Page 7 of Worth the Risk
“Maya, you need to see this.” She shoves the screen toward me—Pierce Enterprises’ stock price from yesterday’s close, down three points.
“I don’t understand what this has to do with us.”
“The Metro expansion hit major delays,” Lianne explains, her event planner instincts for timing and logistics in full display. “Underground utility conflicts. Since downtown developments bank on that transit hub, investors are spooked about the whole corridor.”
I stare at the numbers. “If Pierce focuses on transit-oriented development...”
“Then they have bigger problems than Highland,” Tito Ricky says, leaning back with the first smile I’ve seen from him all morning. “Sometimes the best strategy is letting your opponent fight battles on multiple fronts.”
My phone buzzes with a text from an unknown number.
Interesting timing with your protest. We should talk. — DP
The air leaves my lungs. DP. Declan Pierce. Somehow, he got my personal number—probably from one of the dozens of emails I sent his company over the past six months, back when I still believed in professional courtesy and proper channels.
“He’s texting you?” Lianne’s eyebrows shoot toward her hairline. “That’s either very good or very bad.”
Another message arrives before I can process the first:
Declan:
Perhaps we should discuss this face to face. Coffee? Name the place.
I stare at the screen, thumb hovering over the keyboard. This feels like a trap, but it also feels like... what? An opportunity? A sign that maybe the corporate shark has a more human side than his fifteen-minute office meeting suggested?
“Maya?” Tito Ricky’s voice cuts through my spinning thoughts. “What is it?”
I show them the messages, watching their expressions shift from confusion to concern.
“He’s trying to open back-channel communication,” Tito Ricky says. “Classic corporate strategy—divide the opposition by going directly to leadership.”
But something about the messages feels different from corporate strategy. More personal. The casual tone, the acknowledgmentof our timing, the fact that he bothered to text at all instead of having an assistant handle it.
Stop it, Maya. He’s the enemy.
Before I can decide how to respond, the main hall erupts in voices. Through the office window, I can see more people arriving—families I recognize, teenagers from our after-school programs, seniors from the cultural preservation classes.
“Maya?” Lianne touches my arm. “People are starting to arrive. We should get out there.”
“Give me a minute,” I tell them.
After they leave, I sit alone with Papa’s photos watching me from the walls and Declan’s messages burning a hole in my phone. I type a response:
I’m busy organizing a protest today. Rain check.
His reply comes almost instantly:
Declan:
I’ll be watching the news. Try not to get arrested.
Despite everything—despite the fact that he represents everything threatening Highland’s future—I find myself smiling at the message. There’s something almost playful about it, like maybe the intimidating CEO has a sense of humor buried beneath all that expensive polish.
The thought unsettles me more than his coldness in the office did. Coldness I can fight. Humanity makes everything more complicated.
I shake my head and tuck my phone away. Highland needs me focused, not wondering about Declan Pierce’s personality or why his unexpected humor sends unwelcome flutters through my chest.
I walk back into the main hall to find it transformed. Sixty-seven confirmed attendees has become nearly a hundred people clutching signs and wearing matching Highland Community Center T-shirts. The energy is electric—three generations of community members united around saving Papa’s legacy.
