Page 2 of Worth the Risk
The elevator climbs to the thirtieth floor in suffocating silence. When the doors part, I follow him down a hallway lined with expensive art and floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing the city sprawling below. Highland is down there somewhere—a small rectangle of hope in the urban maze, its days numbered if I fail here.
Declan’s office screams success in the most impersonal way possible. Massive. Spotless. Dominated by a desk that probably costs more than Highland’s annual budget. Awards and certificates march across the walls like conquests—Pierce Enterprises reshaping Los Angeles one development at a time.
“Please, sit.” He moves behind his desk without sitting himself, silhouetted against the afternoon sun.
“I prefer to stand.” I open my folder, place the petition on his pristine surface. The letterhead catches the light—Highland Community Center, Founded 2005, Ernesto Navarro. My throat tightens seeing Papa’s name there, his careful signature on the incorporation papers still visible through the folder’s plastic sleeve.
“Highland Community Center has served the Filipino-American community for twenty years. We provide after-school programs for over two hundred children, job training for adults, cultural preservation classes?—”
“I’m aware of Highland’s... contributions.” He glances at the papers without touching them.
“Contributions?” The word scrapes my throat. “Highland isn’t just a building, Mr. Pierce. It’s my father’s dream made real. When he arrived from the Philippines with nothing but hope and twenty-seven dollars, he saw Filipino families struggling alone in a new country. So he rented a storefront, painted the walls himself, and created a place where we could belong.”
I touch the petition, Papa’s name still visible on the letterhead. “Highland is where teenagers learn traditional dances so they don’t forget who they are. Where Lola Soledad brings her grandchildren when their parents work double shifts. When Papa died two years ago, the entire community gathered there to honor him—because Highland was his gift to all of us.”
“It’s a building on prime downtown real estate.” His voice cuts through my passion with surgical precision. “Serving a very small demographic in a city that desperately needs housing.”
My carefully planned arguments crumble. “Small demographic? We serve over three thousand people directly. Those people matter, Mr. Pierce. They have lives, families?—”
“And they’ll still have those things when Highland relocates.”
“Relocates?” My voice cracks. “Where? You’ve made no provisions in any document we’ve seen. You’re not moving Highland—you’re erasing it.”
For the first time, his composure wavers. He reaches for a file, sets it down unopened. “The Anderson Project will provide much-needed housing?—”
“Luxury condos starting at eight hundred thousand dollars.” I’ve done my homework. “That’s not housing for people in this neighborhood. That’s housing for people like you.”
The words slice between us. His eyes narrow, and something dangerous flickers beneath the polish.
“People like me?” Soft voice, steel underneath.
Heat burns my cheeks, but I don’t retreat. “The kind who sees dollar signs where others see home. Who thinks profit margins matter more than people.”
“The kind who understands development creates jobs, generates tax revenue, contributes to economic growth.” He steps closer—expensive cologne, coffee, the weight of a long day. “Who deals in reality instead of sentiment.”
“Sentiment?” My folder tumbles from numb fingers, scattering petition sheets across his pristine carpet. Papa’s incorporation papers flutter to the floor, his signature face-up like an accusation. “My father didn’t just build Highland from nothing—he built it with his bare hands. Painted every wall, installedevery light fixture, because he couldn’t afford contractors. He poured twenty years of sixteen-hour days into that place.”
I kneel, gathering the scattered legacy. “The night before he died, Papa made me promise to protect Highland. Not just the building—his life’s work. His proof that immigrants don’t just take from this country, we give back.” I stand, papers trembling in my grip. “That’s not sentiment—that’s sacred trust.”
Something shifts in his face. The hard edges soften for a heartbeat, and I glimpse something almost like understanding before it vanishes.
“Your fifteen minutes are up, Miss Navarro.”
I kneel for the scattered papers, hands trembling with fury and something else—an unwelcome awareness of how his proximity affects my breathing, how his voice saying my name sends treacherous flutters through my chest. I stand, clutching the rumpled petition, leaving the sheets by his feet like fallen soldiers.
“This isn’t over.”
“No.” His storm-gray eyes lock on mine. “I don’t imagine it is.”
I walk toward the door, spine straight despite the tears threatening at the corners of my eyes. Months of planning, hoping, fighting—and I’ve failed to move him even an inch.
At the door, I turn back. He’s still watching me with an unreadable expression, Papa’s incorporation papers scattered by his feet like broken promises.
“Six weeks.” My voice doesn’t shake. “That’s all the time you’ve given us before demolition begins. Six weeks to find somewhere else for eight hundred and forty-three people to gather,celebrate, belong.” I meet his stare. “My father spent twenty years building something beautiful. You’ll destroy it in six weeks for luxury condos most of our families could never afford.”
The papers on his floor catch the light—Papa’s careful handwriting, his dream reduced to scattered documents. “I hope it’s worth it, Mr. Pierce. I hope when you’re cashing those checks, you remember the man who built what you’re tearing down.”
The elevator doors close like a coffin lid.
