Page 15 of Blurred Lines

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 isn't 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.

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

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

"It's 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 I'd hoped to avoid mentioning.

Before I can formulate an answer that won't involve me admitting I'm a little fuzzy on the bat-relocation laws, Davenport's 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 doesn't need your …" She searches for the most insulting term she can find, "Your tree-hugging nonsense. It needs progress."

I'm 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.

"Let's 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 …"

Davenport's eyes are narrowed, as if mentally calculating the dollar signs sprouting from this green oasis. Gloria looks like she's 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. I've heard horror stories of him kicking people out because he didn't like the way they said "hello" or "good morning." There's 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 don't know why, but a call around this time feels ominous. On any other day, I'd 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?"

"It's … 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, something's happened. Chemical smell, crops wilting … I think it's sabotage."

"Wait," I say, barely registering the words. "Who is this? What's going on?"

"I'm calling from Harvey's Vineyard. There's been an attack."

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

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

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