Page 6 of Worth the Risk (Worth It All #1)

Jessica’s expression tightens almost imperceptibly before she nods and retreats. I make a mental note to assume every conversation with her gets reported to Harrison.

Turning back to the window, I study the demonstration below.

Maya has moved to coordinate with volunteers distributing water bottles.

Even from thirty floors up, her competence is obvious—the way people naturally defer to her judgment, how she manages multiple conversations while keeping an eye on the bigger picture.

She’s a natural leader. The kind of person who could run a company if she’d been born into different circumstances.

The kind of person my father would have either acquired or destroyed.

I pull out my phone and read her message again before typing:

Meeting went fine. Are you free this afternoon to discuss collaboration opportunities?

Her response comes quickly:

Maya:

Depends. Are you actually interested in saving Highland, or is this another PR strategy?

The directness catches me off guard. Most people don’t ask such pointed questions in business communications, especially when addressing a CEO. But Maya Navarro isn’t most people.

I find myself typing honestly:

Declan

I’m interested in finding solutions that work for everyone.

Maya:

That’s politician speak for “PR strategy.” Try again.

Despite everything—the board’s threats, the protesters outside, the millions hanging in the balance—I laugh out loud. When was the last time someone called me out so directly?

Declan:

Coffee at 2 PM? You pick the place. I promise straight answers.

Maya:

Highland Community Center. 2 PM. Come alone, and wear something that won’t make you look like you’re slumming it.

I look down at my thousand-dollar suit and Italian leather shoes. Everything I’m wearing probably costs more than Highland’s monthly operating budget.

Declan:

Understood. See you at 2.

The rest of the morning passes in a blur of meetings and phone calls, but my attention keeps drifting to the window.

The protesters have settled into sustained presence, with people rotating while maintaining core organizers.

Maya moves through the crowd like a conductor leading an orchestra, somehow making it all look effortless.

At lunch, I escape to my private bathroom and change into the most casual clothes I keep in the office—jeans and a polo shirt. It’s still probably too formal for Highland, but it’s the best I can manage without going home.

As I prepare to leave, my phone rings. Harrison’s name appears on the screen.

“Second thoughts about this afternoon’s meeting?” His tone suggests he knows exactly where I’m going.

“Just following through on the board’s directive.”

“The board’s directive was to end this situation, Declan. Not to legitimize it by treating that woman like an equal partner.”

“She organized a hundred people before breakfast, Harrison. Like it or not, she’s already a player in this game.”

“Players can be removed from games.” The menace in his voice is unmistakable. “Your father understood that.”

“My father’s been dead for two years.”

Silence stretches between us like a chasm. When Harrison speaks again, his voice carries the authority of decades spent wielding Maxwell Pierce’s legacy.

“Be very careful, son. Some legacies are too important to let sentiment destroy them.”

The line goes dead.

I stand in my office, looking out at the protesters still gathered below, and realize I’m at a crossroads.

I can follow Harrison’s path—manipulate Maya into believing we’re collaborating while planning Highland’s destruction behind her back.

It’s what my father would have done. It’s what the board expects.

Or I can do something different. Something honest.

The drive to Highland takes fifteen minutes through downtown traffic. I park across the street and sit in my car for a moment, studying the building that’s caused so much upheaval.

Highland Community Center looks exactly like what it is—a converted warehouse painted bright yellow with murals covering the side walls. Children’s artwork decorates front windows, and a hand-painted sign lists programs in English, Spanish, and Tagalog.

My father would have seen inefficient use of valuable real estate. Looking at it now, I understand his perspective. The building is old, probably not up to current seismic codes, situated on prime redevelopment land.

But I also see Maya’s point. This isn’t just a building—it’s a community anchor, where people gather, children learn, families find support when they need it most.

Maya appears in the doorway before I can exit my car, as if she’s been watching for me. She’s changed from her protest T-shirt into a sundress that somehow manages to look both professional and approachable. Her hair is pulled back, and she wears the confident smile of someone on home turf.

I cross the street, and she meets me halfway.

“Declan Pierce, welcome to Highland Community Center.” Her tone is formal but warm underneath. “Thank you for coming.”

“Thank you for agreeing to meet.” I gesture toward the building. “I have to admit, I’ve never seen Highland up close.”

“Well, let’s fix that.” She leads me toward the entrance. “Fair warning—it’s not as polished as Pierce Enterprises, but it’s home to a lot of people.”

As soon as we walk through the front door, I understand what she means.

Highland hums with activity—children practicing dance moves in one room, adults attending what looks like job training in another, teenagers clustered around computers.

The walls overflow with photos, artwork, and announcements in multiple languages.

It’s chaotic and vibrant and completely unlike any space I’ve ever worked in. It’s also undeniably alive in a way Pierce Enterprises’ pristine offices never are.

“This is our main hall,” Maya says, gesturing toward the large open area. “Community meetings, cultural events, emergency shelter. During the Northridge earthquake, we housed fifteen families here for three weeks.”

We walk through the building, and Maya introduces me to people we encounter—Rosa, who runs the kitchen; Mrs. Hidalgo, who coordinates volunteers; Carlo, who helps with technology training.

Everyone is polite but wary, clearly wondering what Pierce Enterprises’ CEO is doing in their community center.

I don’t blame them for the suspicion. If I were them, I’d be suspicious too.

“And this is my office,” Maya says, opening a door at the back of the building.

The office is small but organized, with a well-used desk and walls covered with photos spanning Highland’s twenty-year history. One photo catches my attention—a younger Maya standing next to a man who shares her determined expression and dark eyes.

“Your father?”

“Yes. Highland’s tenth anniversary celebration.” Maya’s voice softens. “He would have been proud of today’s protest. He always said fighting for your community is never wasted effort, even when the odds seem impossible.”

I study the photo, thinking about my own father’s legacy and the expectations that shaped my approach to business. Maxwell Pierce would have seen Ernesto Navarro as naive, idealistic, doomed to failure in a world that rewards pragmatism over passion.

But looking at this thriving community center, at the photos documenting two decades of celebrations and achievements, I wonder if my father might have been wrong about some things.

“Declan.” Maya settles behind her desk and gestures for me to take the opposite chair. “Let’s talk about why you’re really here.”