Page 12 of Worth the Risk
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.”
