Page 7 of Worth the Risk (Worth It All #1)

As Declan settles into the chair across from my desk, I try to reconcile the man in front of me with the corporate shark I met last week. In jeans and a polo shirt, he looks younger, more approachable.

Almost human.

But I’ve learned not to trust corporate costume changes. Men like Declan Pierce don’t accidentally wear casual clothes to community centers—every choice is calculated.

“I’m here because this morning’s protest was impressive,” he says, his gray eyes meeting mine directly. “A hundred people organized, coordinated media coverage, a message that resonated with reporters and viewers alike. That takes skill.”

“Those people showed up because Highland matters to them,” I say carefully, “not because I’m particularly skilled at manipulation.”

The word choice is deliberate—let him know I understand what he does for a living.

“Don’t sell yourself short.” He leans forward slightly. “I watched from my office window. You moved through that crowd like you were conducting an orchestra. Everyone knew their role, everyone stayed on message, everyone looked to you for direction.”

There’s something deeply unsettling about the idea of him watching me from thirty floors up, analyzing my every move like I’m a chess piece he needs to understand before capturing.

“Were you taking notes for your security team?”

“I was trying to understand who I’m dealing with.” His honesty surprises me. “Maya Navarro isn’t what I expected.”

“What did you expect?” I ask, though I’m pretty sure I know the answer. Some hysterical community activist who’d fold under corporate pressure.

“Someone easier to dismiss.” A small smile plays at the corner of his mouth, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Someone who’d accept a token gesture and disappear quietly.”

I arch an eyebrow. At least he’s being honest about underestimating me. “Many have made that mistake. It rarely ends well for them.”

“I’m learning that.” He shifts in his chair, and I catch a glimpse of something that might be genuine respect. “I certainly didn’t expect someone close to my age who can mobilize a hundred people before breakfast and then send sarcastic text messages while running a protest.”

Despite myself, I feel heat creep up my neck. Focus, Maya. Charm offensive is still an offensive.

“You started the texting,” I point out.

“I did. And I’m glad I did, because it told me we might be able to have a real conversation.”

“About what?” I lean back in my chair, crossing my arms. Body language that says I’m not buying whatever he’s selling.

“About finding a solution that works for everyone.”

Everyone. Corporate speak for “finding a way to get what we want while making you think you got something too.”

“Define ‘everyone,’” I say. “Because in my experience, when corporations say ‘everyone,’ they mean ‘shareholders first, everyone else if convenient.’”

“Highland gets time to explore alternatives. Pierce Enterprises gets community cooperation while we work through the process. The media gets a story about collaboration instead of confrontation.”

I almost laugh. “So Highland gets the illusion of a fighting chance while you use us as a public relations shield. Make it look like you’re being responsive while you finalize demolition plans behind our backs.”

“It’s not—” He stops, runs a hand through his hair. “Okay, yes, the optics matter. But it’s more than that.”

“How much more?” I study his expression, looking for tells. “Because what you’re describing sounds exactly like corporate damage control with extra steps.”

“I mean that Pierce Enterprises is a business, and businesses adapt to changing circumstances. If the collaboration reveals alternatives that work financially, we’ll genuinely consider them.”

“Such as?” I keep my voice flat, unimpressed.

“Mixed-use development. Incorporating Highland into new construction instead of demolishing it entirely. Historic preservation that adds value instead of limiting it.” He pauses. “I don’t have all the answers, Maya. But I’m willing to look for them.”

The admission sounds genuine, but I’ve been dealing with corporate doublespeak for six months. “What’s Pierce Enterprises really getting out of this besides good PR? Because I doubt your board approved a collaboration just to be nice.”

“Time,” he says simply. “Time to let the media attention die down while we handle regulatory requirements. Time to explore options that might actually be more profitable than luxury condos.”

There it is. “So it IS about managing the optics. Making Highland go away quietly instead of fighting you in the press.”

“It’s about business,” he corrects. “But business that takes community impact into account. My father built Pierce Enterprises on the principle that profit justifies everything. I’m not sure I agree with that approach anymore.”

I lean forward, genuinely curious despite myself. “Since when? Because your track record suggests otherwise. Three community facilities demolished since you took over, all replaced with luxury developments. That doesn’t sound like someone who’s questioning his father’s approach.”

Something flickers across his face—discomfort, maybe guilt. “Those decisions were made before I... before I understood the full impact of our development practices.”

“And what changed? Some convenient corporate come-to-Jesus moment right when Highland becomes a PR nightmare?”

“Watching a hundred people march through downtown LA because they believe in what you’re fighting for,” he says quietly.

“Reading eight hundred and forty-three signatures from people who trust you to represent their interests. Sitting in this office and seeing twenty years of community history that my company wants to erase.”

The words sound sincere, but I can’t afford to believe them. Not when Highland’s future hangs in the balance.

“Pretty words, Mr. Pierce. But actions matter more than speeches.” I keep my voice steady, professional. “If we hypothetically agreed to this collaboration, what would it actually look like? Specifics, not corporate buzz phrases.”

“Partnership. Joint meetings to explore alternatives, shared research on development options that preserve Highland’s mission, coordinated community outreach.” He leans forward. “Real collaboration, Maya. Not you versus us, but us working together.”

“For how long?”

“As long as it takes to explore every viable option.”

“And if no viable options exist?” I ask, though we both know the answer.

His jaw tightens. “Then Highland gets relocated with Pierce Enterprises’ full support—funding, new facilities, assistance with the transition. No family gets left behind.”

I want to laugh at the audacity. “You mean after you’ve exhausted every alternative and made yourselves look reasonable, you’ll throw us some relocation money and call it charity?”

“I mean we’ll ensure Highland’s mission continues, even if the building changes.”

“Highland’s mission is tied to this community, this location, this building my father restored with his own hands.” My voice hardens. “You can’t just transplant a community center like it’s a corporate office.”

“I understand that. Which is why we need to explore alternatives that keep Highland rooted here.”

I study his face, weighing every micro-expression. He seems genuine, but I’ve learned not to trust seems. “You want me to bet Highland’s future on your good intentions?”

“I want you to bet Highland’s future on a partnership that gives you more influence than fighting us from the outside.”

At least he’s being direct about the power dynamics. “And if I refuse? If Highland keeps fighting?”

“Then you’ll lose,” he says simply. “Highland is going to be demolished with or without your cooperation. The only question is whether you want to fight that battle from the outside or work for alternatives from the inside.”

The bluntness should anger me, but instead it clarifies everything. He’s right—Highland is outgunned, outfinanced, and running out of time. Six months of being ignored proved that traditional channels don’t work. This collaboration might be my only chance to save what Papa built.

But it could also be an elaborate trap.

“If Highland hypothetically agreed to this—and I’m not saying we would—I’d need guarantees. In writing. With specific timelines, deliverables, and consequences if Pierce Enterprises doesn’t hold up their end.”

“Of course.”

“And I’d need to know you have actual authority to make these commitments. I won’t waste Highland’s time collaborating with someone whose board can override every decision.”

Something flickers across his expression—uncertainty, or maybe concern. “I have authority to negotiate. Final decisions require board approval, but they’ve authorized me to explore collaborative solutions.”

Not a complete answer, and we both know it. “Your board authorized you to explore ways to make Highland’s opposition disappear quietly. That’s not the same thing.”

“It’s more nuanced than that.”

“Corporate nuance usually means ‘we’re lying but with plausible deniability.’” I lean back, studying him. “Why should I trust you?”

The question hangs between us like a challenge. Declan is quiet for a long moment, and I catch something unguarded in his expression.

“Because you’re right to be suspicious,” he says finally. “Because everything you’ve said about corporate damage control and managing optics is probably true to some degree. Because I can’t promise my board won’t override decisions that cost too much money.”

The honesty is more disarming than any sales pitch would have been.

“But,” he continues, “you’re also out of options. Highland can keep fighting and definitely lose, or take a chance on this collaboration and maybe find something that works. Those are your only choices.”

I hate that he’s right. Hate that six months of being ignored has led to this—trusting the enemy because it’s the only path left.