face to face

Millicent's POV

The room looks like a church built for money.

That's the first thing that comes to mind. Tall windows, floor to ceiling, the city spread out below like it belongs to whoever's standing here. Furniture that looks too expensive to sit on. Art I don't recognize but know I could never afford to touch.

And behind a desk the size of my entire studio sits Damon Hale.

He doesn't stand when I walk in, doesn't look up either. The guards place me in front of the desk and leave. The door shuts behind them with a click that feels like a cage closing.

I wait. He keeps writing. The silence stretches.

Finally he sets his pen down and looks at me.

I've seen pictures. Everyone has. The "shadow billionaire" with the cold eyes and the even colder reputation. But pictures don't show you what it's actually like to stand in front of him. He's older than I thought, late forties maybe, gray running through his dark hair. But nothing about him is soft, his posture, his suit, the flat way his eyes move over me. It all says the same thing.

I'm in control here. You're not.

"Millicent Andrews," he says. His voice is deep, quiet, the kind that doesn't need to get loud to make you listen. "The woman who's been sitting on my bench."

"It's a public bench."

"Owned by the city. Which gets a lot of funding from my foundation." One eyebrow lifts. "Everything in this neighborhood is mine, Miss Andrews. Including your little studio. Soon."

"That's why I'm here."

"I know why you're here." He leans back in his chair and studies me like I'm a problem on a test. "What I don't know is why you thought breaking into my building was a good way to make your case." A pause. "Trespassing. Evading security. Unauthorized access to restricted floors. I could have you arrested."

"Then why haven't you?"

The question just sits there between us.

His face doesn't change, but something moves behind his eyes. Surprise maybe. Or interest.

"Sit down."

It's not a request.

I lower myself into the chair across from him, keeping my back straight. I won't shrink, even though every instinct in my body is screaming at me to run.

"Three days." He says it slowly. "You've been coming here for three days. Sitting on that bench for hours. Getting escorted out. Coming back." His head tilts slightly. "Most people give up after the first time."

"I'm not most people."

"No." He looks at me harder now. "You're a recently divorced single mother with a sick child, a failing business, and about one hundred and forty-eight dollars in your bank account." He watches my face. "Did you think I wouldn't do my research?"

My throat feels tight. "If you did your research, then you know why I'm here. You're about to destroy everything I have."

"I'm going to build a hotel. A luxury development that will bring jobs and tourism and economic growth to this neighborhood." It sounds like he's reading from a script. "Your studio just happens to sit in the middle of it."

"My studio feeds my son. It keeps him alive."

"Then find another way to feed him."

The dismissal is so casual it knocks the breath out of me.

He's not even pretending to care. I'm not a person to him. I'm a problem. A line item. Something that needs to be removed.

"You can't just erase people's lives because they're inconvenient."

"I can do whatever I want, Miss Andrews." He stands and walks to the window, looking out at the city spread below him. "That's what money is for. I own this building. I own this block. I own half the media in this city and most of the politicians." He doesn't look at me. "You have no leverage. No resources. No power. What exactly do you think you're going to accomplish?"

I stand too. I won't let him tower over me.

"I'm going to make your life very difficult."

"Is that a threat?"

"It's the truth." My heart pounds. "You think I'm just going to walk away? Let you bulldoze everything I have without a fight?" I move closer, close enough to see his jaw tighten. "I have nothing left to lose. That makes me dangerous."

"It makes you desperate. There's a difference."

"Does there have to be?"

We stare at each other. The city glows behind him, millions of people moving through their lives like this moment doesn't exist.

"I'll go to the media," I say. "Every newspaper, every news channel, every blogger who'll listen. The big bad billionaire crushing a single mother's dream. It's a good story. People love a villain."

He laughs. Cold, with no humor in it at all.

"I own half the media in this city, Miss Andrews. Did you not hear me the first time?"

"You don't own all of it." I pull out my phone and wave it at him. "And you definitely don't own the internet. One video of me crying in front of my demolished studio, that's a PR nightmare for you. Maybe it doesn't stop you. Maybe you still win." I pause. "But I can make you hurt on the way down."

The laugh dies.

He turns to face me fully, and for the first time I see something other than dismissal in his expression.

"What do you want?"

"I want you to stop the demolition. Give the shop owners fair compensation and time to relocate. Treat us like human beings instead of obstacles."

"No."

Just that. No.

"Then I want you to know I'm not going away." My voice shakes but I keep it steady. "I'll be back tomorrow. And the day after that. And every single day until you listen to me or have me thrown in prison."

I turn and walk toward the door.

My hand is on the handle when his voice stops me.

"Miss Andrews."

I look back.

He's still standing by the window, the city lights behind him turning him into a silhouette. His face is unreadable.

"You're going to lose this fight."

"Maybe." I pull the door open. "But you're going to remember my name."

I walk out. Past the guards, into the elevator, out of the building.

I make it all the way to my bench before everything crashes. The adrenaline drains out of me and my knees give out.

I sit there shaking, tears running down my face, laughing and crying at the same time because I just threatened a billionaire in his own office, in his own building, and I walked out alive.

I don't know if I won anything today.

But I know one thing.

Damon Hale is going to remember me.

That's a start.