I can feel my pen pressing into my sketchbook. I’m drawing angry lines across the page without meaning to. My hand is making sharp angles that match the branded, faceless towers on the screen.
Seamus O’Malley, for his part, is as still as a statue, gaze fixed on something invisible. Maybe he’s mentally balancing his next billion. Or writing his grocery list. Either way, he sure isn’t bothered by our presence.
Finally, the assistant clicks over to the next slide: the exact block on Heritage Street they plan to purchase.
My heart constricts at the sight of Miller & Sons. That old storefront with its tin ceiling and faded sign has been empty for years, but it holds so much history it practically hums whenever you pass by.
I’ve dreamed of saving it, even turned that dream into sketches and designs for a children’s art and literacy space. It would be somewhere warm, inviting, unpolished, and real.
And here it is on-screen, ready to be replaced by uniform lines of glass and steel.
When Davidson opens the floor for questions, my hand shoots up like a rocket. “You talk about ‘revitalization,’” I say, my voice carrying across the hush, “but that’s just a fancy way of saying you’ll bulldoze one of the few remaining historic buildings in this neighborhood.”
Nods and murmured agreement ripple through the chairs. Mrs. Chen turns, eyes bright with approval.
Seamus O’Malley looks at me. His gaze is level, unreadable. If he weren’t so unquestionably calm, he’d be intimidating. Actually, I take that back. He’s still absolutely intimidating.
His assistant tries to wave me off with more smooth PR talk. “Progress and preservation aren’t mutually exclusive—”
“They are when ‘progress’ equals demolition,” I snap, rising to my feet. Luna tugs lightly at my shirt, a silent warning to keep ittogether. But I’m past caring. “You're choosing scale over soul! The buildings on Heritage Street have decades of memories etched into them.”
Now Seamus chooses to speak. He leans forward, clasping his hands on the table. His voice is low and measured, with not a single note of anger. It's like he’s delivering a verdict.
“I understand your concerns. But our decision is based on rigorous structural assessments, market analysis, and overall benefit to the community.”
I can practically hear his assistant’s sigh of relief.
But I’m not finished.
“Your ‘benefit to the community’ is code for ‘profit margins.’”
It comes out louder than I intend, which sends another wave of murmuring through the crowd.
Seamus maintains that stoic calm. “Nostalgia doesn’t pay for infrastructure,” he says. “Or bring jobs. It doesn’t maintain the economy. We want sustainable growth.”
Chaos breaks out. People shout over each other. Some are supporting me, others pointing out that maybe we could use the jobs. After all, not everyone can survive on sentiment alone.
Davidson is begging folks to keep their voices down.
But Seamus and his assistant are already gathering their papers.
Right before he hits the door, Seamus glances my way again. His expression doesn’t give a thing away, but he offers the slightest nod, like a silent acknowledgment. Then he’s gone, and I’m left standing in the middle of a room that’s steadily devolving into small-group arguments.
Luna tugs me back into my seat. She’s got this grin on her face that’s half impressed, half disbelieving. “Wow. So you basically called a billionaire a soulless corporate robot in front of half the neighborhood.”
“And I stand by it,” I grumble, snapping my sketchbook shut with a shaky hand. The wave of adrenaline is crashing now, leaving me exhausted and more than a little defeated. “Not that it makes a difference. That building is as good as condemned.”
We step outside into the cool evening air, the city’s hustle thrumming around us like background noise that doesn’t care one whit about our heartbreak. The sky glows with neon reflections, a constant reminder of how fast everything changes.
“You spoke up,” Luna says softly, looping her arm through mine. “That counts.”
“It doesn’t count if they plow it all under anyway,” I say, swallowing the disappointment. My dream of turning Miller & Sons into some kind of creative haven feels as fragile as a half-finished sketch.
Luna stops dead in the middle of the sidewalk, then turns to me. “There might be another way. Something… crazy.”
I narrow my eyes. “Crazy how?”
She hesitates, which is never a good sign. “I’ve been hearing about this program. ERS—Elite Relationship Solutions. It’s kind of hush-hush, but it works with high-profile clients who need… structured relationships.”
