I jolt awake at the sound of my phone — five missed calls from Dani and a string of text alerts. I know there's a wobble in the universe as I sort through my mail, a wobble of something very, very, bad, before I even see the message: "Elise, get to the Center NOW. URGENT."
I throw off my covers, adrenaline shanking through me. It's Saturday. Weekends are sacred — hours I carve out to paint, to sketch, to breathe. But I don't hesitate. I tug on jeans, push my splotched T‑shirt a bit too violently back in place and cram my tote bag with sketchpads, watercolours and half‑empty coffee thermos.
My cheeks are burning, my lungs are gasping by the time I burst through the doors of the Riverside Arts Center. The lobby is packed, not a soul inside with great long neck, stingray faces. Students clutch sketchpads. Retirees hover by easels. Fidgety volunteers hover near the donation box. At the end is a huge notice board, entirely empty — until I turn the corner and see the official city document that has been stuck over every inch of it.
"Riverside Arts Center: Notice of Demolition," it blares in black, bold letters. My chest constricts so violently that I taste copper on my tongue.
They're demolishing the only home I have ever known." My mother's paint-spattered teaching studio, the mural she painted in the wake of Hurricane Ella — gone. The place that taught me art as survival. Gone.
I tear the notice off the board. As I read the fine print, the paper crinkles in my fist:
Doomed: Property scheduled for destruction on July 15th, 2025 to clear land for The Hayes Tower, luxury condominiums to be built by Hayes Global Developments.
COLD fury washes over me in waves. I slap my hand against the wall, paint flecks crumbling beneath my palm.
"Is this real?" I hiss.
Next to me, Mr. Franklin, our volunteer handyman, shuffles closer, eyes wide. "The city signed off last week. If not, they had better have one hell of a reason."
My jaw clenches. I mutter the word criminal under my breath.
Criminal.
Because that's what this neighborhood is, clipped and bulldozed for every shiny high‑rise with "skyline views" promised to those who will forsake homelessness and Fucking Forever in exchange for an offset balcony. But I'm not going to watch it happen. Not here. Not when my mother has built up everything.
I whirl around on my heel and race out the front doors. The morning is cool and my heart pounds in the stillness. I jump on my bike — no lock — and pedal down Riverside Drive to City Hall so furiously that my arms tremble.
I feel the burn in my calves long before I reach the granite steps, but I don't let up. Already, a knot of protesters gathers at the entrance: local artists brandishing tattered signs that say "Art > Apartments!" and "Hands Off Our Center!" I hoist my cardboard sign, also home made: "SAVE RIVERSIDE ARTS," in fresh marker scribbles.
Cameras whir and click from a phalanx of every local news station. I thrust forward, raise my sign over my head.
"Stop the demolition!" I yell, the sound cracking but full of rage at the same time.
The crowd echoes my chant. A man in a sharp suit, a man I do not recognize, appears with a microphone and camera crew. He looks over at me, a slight frown creasing his forehead, then shakes his head and speaks to his men.
"Cue me in three… two…"
I control my breath and turn to face him, his eyes curious. He holds his mic out. "Ma'am, what's your name?"
"Elise Monroe," I reply, feeling pride and terror clasping my chest. "This place saved my life — I'm not going to let it die without a fight."
The camera clicks. I see his eyes flick to my beat-up tote, my paint‑stained jeans. There is something familiar in the shape of his jaw and the fierce look in his eyes, but I dismiss it. The task is to muster support, not to play detective.
The official hearing starts behind me. The mayor's lectern shines in the bright sunlight, flanked by a pair of dour council members. I let my placard go limp by my side as I get in line with the other people signing up to testify. I don't know when I have been so raw, so alive.
When it is my turn, I ascend, my nerves singing like power lines. The council, I note, looking past them to the sketches of cranes and the promises of luxury condos taped to the easels behind them. My voice trembles at first.
"My name is Elise Monroe. I've been the director of the Riverside Arts Center for five years. This does not feel like just a building — it is a living, breathing community. It's the place where kids find hope, and seniors find purpose, and struggling artists find their voice. Tear down these walls and you're erasing memories, dreams, years of second chances.
I pause, swallowing hard. The council members nod politely to one another. My heart sinks. I expect indifference.
Then a voice interrupts. "Ms. Monroe." It's the mayor. His tone is measured. "We see your enthusiasm, but the city needs growth. Hayes Tower offers jobs, revenue ˆ"
A wave of gasps snakes its way across the crowd. I gulp down my rage and proceed. "At what cost?" I shoot back. "We do not need another glass box for the rich. We need spaces for creativity to be nurtured, connect us. We need hope."
Out on the street, the whispers grow louder. I'm handed a bottle of water — I guzzle that. I grip the acrylic podium hard, even though I'm sweating and there really is no reason to hold on so tight.
Suddenly, a hush falls. The mayor is joined by a man in a fitted suit. He's tall — very tall — and his shoulders nearly block the door. My breath catches when our eyes connect.
Dark hair swept back, storm‑gray eyes, a suit that probably costs more than my rent… I know him.
Lucas Hayes.
Recognition crashes in and my pulse rises — the way it does when a wave you can't dodge is approaching. That night … that one magical, electric night …
I gulp, words clotted in my throat. He looks at me blankly, as if he doesn't want me to know that he knows me. Or maybe he's scared to tell you.
I scowl at him, rage and something else, something wild, burning a hole through me. The mayor clears his throat. "Mr. Hayes, would you like to introduce yourself?
He moves up front, hands behind his back. His voice is steady, but the hint of a clench at his jaw belies it.
"Good morning. I'm Lucas Hayes, project architect for Hayes Global Developments. I am here to answer your questions about The Hayes Tower project."
He doesn't mention our night. He doesn't offer an apology. He's just standing there — cool, calm, collected.
My fingers around the lectern begin to lose their hold. My sign falls from my hand to the floor with a thud. I want to scream — to make him pay for every sleepless question that's been haunting me since. But instead I find my voice.
"Mr. Hayes," I murmur and move in so near this smokey bar heat is pouring off of him. "Do you know what this center means to people?"
He blinks once, eyes flicking from my hair— painted— through to my eyes. "I'm aware," he says. "But cities evolve. Old makes way for new."
I bite back a retort. Deep down, I know: he's not the one who signed the demolition order. But he's the face of it — the urbane, privileged face.
The hearing continues, but I am unable to concentrate on the next person speaking. They also watch Lucas present slides of glossy renderings — towering footage of steel, floor-to-ceiling windows, rooftop gardens — all in the purpose of "giving back to the community," Lucas assures them.
But I witness the blank slate beneath every render: the vacant lot where families painted murals. The sound of laughter being absent from the echoes.
Halfway through his talk, I get down from the dais. My legs are shaking, but my resolve is strong as rock: if I have to go up against Lucas Hayes himself to save this center, then dammit, that's exactly what I'm going to do.
Outside, cameras still rolling, I raise my head, breath misting in the cold. Lucas is done asking questions and he turns — finally sees me watching him. For a breath‑stealing instant, our eyes connect, and I swear he murmurs something before turning.
I sprint down the stairs, the adrenaline hammering in my ears. I need to know what he said. … I wonder if he still remembers. If he regrets.
I feel my phone buzz with another text from Dani: "Spill. Details. NOW."
I jam my phone into my pocket. The city hums around me — car horns, sirens in the distance, shouting protesters — but all I can think is that this is only the beginning.
Because somewhere beneath all that polish, that is a man who knows me. And I'm going to see that he never forgets me again.