Page 9 of Worth the Risk
There are at leasta hundred people standing outside the building, with onlookers gathering along the fringes. Of course Maya would pick DTLA rush hour to stage her protest. Judging by the TV vans parked on side streets, she’s got exactly the attention she wanted.
Good for Highland. Terrible for Pierce Enterprises.
From my office windows, I watch Maya coordinate with what appears to be a small army of media personnel. She’s traded yesterday’s professional blazer for jeans and a Highland Community Center T-shirt, and somehow that makes her more formidable, not less. This is Maya in her element—not the polished activist who stormed my office, but the community leader who can mobilize a hundred people before most of the city has finished their first coffee.
The irony isn’t lost on me. Twenty-four hours ago, I sat in this same spot wondering how to handle Maya Navarro. Now she’s handling me.
“Sir?” Jessica’s voice crackles through the intercom. “The board members are here for the emergency meeting.”
I check my watch. Eight-forty-five. The meeting wasn’t supposed to start until nine, but Harrison likes to get ahead of crisis situations. And a hundred protesters chanting outside our headquarters definitely qualifies as a crisis.
“Tell them I’ll be right there.”
My phone buzzes with a text from Maya:
Rain check accepted. Don’t do anything stupid while I’m busy.
Despite the chaos unfolding outside my window, I find myself smiling. There’s something compelling about a woman who can organize a protest and send sarcastic text messages simultaneously. Which is exactly the kind of thinking that’s going to get me in trouble with the board.
The conference room feels like a war council when I enter. Harrison sits at the head of the table with the other four board members flanking him like generals planning a siege. Stock futures glow on wall-mounted screens, showing Pierce Enterprises down another point in pre-market trading.
The sight of those red numbers reminds me why Harrison has so much power in this room. When stock prices fall, boards get nervous. When boards get nervous, CEOs get replaced.
Harrison doesn’t look up from his tablet. “I assume you’ve seen the news coverage.”
I take my seat at the opposite end of the table, as far from Harrison as the room allows. “Channel 7’s been covering it live since six AM.”
“The Times ran a front-page story this morning.” Board member Patricia Winters slides a newspaper across polished mahogany. “Above the fold, with a full-color photo.”
The headline reads: “David vs. Goliath: Community Center Fights Corporate Development.” The photo shows Maya speaking into a reporter’s microphone, Highland Community Center visible behind her. She looks determined, passionate, completely unafraid of the corporate giant she’s challenging.
She looks like someone worth fighting alongside, not against.
“The story paints Pierce Enterprises as the heartless corporation destroying a beloved community institution,” Patricia continues. “It mentions we’ve refused all attempts at dialogue.”
“Which isn’t entirely accurate,” I point out. “I met with Maya Navarro yesterday.”
“For fifteen minutes.” Harrison’s voice cuts through the room like winter wind. “And according to my sources, you spent most of that time letting her lecture you about community values.”
Ice settles in my veins. Harrison has sources in my building—probably Jessica, possibly others. Which means every conversation, every decision, every moment of doubt gets reported back to the board chair who speaks with my dead father’s voice.
“The meeting was informative,” I say carefully. “I gathered intelligence about Highland’s operations and their specific concerns about the Anderson Project.”
“Their concerns are irrelevant.” Board member Donovan Rice looks up from his phone with the expression of a man who’s never been concerned about anything more pressing than quarterly earnings. “We have legal ownership, all permits, and a construction timeline that’s already been delayed.”
“The timeline was delayed for city planning requirements,” I remind him. “Not community opposition.”
“Until now.” Harrison finally looks at me, his expression glacial. “Now we have protesters outside our building, negative media coverage, and investors asking questions about our crisis management capabilities.”
As if summoned by his words, chanting drifts up from the street: “Pierce has millions, Highland has heart!”
“Catchy,” mutters board member Melanie Doherty.
“Our PR team is fielding calls from three news outlets asking for comment,” Patricia adds. “The kind where we explain why a multimillion-dollar corporation is bulldozing a community center that serves underprivileged families.”
The words hang in the air like an accusation. Because that’s exactly what we’re doing, isn’t it? Bulldozing a community center that serves families who can’t fight back, can’t afford lawyers, can’t do anything except gather in the street with handmade signs and hope someone notices their pain.
Maya noticed. Maya organized. Maya made sure their voices couldn’t be ignored.
