5. Finn

My footsteps echo too loudly on the marble floors as I hustle across the gleaming expanse of the lobby. Damn, I should have worn sneakers. Its barely nine in the morning, and already Im running late for the most important meeting of my architectural career.

Mr. Landry, a voice purrs behind me. Youre as elusive as a unicorn these days.

I turn with a forced smile (Im not a morning person, particularly not a meeting-before-coffee person) and there she stands. Melissa Pierce—a shark in four-inch heels. She extends a manicured nail, and I try not to flinch as my fingers brush against hers.

Just had some fires to put out, Melissa, I deadpan, glancing at my watch. My meetings in ten minutes, and I still need to grab a coffee from the lobby café. The scent alone is already turning my stomach into a knot of nerves.

Well, Mr. Davenport is waiting, she singsongs. And you know how he dislikes tardiness.

Shes not kidding. Richard Davenport, real-estate mogul and generally unpleasant human being, is the guy Im about to pitch my heart and soul to. His company is looking to build a luxury hotel in the heart of Emberton. Its a dream project, except for one minor detail …

Melissa, I start, but she cuts me off with a flick of her wrist.

Just remember, Finn, this is the big leagues now. Davenport Industries doesnt do second chances. With that, she pivots on a stiletto heel and saunters off, leaving a trail of expensive perfume in her wake.

Fantastic. Now Im stressed and smell like a Parisian brothel. I dart towards the café, dodging businessmen with briefcases and ladies clutching oversized designer bags.

Double espresso, extra shot. I bark at the barista, a harried-looking kid who resembles a half-assembled Lego project.

The kid stares at me blankly. So, like, a triple shot?

I rub my forehead. Yes, a triple shot of your strongest brew. And make it fast.

As I wait, my mind whirls with visions of the design I spent months on. Sustainable materials, green rooftop, solar panels discreetly disguised as art installations … its a masterpiece of eco-conscious architecture. But theres the catch. The perfect plot of land, the one begging for this eco-haven, is occupied by a crumbling Victorian mansion.

A local landmark, sure, but its historical significance pales in comparison to the economic benefits I could bring to Emberton. People need jobs, not dusty old houses.

Coffee thrust into my hand, I scald my tongue and curse under my breath as I cross the threshold into the conference room. Its showtime. The space inside is all polished mahogany and pretentious leather, sunlight glinting off a crystal water pitcher with thinly sliced cucumbers floating inside. Like anyone in here has time to rehydrate with fancy fruit water.

Richard Davenport sits at the head of the table, a granite statue sporting a thousand-dollar suit. Next to him is a woman whose facelift is so tight, Im surprised she can blink. I recognize her from the papers—Gloria Somebody-or-Other, socialite and head of the Emberton Historical Society. This just gets better and better.

Mr. Landry, glad you could make it. Davenports voice is as smooth and cold as the marble floor.

I slide into the seat opposite them, simultaneously shoving a scalding mouthful of espresso down my throat and trying to spread my presentation boards out with some semblance of grace.

Let the games begin, I mutter to myself, straightening my tie—forest green, a subtle nod to the presentation theme.

Mr. Landry, Davenports voice is like gravel poured over ice, were all ears. Impress us.

Right, so … I clear my throat, the last spurt of caffeine kicking in like a mule. Emberton is ripe for a luxury destination. Im proposing a structure that will not only add economic value to the town but will also pay homage to its history.

Gloria scoffs, perfectly plucked eyebrows knitting. Pay homage by bulldozing Embertons most treasured landmark? How do you propose to go about that without throwing us into an ocean of trouble?

I force a smile as I unveil the 3D rendering. The hotel incorporates elements of Victorian architecture, blending seamlessly with the surrounding cityscape.

She scans the rendering, her lips a thin line of displeasure.

I take advantage of the momentary stillness. Mr. Davenport, distinguished board … this isnt a presentation. Its a manifesto. I hit the slide advance.

The screen behind me blazes with an artists rendering of the building: glass and steel rising organically like a tree, solar panels gleaming, green terraces spilling down its sides.

This design isnt just about sustainable tech, I say, pacing across the sterile, carpeted battlefield. Its about embracing nature. This building will breathe.

A ripple of skepticism runs through the room. A woman with a sculpted bob and a sharp frown cuts in, It looks … expensive.

Innovative design isnt cheap, Ms. …?

Bennett.

Ms. Bennett, I nod, savoring her flinch. But the long-term returns eclipse the upfront costs. Reduced energy, increased productivity—studies show a design like this boosts staff morale, even cuts down on sick days.

They lean in, the scent of greed mingling with their expensive perfumes. This is where I hook them.

Were not just building a luxury hotel, I press on, holding up an image of the buildings atrium—sunlight pouring through a living canopy, Were building an ecosystem. A statement that your company is the future.

Davenport is still stone-faced, but his jaw twitches. He looks … intrigued.

Its certainly ambitious, he murmurs. Tell me, Landry, what makes you so certain this … eco-friendly approach will align with our target clientele?

I launch into my well-rehearsed spiel about environmental responsibility being synonymous with modern luxury, conscious consumerism, the whole shebang. Davenport seems on board, nodding along. This might actually work.

And tell me, Gloria breaks in, a condescending smile stretching her surgically altered face, Where would you propose relocating the inhabitants of this … landmark? The bats are particularly fond of the attic, I hear.

I stiffen. Honestly, those bats were a minor hiccup Id hoped to avoid mentioning.

Before I can formulate an answer that wont involve me admitting Im a little fuzzy on the bat-relocation laws, Davenports phone buzzes with a tinny ringtone that sounds like a distressed chipmunk. He glances at the screen and frowns.

Excuse me, he mutters, pushing back his chair.

As Davenport steps out of the room, Ms. Bennett turns to me, her eyes gleaming with malicious anger.

You may be a darling of the green architecture crowd, she says, each word dripping with condescension, But Davenport Industries plays by different rules. Emberton doesnt need your … She searches for the most insulting term she can find, Your tree-hugging nonsense. It needs progress.

Im about to fire back a witty retort when Davenport reenters the room. His granite facade has cracked, just a bit, with a tinge of worry around the eyes.

Lets finish this, he barks. And quickly.

As you can see, I point to the model, sweat starting to bead at my temples, the rooftop garden would serve as both a tranquil escape for guests and a beacon of sustainability. Locally sourced produce for the restaurant, rainwater harvesting system …

Davenports eyes are narrowed, as if mentally calculating the dollar signs sprouting from this green oasis. Gloria looks like shes sucking on a lemon. Melissa is no better. The two of them want me to fail like their lives depend on it.

Davenport, on the other hand, is actually considering the pros and cons of my pitch. Ive heard horror stories of him kicking people out because he didnt like the way they said hello or good morning. Theres this infamous story of him firing a new hire because the unfortunate idiot happened to wear the same tie as him. But it feels like I could be out of the woods.

I clear my throat and get ready to unveil my masterstroke—an innovative wastewater recycling plan—when my phone chooses to vibrate like a crazed bumblebee in my pocket.

My mouth still partly open, I freeze. My stomach flips. I dont know why, but a call around this time feels ominous. On any other day, Id straight up ignore it. But my gut feeling screams at me to answer.

Excuse me, I stammer, fumbling for the device.

Davenport frowns, the spell broken. Something urgent, Mr. Landry?

Its … a project issue. I need to take this. I shove my chair back, ignoring the twin glares of disapproval fixed on me.

The voice on the other end crackles through the speaker as soon as I hit accept, Finn, somethings happened. Chemical smell, crops wilting … I think its sabotage.

Wait, I say, barely registering the words. Who is this? Whats going on?

Im calling from Harveys Vineyard. Theres been an attack.

Sabotage. My blood turns to ice. Harveys organic vineyard, while he was alive, was his lifeline, the culmination of our dream for sustainable agriculture in Emberton.

Its also been the target of hostility ever since he refused to sell his land to developers.

Damage? I ask, voice tight.

Bad. The voice is grim. I hear the strain in it, the unspoken fear.

My mind races. On one hand, this is the most important meeting of my career. On the other … Harveys Vineyard is more than a dream. Its a symbol of everything I believe in.

Mr. Davenport, I turn back to the table, meeting his flinty gaze head-on, I apologize, theres been an emergency. I need to leave.

He purses his lips, displeasure radiating from him. This is hardly professional, Landry.

A clients vineyard is being vandalized, I counter, my voice rising a notch. Im surprised you dont understand the urgency.

Gloria sputters beside him, but I push past her, practically running from the room. Davenports call of—Well reschedule!—fades behind me.

The lobby is a blur as I snatch my bag and bolt out the door, hailing a taxi with a desperation that borders on panic.

Harveys Vineyard, I bark at the driver, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs. As the taxi weaves through traffic, I curse my fancy shoes, my stupid meeting, the entire concrete jungle of a city.

The hotel, the money, the prestige—it all shrivels into insignificance. What good is a fancy eco-haven if the very heart of sustainability is under attack? Im an architect by trade, but at my core, Im a builder with dirt under my nails and the stubborn belief that you can damn well change the world, one plot of land at a time.

Right now, that plot needs me.

The driver cuts through the late afternoon air, but the thrum of the powerful engine does nothing to calm the storm brewing inside me. Each mile closer to the vineyard increases the tightness in my chest, a visceral response to the violation that awaits.

Rounding a bend, the familiar sight of Harveys Vineyard comes into view—and my heart sinks. Where rolling fields of vibrant green should be, an inky stain scars the earth like a gaping wound. The driver slams the brakes, the car skidding slightly on the gravel shoulder as a primal fury washes over me.

Damn it all to hell, I snarl, the leather of the seat creaking as I wince.

Silas stands stoic by the edge of the desolation, his shoulders carrying a decades extra weight. Flora—one of the sisters—has her phone raised, documenting the damage with grim determination.

What hit you? I ask, voice taut as I step out of the taxi, ignoring the sting of pebbles under my dress shoes.

Silas just shakes his head, lines etched deeper into his sun-baked face. Smell reminds me of the old fertilizer plants. Soils shot, gonna need testing.

My knuckles whiten. Testing is expensive, and folks like Harvey lived on a financial knife edge. Anyone catch a glimpse?

Neighbor heard trucks hauling outta here at dawn, Flora says, her voice steel despite the flicker of helpless anger in her eyes. No plates. Smart bastards.

Professionals, I echo. This isnt petty vandalism; its a carefully executed message designed to intimidate. The realization ignites a cold, calculated rage within me, a stark contrast to the heat of the sun.

I force myself to think, to strategize. First order of business—cover the contaminated area. I gesture towards the stack of weathered tarps leaning against the old barn, Dont want rain washing this poison any further down.

The vineyard manager and I stand aside as the workers disperse to get the job done.

Mr. Landry, I want you to know, Im on this, the manager starts, his voice edged with the resolve of a seasoned caretaker. Im going to comb through every invoice, every order, every communication. Nothing escapes scrutiny.

I nod, appreciating the depth of his commitment but acutely aware of the sluggish pace at which the local bureaucracy moves. I understand the effort, but you and I both know how things tend to drag around here. How long do you think this will take?

He exhales, moving his mouth like a horse chewing cud, heaviness rife in his aged eyes. Honestly, were looking at weeks, maybe a month. Its not just about finding discrepancies; its about tracing them back to their source, understanding the how and the why.

I feel a twinge of frustration, but this is how things work in Emberton. Alright, a month then. But lets keep the lines open, yeah? Any lead, no matter how small, I want to know about it.

Of course, he agrees, a firm nod sealing his promise. This is as much my fight as it is yours. Well get to the bottom of this, Finn. You have my word.

Our conversation wraps with a handshake. Flora stands beside me as I finish dealing with the manager. After that bit is done, she and I remain out in the open, observing the affected part of the vineyards in silence.

I should be more detached, but its hard. I grew up in this place, ran around the vines when I was a scrubby kid.

Why do I think someone close to Dad has a hand in this? Flora deadpans, her head tilted slightly as she observes the scene like a forensic expert.

I have my suspicions too, I admit quietly. But its wiser not to narrow down on names unless were sure.

Fair enough.

My phone feels ice-cold in my hand. I need someone who knows how to navigate the murky backwaters, someone who can root out the whispers those corporate bastards try to bury. One name burns in my mind: Emily.

I recall her face, those big eyes, and the vulnerability rife in them. She has something about her, a quality that refuses to be shut down. But I also noted the detachment in her features.

As Im standing, phone in hand, Flora comes up to me. So, whats the next course of action?

I was wondering if … my words trail off. Im not sure if I can tell her I want to reach out to her beautiful sister.

For one, my interests are not entirely related to the vineyard. Though, with her being in control of most of it—if she were to get involved, itd be easier to nail the vandalizers. We need the help of a strong journalist and social media expert.

Shes a celebrity, by those standards. The girl has over three million followers on just one social media platform. She could give this place the validation its screaming for.

If … only if shes willing to look past the ghosts floating over it. The biggest one being her father, of course.

Floras lips quirk upwards, not in a smile, but something like a smirk. You should call her.

Before I can ask her who shes talking about, she twirls on her boots and strides away.

Smart girl. Shes right.

I have to talk to Emily.