Page 272 of Money Reigns
And then my eyes land on her.
Olivia, radiant and calm, the kind of calm that steadies me without even trying.
She gives me a small nod.You’ve got this.
And I do. Because she’s here.
I cut it.
Clean. Final.
Applause breaks out, echoing off the marble steps of what was once the Parker Building. Now, it’sHartman’s House.
A home for the ones no one remembers.
A second chance for kids who never got a first.
I step back sothe press can get their shots. The banner behind me catches the wind, lifting the name into the sunlight. Hartman’s House: A Future Begins Here.
I take the podium, breath steady, voice ready. “This project has been a long time coming. Years of plans. Months of renovation. And today, it’s real.”
I scan the crowd. Mayor Olsen nods beside me. Olivia stands near the entrance, in soft blue, her eyes already brimming.
“This wouldn’t have been possible without Mayor Olsen’s support,” I continue, “and without Korsakov Industries, who donated the land for this facility.” I pause, because I can feel Olivia’s smirk from here.
Credit where credit’s due,she told me after.Even if it’s to a man with no soul.
I’d never been more in love.
A reporter raises her voice above the rest. “Mr. Beaumont—do you think this facility will erase the tragedy that happened here twenty-five years ago?”
There it is.The question I’ve been waiting for.
I still see him.
That damn grin. The busted-up sneakers he refused to throw out. The way we’d sneak to the kitchen just two kids looking to steal the last donut.
I blink hard.
“While we can never erase what happened here twenty-five years ago,” I say, my voice catching the weight of it, “we can acknowledge it. We can call it what it was. A terrible accident. And we can build something better in its place.” I glance back at the building. “A monument in his memory. A legacy of healing.”
Olivia squeezes my hand. Then slips away to greet the kids coming in.
Doing what she does best.
Bridging gaps.Softening edges. Giving kids who’ve been through hell the one thing no system ever gave Noah: a sense of home.
I watch her beside a girl no older than seventeen, point out the mural behind them, and something in my chest pulls tight.
This is what healing looks like.
And somehow, she gave it to me, too.
“There will also be a scholarship program,” I add, voice roughening, “in Noah Hartman’s name. Every teen who comes through these doors will have a chance at higher education. Full tuition, housing, a monthly stipend. If you want a future—we’ll help you build it.”
The applause returns, louder this time.
But I’m not looking at the crowd.
