email from Harrison:
Declan, attached are preliminary market analyses for three potential community acquisition targets. Please review and provide initial assessment by Friday. Looking forward to your insights on replicating the Highland model.
Three communities. Three potential Highlands, with their own Maya Navarros fighting to preserve what matters most to families who depend on community gathering places.
I delete the email without opening the attachments.
There’s a knock on my office door—not Jessica’s polite announcement, but the confident rap of someone who doesn’t wait for permission.
The door opens and Elliot walks in, carrying two cups of coffee and wearing an expression I recognize from fifteen years of friendship—he’s about to deliver uncomfortable truths I need to hear.
“You look like hell,” he says, settling into his usual chair and sliding one coffee across my desk.
“I feel worse than I look.” I accept the coffee gratefully, noting how Elliot has made it exactly the way I’ve preferred since college—strong enough to fuel crisis management, no cream to dilute the impact. “What brings you to my fortress of professional isolation?”
“Concern for my best friend, who’s been sitting in this office for two weeks looking like someone stole his dog.
” Elliot settles back in his chair, studying my expression with the kind of attention that comes from years of reading my moods.
“Plus, I heard about this morning’s board meeting.
Harrison wants you to systematize Highland’s destruction? ”
“He wants me to identify ‘underutilized properties with development potential.’ Three communities to start, expansion plan to follow.” I run my hand through my hair, feeling the weight of impossible choices.
“Apparently Highland was such a successful template that Pierce Enterprises wants to scale the approach.”
“And you told him?”
“I told him I’d consider the scope and methodology.” The words sound pathetic even to me. “Which is corporate speak for ‘I need time to figure out how to refuse without destroying my career entirely.’”
Elliot is quiet for a moment, his gaze drifting toward my windows that overlook the arts district. From here, Highland Community Center is invisible among the maze of buildings, but its presence hangs between us like unfinished business.