“I can’t wait to see what you dream up!” Hailey squeals.
Neither can I…right after I beg my life coach to work me in for an emergency session—because clearly, I’m about to need some serious therapy.
Chapter Two
Decreed and Declared
Lincoln
“It’s a true privilege tostand before you today as we begin this monumental journey—one that will restore and preserve a vital part of our shared history…” I pause, golden ceremonial shovel resting in hand as I take in the late morning light cast over city officials and community members, and I smile at my family, friends, and crew.
Vincent, my interior design partner, already sensing I’m in my feelings and may get long-winded, groans comically loudly, adding some levity.
“Aw, now here we go…”
I bark out a laugh. “What? I can’t celebrate this centuries-old building and rally community support?”
Put me in a room where people are debating politics, religion, or global issues, and I’m content to step back and listen. Sports, books, a compelling documentary, or even an eighties Black sitcom? Absolutely, I’m all in. But hand me a commemorative shovel, gather a small crowd around a dirt mound, and ask me to discuss architectural design—those grand staircases, the stained-glass windows, the crown molding that embodies the craftsmanship symbolic of our town’s fabric—well, that’s a conversation I’m always ready for.
Vincent waves me off, muttering under his breath. “It’s way too hot for all this,” he complains, shaking his head. “You should know better than to have everyone out here in this late-May humidity.”
My guys, Josiah and Dom, are in the back, cracking up, probably wagering on the over-under of my speech time.
“You’ve got this, man!” they yell, still cackling.
“In all seriousness, though, I know it’s humid, everyone’s ready to get to the tour, and you don’t want to listen to me rambling on.” I straighten, pride swelling within me. “The long and short of it is, Madison Manor has long been a cornerstone of Ellswood’s rich heritage and a beacon for our promising future…” Emotion lodges in my throat, stealing my words. I manage a small smile.
The crowd erupts in applause.
Half of me knows it’s time to wrap up my speech, toss the ceremonial dirt, and get these folks out of this heat and onto the catered tour. But the other half is holding on to the hope that they understand the significance of this building and what restoring the foundational history means for our city.
It’s about preserving integrity and reclaiming our roots.
We’re a small, thriving community, predominantly Black, built by my mother’s ancestors, the Ellswoods. For my company, Bridges Heritage Conservation, Inc., to have earned this contract? It’s a full-circle moment.
I dig the soles of my work boots into the dirt. “Now, this building will likely host many art exhibits, teas, galas, and, uh…” I trail off mid-sentence, my focus snapping to Cornelia Livingston as she glides toward us, as if the very mention of elegant affairs summoned her. I swallow. “Milestone events,” I continue, forcing a smile. “Birthdays, cotillions, and weddings.”
Cornelia stops at the edge of the crowd, the picture of refinement, resilience, and timeless beauty. She’s dressed in an elegant, tailored suit, and her silver-gray hair is swept back, framing the sharp, regal features of face. Her dark, deep-set eyes are locked on me, unwavering.
“At the end of the day, I want to celebrate the start of this exciting journey with you,” I say, the lightness of earlier all but gone as I near the end of my speech.
I try to focus on the warm, familiar faces around me, but my attention keeps drifting back to Cornelia, a slight unease prickling at me.
Nothing about her presence should surprise me.
For all intents and purposes, Madison Manor is her territory, and not just because her name is on the deed. Once the interior restoration is complete, it’s set to be a luxury venue, its grounds hosting lavish events likely curated—or endorsed—by her. Aside from the fact she has a penchant for stockpiling real estate, it makes sense that she was the winning bidder for the property. It’s no secret she attempted to bring in her own design and construction team to restore the property to her exacting standard, only to be blocked by the city’s priority to preservationists. Even after that, she interviewed my competitors.
So why, then, did we meet two weeks ago on the fifth? Why, after all that, did she ultimately contract Bridges Heritage for the job?
That’s where I’m lost.
On the surface, Cornelia Livingston is as much a cornerstone of Ellswood as Madison Manor. A woman who, after the unimaginable loss of her husband and our mayor, Julian Livingston II, became a symbol of perseverance and hope. She remained a fixture here, this formidable leader of Ellswood’s Zion & Zara chapter, guiding the youth, using her wealth, prosperity, and influence to reinvest in the town. I give her credit—she’s reshaped this city, seamlessly blending modern luxury and cutting-edge innovation with our rich cultural history.
Cornelia is undeniably responsible for all of that.
But she’s also the woman who has made no pretenses about her vendetta against my family.
I don’t know what started it. I assume my mother still holds a grudge because, years ago, Cornelia rejected me as “not a good fit” for Z & Z membership, and old feuds die hard. But it goes deeper than that. She sought out other restoration companies for Madison Manor, blocked Mom’s community initiatives, and actively sabotaged my last relationship by offering my ex a job with the condition that she cut ties with me. Fortunately, I never saw things progressing with her.
