Creative Clash

Slip on steel‑toed boots before dawn, the clank echoing through an empty Riverside Arts Center. I don't belong here this early — Dani's off getting coffee, Theo's rounding up Lucas — but I crave the quiet. My hands are shaking from last night's discovery of the invitation in the mail: "Gala Planning: Host Committee Meeting, 6 p.m. SHARP, Hayes Tower Site Office. Two hours from now, I'll be staking my claim on his turf. But first… I need to psych myself up for today's actual challenge: the inaugural site visit.

It's 8 a.m., and I'm sipping on my lukewarm coffee, sitting on the tailgate of my beat-up pickup truck as I scroll through the memo Lucas's assistant had emailed me: "Please be there at 9 a.m. at the site trailer. Hard hats and boots are a must." Below it, a CAD sketch of the lobby incomplete. The space is vast — two stories high, glass capturing the skyline, concrete floors still gritty underfoot. It's nice, in that brutalist way. But it's sterile, empty — like a blank canvas I have to slice a heart into.

I glance at my phone. 8:47 a.m. Perfect. I put the coffee in my pocket, pick up my tote with sample swatches and sketches and hoof it across the parking lot ransacked by steel girders and heaps of gravel. A trailer marked a "Site Office" sits on cinder blocks like an archipelago in the building madness. I rap two times on the door and boots step over to open it.

"Ms. Monroe?" The voice is courteous, too courteous. I look up and freeze.

Lucas is there, hard hat bobbing on his head, work boots caked with mud, sleeves rolled up to show that spiral tattoo on his wrist. He looks no different than the morning of the hearing — controlled, composed, confident. His steel‑gray eyes eye my person, expression frigid.

"Good morning," he says. "Ready for the tour?"

My pulse hammers. I drop my tote. "Yes." I bend over to pick it up, and I'm pretending like I'm fumbling with a stuck zipper. While I am standing he 'accidentally' brushes his hand against mine. Electricity zings up my arm.

A cluster of construction workers parts to make way for us. Inside the trailer, a thunderstorm of blueprints, laptops, hard‑copy permits, coffee‑stained takeout containers. Theo's at the other end, elbow-deep in a variety of snacks and energy bars. He waves without looking up.

"Coffee?" he calls. "I've got enough sugar to bury a small village!"

He gives him a half smile.LUCAS }] "Later." He pivots to me, voice brisk. "Let's go."

I follow him through the back door, where the skeleton of The Hayes Tower stretches against the sky — steel beams sewing sky, cranes swinging like robot arms. The breeze stinks of wet cement and gasoline. I tug my hard hat down and follow Lucas through a tangle of safety cones and plastic barrier tape.

"This is the future lobby," Lucas says, pointing two stories below, at a wide‑open floor plate. "We're going to be laying polished terrazzo here. Glass mezzanine up there." He indicates a scaffold wraparound. "And we're also thinking of a water feature there by that support column."

I nod, squinting as the sun glares off rebar. Heat prickles my neck. "The space is… impressive." I clutch my tote to my chest. "But it needs soul."

He arches a brow. "Soul?"

I take a deep breath. "Art. Connection. A sense of community. At the moment, this is looking more like a corporate showroom."

A worker nearby smirks. Lucas's jaw tightens. "It's minimalism but it's functional. Clean lines. Uncluttered."

"But functional minimalism can still be warm," I say, stepping forward onto the wind whipping my curls. "Tell me you don't want to make people feel intimidated walking in."

His eyes flash. "You walk in the lobby of Hayes Tower and it makes a statement. It's a statement piece."

I grit my teeth. "It's also a public space. You want your condo owners to feel at home. You want investors to understand that this building thinks about people, and not just the bottom line."

He pauses, a faraway look in his eye, as if he's considering every syllable. "I just think there's a middle ground."

The talk is stopped by a shout from the scaffold above. There's a burly older foreman gesticulating wildly—something about rebar measurements that weren't taken. Lucas walks towards him, hand raised in a gesture of diplomacy. I lag behind them, peering at the half-finished walls for inspiration. My eye lands on a section of exposed concrete that would be perfect for a mural. Just below that, near the floor, is a ghostly line: the edge of a blueprint taped to the wall before the pouring. I sort of lean in, heart thudding.

Lucas looks back at me, finally melting slightly. "Elise—"

"Hold that thought." Ducking under the caution tape, I crouch and follow the faint pencil lines that have bled through the concrete dust. On an old sketch, red ink streams beneath the gray surface: "Riverside Arts Center — EXISTING." My breath hitches.

Lucas follows my gaze. His brows draw together. I can feel the blood drain from my face.

"Where did you find —" he starts to see, but the foreman at the door begins to shout and another workman appears running down the stairs and shouting, "Site security! Someone's in the crawlspace!"

I stoop, eyes trained on the covert sketch. I touch the rough texture with my finger tips. The overlay reveals the foundation grid of Hayes Tower within the footprint of the Arts Center. No, that can't be right — it's meant to be a standalone package. My heart's pounding so loud, I can't hear the commotion. Everything stutters: the clank of steel, the distant honk of a crane in motion, the urgent voices that run past me.

Lucas kneels beside me. His hand hovers over mine. "Elise, step back. That area isn't safe."

I reel back as the ground shakes — footsteps thundering up the stairs, boots slamming against the concrete, a cascade of thumps. I know I should drop this, walk away, snap what I saw and file it away. But part of me is mesmerized: someone purposefully buried, hid this drawing before they filled in concrete for the foundation. Someone at Hayes Global or the city planning office knew about the Arts Center, and they hid it.

The foreman croaks: "Security breach, someone's been messing with the foundation plans!"

Lucas's eyes blaze. He grabs my arm. "We need to get out of here."

I yank away. My eyes settle on the blueprint: "Riverside Arts Center — EXISTING." I draw a mark that slashes through the grid, and a note that says demolition. My stomach twists.

"I have to take a picture of this," I whisper, reaching for my phone. My hands tremble so much the screen goes all blurry.

Lucas lunges, and puts his hand over mine. "Elise, no—"

I snatch my hand free. An ear-splitting whistle goes off: the site alarm. Workers run about as red lights start to flash. Someone yells, "Lockdown! "We won't let anyone out until we figure out who did this!"

My eyes collide with Lucas's — demanding, violent. "Trust me, Elise. Let me handle this."

I swallow, my fear warring with my determination. I put the phone into my pocket. "I can't just walk away." There is a catch in my voice that catches in a dusty place in my throat. "This… this proves they lied. They glossed your tower's impact intentionally."

He steels himself, eyes dark. "We regroup. You and me. After everyone clears out."

A security guard rushes down the ramp, phone to his ear. Lucas nods at me. "Go to the trailer. Lock the door. I'll meet you there."

I run back through the maze of caution tape, kicking up gravel with my boots. Behind me I hear Lucas yelling for the foreman, asking what is going on. The sickening realization settles in: I'm caught up in something larger than a community arts center, even more than a lobby mural.

I slam the door of the trailer and secure the lock. My heart booms loud enough to drown the noise outside. I lean back against the door, and my chest is heaving. I grope for my phone with my fingers. I swipe to the camera app, but hesitate. I shouldn't be taking more of these pictures here. If they find out, they'll accuse me of sabotage.

My thoughts tumble: what can I do now? I can't drop this without Lucas' cooperation. I want his aid — but he will view me as the foe, the grass-rooted turncoat, the troublemaker.

Footsteps approach as the single lamp flickers in the trailer. I catch sight of my reflection in the window — paint smeared on my cheeks, eyes fierce — I'm taking no nonsense from anyone.

I take a breath. I have to trust him. For my mother's legacy, for my community, that's why: For my own obstinate sense of justice.

The door rattles. Lucas's gloved hand appears. "Elise," he murmurs through the gap. "Let me in."

I open the door, and he crouches in, his face a slab of granite. His hard hat shines beneath the fluorescent bulb. We simply stand there for a beat or two—two opposing forces tethered together by a secret pull carved out from under concrete.

We lock eyes and I say, "You and me, now."

His jaw relaxes just a bit, and he nods. "Together."

Outside, the site alarm screams, and below our feet the ground shakes.

I grip my tote, already full of fresh resolve, as we enter the land of the unknown.