When resistance started—tenant meetings, legal aid lawyers, news articles about displacement—our legal team handled it. They filed appropriate motions and ensured everything stayed within legal bounds even if it violated ethical ones.
The building emptied within two months and renovations began immediately.
I was in my office when Richard called to congratulate me.
“Smooth execution with no complications,” he said. “The board is impressed.”
“Thank you.”
“Keep this up and you’ll have their full support. Your father’s company is in good hands.”
I’d hung up feeling validated and successful, like I’d finally proven I deserved to be sitting in my father’s chair.
The luxury condos sold within six months and we made triple our investment. The board stopped questioning my decisions, stopped forming alliances to undermine me, and started treating me like I actually knew what I was doing.
Sunset Park became my credential, my proof of capability, the foundation of my reputation.
I’d framed a photo of the renovated building and hung it in my office, referenced the project in interviews, used it as evidence I could balance profit with progress, and that I could honor my father’s legacy while moving the company forward.
I’d been so proud.
I’d never asked what happened to the fifty-two families. I had assumed that they found housing somewhere, that relocation assistance helped, that people adapted because that’s what people did, this was what I told myself.
I’d never considered that displacement could kill someone—that stealing seven years from a twenty-two-year-old’s life might be the cost of my success.
Now, my hands wrapped around the frame, I carried it to the kitchen and dropped it in the trash.
The glass didn’t break; it just landed with a dull thud against the bottom of the bin.
My phone sat on the counter. I stared at it for a long moment, then poured myself a drink.
Whiskey, the kind my father used to drink after successful deals.
I downed it in one swallow and poured another.
The apartment was too quiet. I’d bought it five years ago because it was the kind of place a successful CEO should live in—high floor, city views, doorman who knew not to ask questions.
But it had never felt like home. Just a place to sleep and work and occasionally pretend I had a life outside the office.
I picked up my phone and called Gianna before I could talk myself out of it.
She answered on the first ring. “Archie?”
Her voice made something in my chest pull tight. She sounded surprised, maybe concerned.
“Hey. Is this a bad time?”
“No, I’m just making dinner. Are you okay?”
I wanted to laugh. Was I okay?
I’d destroyed the life of the woman I couldn’t stop thinking about.
“I’m fine,” I lied. “Just wanted to call.”
“You sound weird.”
“I’m drinking.”
