I barely sleep that night. And I can't stop replaying in my mind the storm‑gray eyes of Lucas Hayes when he introduced himself, so calm, so controlled the way a glacier crumbles ever so slowly under the heat. Whenever I close my eyes, I see that look of recognition in his eyes and the way his jaw clenched when I confronted him.
There are rays of light coming through my curtains, I don't pay much attention to them. My phone buzzes again and, still trembling, I fumble to pick it up — it's Dani's picture: a grainy one from last summer's mural unveiling, taken by one of our volunteers. I'm holding my breath as I pinch‑zoom, and there it is: the tiny, delicately drawn black spiral tattoo that's inked on the inside of his wrist, peeping through the rolled‑up cuff of his pristine white shirt.
He marked me.
Something inside my chest constricts and I choke down a shudder. We'd stipulated no strings — no names, just the stolen rapture of that single night. And yet, here he is, tattooed evidence I was never "just some girl." That ink means something. It always does.
I grab my tote bag and race downstairs, almost colliding with Mr. Franklin with a box of donated canvases in his arms. "Watch it!" he huffs.
"Sorry," I choke out, looking at the photo a second time. "Gotta go."
He looks after me, confused, but I don't give a shit. I bike back to my loft like a blur—throw my bag on the table, and myself into my bed. Shaking hands, I take it out the photo album I bought last summer at that little thrift shop on 5th. Pages of murals and gallery shows tumble out, and I flip through them to find it: the photo Dani sent, only in color, crisper. That night, he brushes his hand against mine as I raised a paint‑smeared brush, smearing his skin with a dab of cerulean blue. I saw the flash in his eyes, that breath‑catching moment when our gazes met and all else was lost.
I snap the album shut and shove it away.
I can no longer pretend this is merely business.
There is a loudish rap on my door that brings me up with a start. I throw it open to see Dani standing there, hair spinning into a perfect bramble of mahogany, her arms crossed as if she's already frowning at my life choices.
"El, spill. Now," she says, voice sharp.
I thrust the photo into her palm. "That can't be his tattoo," he said.
Her eyes go wide. "Holy — Elise, you slept with the most wanted developer in the city?"
I roll my eyes. "Not 'most wanted.' Just the dude bent on destroying my entire livelihood."
She taps the screen. "And you actually confronted him at City Hall? That was epic."
I rub my temples. "I was so upset I could barely see straight."
Dani shakes her head. "Okay, so now what? You are back at square one: him versus you. But this changes things."
I pace the room. "Dani, I can't turn a blind eye to it. He tagged me, and he wiped out the whole of my world with a single signature. I need to know why."
She bites her lip thoughtfully. I'm going to pull with the local arts magazine. I can do a studio-visit piece — photos, interview. "If you package it correctly, you could change public sentiment." In the meantime I will continue to dig on Hayes Global."
My pulse surges. "Yes. Do it."
Dani smirks. "Oh, and … you should probably see this." She lifts up her phone and swipes to a news alert:
"Local Architect Confronted With Backlash After Protesting Arts Center — Exclusive Look At New Renderings Of The Hayes Tower!"
Underneath is a polished 3D rendering of the tower — gleaming glass topped by solar‑panel spires, limestone accents that come to rest near its base, a rooftop garden that appears to be a miniature Eden. The caption says: "Lucas Hayes offers cutting-edge, sustainable design that 'gives back to the community. "
My stomach twists. "Gives back." He had actually said that very line in previous speeches, and it sounded gracious as all get-out. As if he's the hero, and not the destroyer.
Dani scrolls. "There's more — an op‑ed lauding Hayes Global for 'redefining urban progress. They even quoted you."
I grab my phone, scanning the excerpt of my testimony. It sounds sterile and tame, sanitized for popular consumption. And then my words bent into a soundbite: "We need hope…" Ugh.
I throw the phone at her. "That's not what I said. It's dumbed‑down. I sound like a cliché."
She catches it, unfazed. "Welcome to media, honey. But at least they included you — and they were able to see your face. This is your foot in the door."
I pace again, heart pounding. "Alright. We leverage it. Studio visit. Interview. There is a full‑page spread on the actual Riverside Arts Center. Expose the human cost. Then we go after him where it gets his attention — public opinion, the money stops flowing, the project financing dries up."
Dani nods, already typing. "I'll call my editor. Meet me at the café in an hour.
I plop down on the couch and run my hands through my hair. For the first time since the notice of demolition, I have hope that flickers. But it is small, faint and flickering, like the flame of a candle in the wind.
Because behind that public persona, there is a man who knows me. Who saw me at my most raw. And I'm willing to bet he's not as heartless as Hayes Global would have everyone think.
And so I grab my keys, grab my tote and go, my adrenaline already pumping far more than my usual morning coffee.
The café is a couple of blocks from the Center — a snug spot with exposed-brick walls adorned with student art, the fragrance of fresh espresso heavy in the air. Dani is already at a corner booth, laptop open, eyes shining. She waves me over.
"Got the green light. They need the story by Friday. They'll send a photographer."
I nod, reaching for my notebook. "I'll draft talking points. The history of the center is ours — my story — Mom's story. And the faces: children, elders, local artists."
Dani grins. "I knew you'd see the angle. But then —" she leans forward, her voice low — "I found something interesting on the Hayes Global side. They have a 'Community Outreach' page. It lists three partners. None of them are grassroots. All are big‑ticket sponsors. The Arts Center isn't mentioned."
I sip my latte, bitterness following sweetness. "Of course. Since a nonprofit doesn't finance a luxury tower. Unless there's something in it for them."
She slides the laptop to me. "Get this: their lead sponsor is Aeternum Capital. Word is, they're pulling the funding next month to invest in a tech park downtown. "If we were to make that evident, Lucas can't overcome that with good proximity to an altruism."
I lean in, trying to read the fine print. If Aeternum yanks, the whole project could collapse. My pulse spikes. "We need proof. Can you trace back the investment periods?
"I'm on it," she says, already talking to herself.
We scurry about: sketching questions, designing photo angles, outlining interview candidates. The café clears out, chairs are stacked, a barista flicks off lights, but neither of us is aware of any of it until it is evening, until sunset bleeds through the windows.
I check my watch: approaching 7 p.m. I receive a text from Mr. Franklin that my phone buzzes with: "Vandals at the back wall. Graffiti everywhere. You need to see."
My stomach twists. Vandals?
Dani looks up. "I bet I can beat you back to the Center.
We're out the door, running on streetlights, adrenaline rising again.
My gut gets a cold shock when we get there. Written in red paint on the back wall of the Center:
"SAY NO TO HAYES!"
And under that, "SLASH THE TIES THAT BIND" scrawled in jagged letters.
I step toward him, my heart beating so loud I can hear it in my chest. Somebody has marked us — just like Lucas marked me. But this isn't art. It's a threat.
Dani's flashlight pierces the gloom, to reveal one more disturbing detail: a solitary word inscribed underneath the slogans, in the same blood‑red color:
"BURN."
My breath gets stuck in my throat. I crouch down, fingering the wet paint. My knuckles whiten.
"Who would do this?" Dani whispers.
I stand, eyes blazing. "I don't know. But they want to scare us. Make us back down."
A cold wind rattles the door. The café lights are all out. The only light is from the streetlamp, the graffiti being backlighted by the dismal light.
My phone buzzes once more — this time from a number I don't recognize. I click into the text message and my heart sinks:
"Elise Monroe, you weren't supposed to get involved. Next time it won't be paint."
I look at the message, surprised, chest constricting.
Dani stands up next to me, her hand on my shoulder. "We need the security tapes. And the police."
I nod, trying not to choke on my suddenly thick throat. "And I have to figure out who Lucas Hayes is. He's our last hope in stopping this."
She exhales sharply. "You want to call him?"
I shake my head. "No. I want to see him—in person."
Still, off in the distance, a siren can be heard. I look at the street — deserted except for a single dark sedan, idling at the curb, its headlights off.
I swallow. My phone buzzes again—another text from the same number, time‑stamped only a handful of seconds after the first:
"He's already involved. It's your move next."
I look at Dani, eyes fierce. "I'm not backing down."
Her grip tightens. "Then we do this—together."
My breath catches and I hear footsteps behind us. We whirl — and see that the street is empty, the night watching and waiting.
And out there somewhere, so too is Lucas Hayes.