Lobby Assignment

Slanting sunlight pours through the dusty front windows of the Riverside Arts Center as I push open the door, a grinding ache in my head behind my eyes. The graffiti threat from last night still seeps through my skin and every nerve is pulsing with adrenaline. I shouldnt' be here— Dani is already off to get security footage, and I should be tending to volunteers, organizing clean-up. Instead I am spazzing out, scanning the lobby with my face as white and cold as the marble in search for Lucas Hayes.

My phone buzzes again with another unknown number. I almost drop it, but force myself to read the message.

"He's already involved. Make your next move well thought out."

My breath hitches. Whoever's after us is serious. They know my name. They know this center. They know Lucas.

I mash the power button and dump the phone in my back pocket. I need answers. And I'm not going until I get them.

There are footsteps outside the door. I spin to find Dani advancing toward me, a laptop bag thrown over her shoulder, an expression that is part triumph, part exhaustion.

"They hit on the tapes — night shift footage. Guy in a hoodie we can't ID, but he's there for thirty seconds, sprays the back wall, and books it. She tosses me a USB drive. "I'm going to turn it into the police. But here's the kicker: the timestamp matches with the same time as an email Lucas sent to me this morning. He wrote "URGENT: Lobby Coordination -please assign coordinator ASAP." That's our golden ticket."

My pulse leaps. "Wait — you mean the same morning he emails out his memo to his PR team, and someone smashes us with vandalism? That can't be coincidence."

Dani nods. "Exactly. Either he's running it — and we have the evidence — or someone inside his organization is coordinated with his paid spending and using his schedule as cover for the attack."

I pull on my paint‑splattered sweater, trying to process the news. "We catch him at that coordination meeting. We bring the police if we need to." I pull my phone back out. "Call Theo — he's his assistant. He'll set it up."

Thirty minutes later, I'm striding down a glass‑tiled hallway on the fourteenth floor of Hayes Global's headquarters. The elevator doors part onto a sleek reception area — white marble floors, chrome accents, one orchid in a black vase. I hang on to my tote bag like a life preserver, sweaty toes in my flip-flops since I spent the whole morning wearing them, coated in perspiration.

A woman in a draped blazer and her hair newly coiffed from the salon looks up from her desk. "Ms. Monroe? They're expecting you." She gestures down the hall.

I share a worried look with Dani — she's sitting next to me, phone in hand, ready to record. We make our way down a hallway past architectural drawings of towers reaching into impossible clouds. Each photo hovers, seemingly taunting the small community center I adore.

We come to a frosted glass door stenciled "Coordinator: Elise Monroe". The door swings open before I can knock, and I step inside a boardroom bathed by natural light. At the polished oak table, taking the head is Lucas's assistant, Theo Lin, all narrow shoulders and tumbling sandy‑blond hair, which looks perpetually disheveled in the most controlled way, with eyes that always look like they're in possession of half a joke up their sleeve, eyes as mischievous as they are light brown in color.

"Elise," he says, in a warm but wary voice. "Thank you for coming."

I nod, forcing a tight smile. "Thanks for telling me so soon." My eyes dart around the empty seats at the table—three others are sitting: a PR manager whose name tag says "Vanessa Cole", a construction foreman wearing a hardhat, and a waif of a woman holding a camera—I assume the lobby's designer.

Vanessa stands. "Good morning, Ms. Monroe. I'm Vanessa. It's great to have you with us. "Lucas and his team have been eager to hear your thoughts on our lobby installation.

My stomach twists. Lobby installation. That's the art-architecture gala warm-up. I swallow. "I'd like to thank them for the invitation. I look over at Dani, who's feigning with her phone. Good—no tell.

Theo clears his throat. "Lucas cannot be with us today — he is in a meeting with some stakeholders now — however, he sent me to start the ball rolling. He's excited about incorporating local artists into the design."

My heart lurches. He wants me on board. He wants me. I steady myself. "That's… unexpected. I thought you'd keep me at arms length after our little showdown yesterday."

Vanessa smiles politely. "Lucas respects passion. He thinks the work you're doing here is crucial to the city's cultural fabric. He wants the lobby to show that."

There is a rustling next to me, and Dani squirms in her chair. "So you stand by that? After how those people trashed the Center last night?"

An insider Theo glances at Vanessa. "That ultimately is under investigation by the police. So in Lucas's view, whoever is behind it is someone outside of the company. He wants to show solidarity."

I look at Theo, trying to find sincerity in the crease of his brow. He meets my gaze evenly. "I'll go," I say, the words soft but intense. "But on two conditions." I lean forward. "1) I get creative control for the art segment. Two: I want to be able to use Lucas in the next session. Face‑to‑face."

There's a pause — a sigh, a flicker of tension in Vanessa's posture. The foreman scuffs his shoes and looks at his watch. Theo's eyes narrow, and then he nods. "Agreed. I'll see that Lucas is at the next meeting. Your points are fair."

I released a breath I had not realized I was holding. Dani shoots me a thumbs‑up under the table.

Vanessa coughs and lays down blueprints on the table. "Let's talk space. The lobby is 50 feet long, 30 feet wide and gets natural light through atrium skylights. Maybe some kind of center art piece and also seating. A community gathering point."

I outline the lobby with my finger. My breath is caught in the map of that space, — through which people will move, pause, linger. "I want a participatory mural — something that invites people to get involved. We're going to use interchangeable panels so the exhibit can change. "And I want to do monthly artist residencies out of that place."

The foreman shakes his head. "This sounds expensive — and impractical. We need durable materials. Low maintenance."

I shift in my seat. "It'll be super low-cost because budgets are tight, but we could get recycled materials, team up with local sponsors — I have some contacts. This is not mere decoration; it is the soul of the building. It's what will distinguish Hayes Tower from all the other sterile high‑rises."

Vanessa sits forward, placing her fingers in a steeple. "We will take it under advisement. But remember, Lucas's vision is one of sleek minimalism. Lots of white space."

I nod, tucking hair that's escaping my braid behind my ears. "Minimalism is fine. Minimalism is emptiness without warmth to me." I raise my eyes, fix them on Theo's. "That's what I'm selling: warmth."

He smiles, tension dropping away. "Warmth sells."

We spend the next hour hashing out logistics: timelines, budgets, vendors contacts. Numbers swirl in my head — cubic footage, weight loads, paint toxicity scores. Discreetly, Dani takes photos of the renderings and hands them to me. Every slide he clicks through makes my pulse beat — not only the thrill of a collaboration, but another something beneath: the nearness of him.

As the meeting adjourns, Vanessa gathers up the blueprints. "Thank you, Ms. Monroe. We can implement your suggestions and circulate new plans by Friday."

Theo rises, offering a hand. "Great work today. "Lucas will be the one who decides, getting the vision doesn't mean a thing anymore." His warm fingers brush mine, long exposure, and I have to stop myself from pulling away, I feel like I'm being zapped.

I give a professional smile and take his hand. "I appreciate that." "I welcome the competition, it's good to have it. I hope we are not all by ourselves out there. I look forward to it.

When I exit the boardroom, Dani catches me in the hallway, swinging her laptop. "Smooth," she says, her eyes twinkling. "You were like a diplomat."

I exhale. "Diplomacy to save a building." As the frosted glass door swings closed behind me, I take a parting glance through the glass door at the nameplate, shimmering in the afternoon sun.

And so we get on the elevator and go down. The doors open onto the lobby, the security guards nodding respectfully. My phone vibrates once more — an unknown number.

I unsheath it, thumb held over the screen. No. Not now.

I slide it back into my pocket and try to direct my attention back to the security guard. "Thank you," I say softly.

He nods. "Good luck, Ms. Monroe."

Outside, the city thrums with rush‑hour buzz. Cars honk, pedestrians chattering, the skyline recedes back behind us. Dani falls into step. "They're going to eat this up," she says. "It's the perfect story: local artist turned developer's secret weapon."

I let out a short laugh. "Secret weapon has not ceased to be an enemy." I wrap my arms around myself. "We didn't get to find out who vandalized the center. And the threats—"

Dani holds up her phone. "I just pinged Theo's extension directory. Nothing in the company's emails about that lobby memo. It was definitely sent — from Lucas's personal account. Someone's impersonating him."

I get a shiver down my back. "They've already learned," he wrote in a follow-up email, "how to hide behind him." My jaw tightens. "We must see Lucas in person. Now."

She ushers me to the street. "He'll be at the fundraiser meeting tonight — that's public. We can…"

I halt in the middle of the sidewalk, eyes widening. "Wait. "Did you just say 'planning session'?"

Dani's phone pings again. She checks it, frowns. "Yes… oh. Crap."

I grab her arm. "What is it?"

She explains that she's received a calendar invitation that galls her: "Gala Planning: Host Committee Meeting," from LucasHayes@hayesglobal.com. It is tonight at 6 p.m. — just two hours away.

My pulse races. "This is our chance."

Dani nods, voice fierce. "I'll handle the press side. You go get him."

I gulp, adrenaline starting to course through me once more. "Let's do it."

We're running down the street, dusk sliding into violet shadows, when my phone vibrates one last time. I see the screen — another unknown number — and I prepare to face whatever terrible thing extracts the breath from the fucked-up world in which we live.

"See you tonight, Elise. Don't be late."

My blood runs cold. "Whoever's writing these threats knows where I'm going." And they'll be waiting.

I look up at the tall shape of Hayes Tower in the distance, glowing in the last light of day. The lobby where I'll struggle to make my mark. The place where I will meet my one-night ghost.

I close my eyes, take in a shaky breath and brace myself for the struggle that lies ahead.