The community hall is packed.
I’m standing at the back, shoulder against the wall, watching Amara Khan dismantle predatory lease clauses like she’s cross-examining a hostile witness.
This is what competence looks like.
And I’m absolutely wrecked by it.
She’s wearing a pale blue linen dress that does absolutely nothing to hide those curves. The ones I memorized on New Year’s Eve. The ones I’ve been trying not to think about every goddamn day since.
Not working.
She gestures to the projection screen, which is currently filled with a family contract.
“Section twelve point three,” she says, pointing to a highlighted clause. “The developer reserves the right to reassess property value annually based on prevailing market conditions.Except there’s no definition of what constitutes market conditions.”
An older woman in the front row raises her hand. Mrs. Rolle. I met her at last week’s potluck.
“So they can just raise our rent whenever they want?” Mrs. Rolle asks.
“Precisely,” Amara confirms. “And if you can’t pay, this termination clause here gives them the right to evict with thirty days notice. You lose the land your family has leased for generations because someone decided they want to build a resort.”
The room erupts with angry voices. Amara lets it happen for exactly ten seconds, then raises a hand.
Silence.
Just like that.
I’m peripherally aware of Thorne positioned near the rear exit. Ready to step in if things get too out of control.
“The good news,” Amara continues, “is that these clauses are legally challengeable. We have three strategies.” She ticks them off on her fingers. “Unconscionability based on unequal bargaining power. Reformation based on mutual mistake. And statutory violations under the amended Property Act.”
Someone in the middle row asks about costs. Amara doesn’t miss a beat.
“The Saelinger Foundation is funding this pilot program,” she says, and I feel every eye in the room turn toward me. “Which means legal representation isfree. You pay nothing. We handle everything.”
I keep my expression neutral. This is the part where people usually ask what I’m getting out of it. The VC in me has run over this scenario a thousand times. Philanthropy is always transactional in their minds. Nobody believes in altruism anymore.
Can’t say I blame them.
The door at the side of the hall opens. A woman in her thirties walks in holding a notebook and a phone. She’s got that look. The one that sayspress.
Fuck.
Thorne’s phone buzzes. I feel mine vibrate a second later. I glance down at the screen.
Her name is Clara Bosch, freelance reporter for the Bahamas Tribune. Legit credentials, no red flags.
Below that, I see a second message from Liora, General Counsel for Saelinger Foundation.
Legal team found two more forged emails in the archive. Metadata inconsistencies match previous samples. Xavier’s getting sloppy.
Finally. Proof we can use.
But not enough yet. Not nearly enough to go public.
I pocket the phone and watch Clara find a seat near the aisle. She’s already taking notes.
She’s going to want to talk to me.
