Page 31 of Worth the Risk (Worth It All #1)
EIGHTEEN MONTHS LATER
The smell of adobo and lumpia fills Highland’s newly renovated main hall as I weave between tables laden with Filipino delicacies, checking last-minute details for tonight’s celebration.
The space is magnificent—twice the size of the original building, with soaring ceilings and floor-to-ceiling windows, while maintaining every detail that made Highland feel like home.
This is Highland at its absolute best—vibrant, welcoming, alive with the energy of a community celebrating not just survival, but transformation.
“Maya, anak, where should the musicians set up?” Tita Sol calls from near the stage, gesturing toward the Filipino Cultural Center’s dance troupe arranging their equipment.
“Main stage, left side,” I call back, checking my clipboard. “And remember, the dedication ceremony starts at eight-thirty sharp.”
Tonight marks eighteen months since Highland was saved from demolition, eighteen months since Declan and I discovered that some partnerships can change not just two lives, but entire communities.
“Maya.” Declan appears at my elbow carrying two cups of coffee and wearing the kind of focused expression that means he’s been coordinating celebration logistics since dawn. After eighteen months together, he still makes my heart skip.
“Rosa’s handling the kitchen coordination, Carlo has the sound system under control, and I just finished hanging the new photos in the heritage hallway.”
“Everything sounds perfect.” I accept the coffee gratefully. “Are you nervous about tonight?”
“Should I be nervous about Highland’s anniversary celebration?”
“You should be nervous about whatever you’ve been secretly planning with Rosa and Carlo.” I study his expression, noting the barely contained excitement he’s been carrying for weeks. “Declan Pierce, you’re terrible at hiding surprises.”
“I’m not hiding anything,” he says, which is obviously a lie given the way his mouth twitches when he’s trying not to smile.
Before I can interrogate him further, Lianne appears with her event coordinator clipboard and an urgent expression.
“Maya, the Channel 7 news crew wants to interview you about Highland’s evolution into a community land trust model,” she says. “They’re particularly interested in the legal framework being replicated in other cities.”
After Lianne disappears to coordinate with the news crew, Declan and I continue our final walkthrough. The building is twice its original size now, with modern amenities and accessibility upgrades, but every detail honors Highland’s history.
We pass the children’s library where teenagers tutor younger kids in both English and Tagalog, the job training center where Highland’s families learn skills that launch careers, and the cultural preservation archive where oral histories and traditional recipes are stored for future generations.
Each space represents something my father dreamed of but never had the resources to create.
“Maya, mahal,” Declan says quietly as we pause in the heritage hallway where photos document Highland’s evolution from my father’s twenty-seven-dollar dream to a community center that serves as a national model.
His use of the Tagalog endearment still makes my heart flutter—a small sign of how completely he’s embraced not just me, but my culture, my community, my entire world. “Can I show you something?”
He leads me toward the new wing that houses Highland’s expanded programming spaces. At the end of the hallway, there’s something new—a brass plaque beside double doors that lead to Highland’s largest meeting space.
The Alejandro Navarro Community Assembly Hall
In honor of Highland Community Center’s founder whose vision of community began with twenty-seven dollars and a dream. “Some things are worth building, even when you start with nothing”
I stop walking, my breath catching as I read my father’s words—words I haven’t seen written anywhere in twenty years.
“Declan...” His name comes out as barely a whisper. “You dedicated the assembly hall to my father.”
“Highland’s community dedicated it to your father,” he corrects gently. “I just coordinated the plaque installation and made sure his favorite quote was included.”
Tears gather in my eyes as I trace the engraved letters with my fingertips. “How did you know that quote? I’ve never told you those exact words.”
“Rosa remembered them from early board meetings. She said your father used that phrase whenever people doubted that Highland could succeed with such limited resources.” His hand settles gently on my lower back.
“Maya, your father didn’t just build Highland with twenty-seven dollars.
He built it with the belief that communities matter more than profit margins. ”
I lean into Declan’s warmth, overwhelmed by the magnitude of what he’s created.
Highland exists because of my father’s dream, but Highland 2.
0 exists because Declan understood that some things are worth preserving even when preservation costs millions.
The irony isn’t lost on me—the man who was supposed to demolish Highland became the one who ensured its permanence.
“Thank you,” I whisper against his shoulder. “For saving Highland, for honoring my father’s memory, for proving that some partnerships are worth fighting for.”
“Thank you for teaching me what building something meaningful actually looks like.” His arms tighten around me. “Maya, everything good in my life started the day you scattered those petition papers across my office floor.”
I pull back to look at him, remembering that moment—how terrified I was, how certain I was that he was the enemy, how impossible our current reality would have seemed. “I was so angry that day.”
“You were magnificent that day,” he corrects, brushing a tear from my cheek. “Fierce and passionate and completely unafraid of a CEO who thought he held all the power. You changed everything in fifteen minutes.”
“We changed everything,” I correct. “Together.”
“Maya, Declan!” Carlo’s voice echoes down the hallway. “The celebration is starting, and people want to see Highland’s co-directors!”
Co-directors. The title still makes me smile. Eighteen months ago, I was Highland’s executive director fighting to save the building from Declan’s company. Now we’re partners in every sense that matters.
The main hall is packed with three generations of families, community leaders, city officials, and media representatives.
But more than that, it’s filled with the people who make Highland home—Rosa coordinating food service, Tita Sol directing volunteers, Carlo documenting everything with his camera.
I step onto Highland’s small stage, looking out at faces that represent twenty-one years of community building.
These are the people who never gave up on Highland’s mission even when the building seemed doomed.
Children who learned to read in our library have grown into adults raising their own families here.
Seniors who immigrated decades ago sit beside teenagers born in Los Angeles, all united by Highland’s role in their lives.
“Welcome to Highland Community Center’s anniversary celebration. Tonight, we celebrate not just Highland’s preservation, but its evolution into proof that community ownership and business innovation can strengthen each other.”
The applause is sustained, genuine. I see Mrs. Santos, who I taught to video-call her grandchildren. Tito Ricky, whose legal expertise saved us more times than I can count. Rosa, whose siopao recipe has fed every celebration Highland has ever hosted.
“Two years ago, Highland Community Center faced demolition. Pierce Enterprises planned to tear down this building to make way for luxury development. But Highland’s community proved that our value was never about the building—it was about the relationships, the support networks, the commitment to preserving culture and serving families. ”
I find Declan in the crowd where he’s standing near the back, letting me have this moment. “We learned that community preservation and business innovation can strengthen each other when the right partnerships make community ownership possible.”
“Highland’s future is secure because its community controls its destiny. No corporation can threaten Highland’s programming. No developer can acquire Highland’s property. We own our home, and we’ll decide how it serves our community for generations to come.”
The applause is thunderous, and as it dies down, I realize Declan is walking toward the stage. He moves with confidence, but there’s something different in his expression—nervous energy mixed with excitement.
“Thank you, Maya,” he says, joining me on the stage. “Highland Community Center represents everything I didn’t understand about development when I first walked through these doors two years ago.”
A few chuckles from the crowd. “I thought Highland was an obstacle to progress. I thought community preservation and business success were fundamentally incompatible.” He pauses, his smile soft, intimate. “Maya Navarro and Highland’s community taught me that I was wrong about all of those things.”
The crowd is completely silent now, and I realize Declan is sharing something more personal than his usual remarks about development strategy.
His voice carries a vulnerability I recognize from our quiet moments together, when he talks about his childhood or his fears about living up to his father’s expectations.
“But Highland’s community also taught me something about partnership, about what it means to build something meaningful with someone who shares your values and challenges your assumptions.
” He steps closer, his gaze locked on my face.
“They taught me that some things are worth risking everything to protect—community, principles, and love.”