“Maya,” Carlo says quietly, “there’s something else. The article says this isn’t just about Highland. Declan Pierce left Pierce Enterprises completely. He’s starting his own company focused on community preservation.”
I stare at the laptop screen, trying to process what I’m reading. Declan hasn’t just saved Highland—he’s walked away from everything. His family’s company, his father’s legacy, the world that shaped him into who he thought he had to be.
It’s a complete transformation from the corporate CEO I met a couple months ago.
“Where is he?” I ask Carlo.
“I don’t know. The article just says Highland’s ownership transfer is being finalized today.”
“I need some air,” I tell Rosa and Carlo, heading toward Highland’s back exit.
Highland’s small parking lot overlooks the arts district, with downtown LA’s skyline visible in the distance. Pierce Enterprises’ tower rises among the glass monuments to corporate power, but this morning it looks different. Less like a threat, more like a reminder that sometimes the most unexpected solutions come from the places you least expect them.
My phone rings with a call from Tito Ricky, who’s probably been fielding legal questions since the news broke.
“Maya, I assume you’ve heard about Highland’s change in ownership status?”
“I heard that Declan Pierce bought Highland. What I don’t understand is how something like this happens overnight.”
“It doesn’t happen overnight. Community land trust establishment requires significant legal preparation, property appraisal, financial documentation, community input processes.” Tito Ricky’s voice carries the satisfaction of someone who’s been working on complex legal arrangements. “Maya, this has been in development for at least two weeks.”
Two weeks. The same two weeks I spent creating the legal framework with Kemp & Associates, using every penny of my father’s life insurance money. While I thought my work was pointless without the capital to purchase Highland, Declan must have discovered what I was doing and stepped in to provide the funding.
“Why didn’t he tell me?”
“Maybe because he wanted to present you with a complete solution rather than another promise that might not materialize. Maybe because he learned something from watching you lead Highland through crisis without depending on anyone else’s rescue efforts.” Tito Ricky pauses. “Maya, the legal framework you created with Kemp & Associates—that’s what made this possible. Declan didn’t establish the land trust. He used your documentation and provided the capital to activate what you’d already built.”
“Tito, what does this mean for Highland’s programs? For the partnerships we’ve established over the past three weeks?”
“It means Highland has choices. The community can return to centralized programming in Highland’s building, maintain the distributed model across multiple partner locations, or createsome combination that serves families’ evolving needs.” There’s a note of finality in Tito Ricky’s voice as he adds, “Maya, Highland’s future is entirely up to the community now.”
Community choice. After three weeks of adapting to circumstances beyond our control, Highland’s families can decide for themselves what model works best for their needs.
“There’s something else you should know,” Tito Ricky continues. “The trust is named after your family. Declan Pierce specifically requested that Highland’s protection honor your father’s legacy and your leadership during the crisis.”
The Navarro Community Trust. Highland’s protection isn’t just guaranteed through legal mechanisms—it’s guaranteed through a foundation that bears my family’s name, that recognizes my father’s vision and my role in preserving it.
I sink onto the parking lot’s concrete barrier, overwhelmed by the magnitude of what Declan has accomplished. He hasn’t just saved Highland; he’s created a permanent memorial to my father’s work.
“Maya?” Tito Ricky’s voice is gentle. “How are you feeling about all this?”
How am I feeling? Grateful, shocked, angry, hopeful, terrified, and completely in love with a man who just proved that some gestures are worth waiting for, even when you’ve given up hope they’ll ever come.
“I’m feeling like I owe Declan Pierce a conversation,” I admit.
“Good. Because I think he’s been waiting for that conversation for three weeks.”
After Tito Ricky hangs up, I remain in Highland’s parking lot, watching downtown LA wake up around me. News vans are arriving, community members are gathering to witness Highland’s salvation, and somewhere in the city, Declan Pierce is probably preparing to face the woman whose heart broke when they lost the fight together three weeks ago.
The woman he just gave every reason to believe in him again.
Rosa appears beside me with a fresh cup of coffee and the kind of knowing smile that means she’s been watching my emotional processing from Highland’s back windows.
“So,” she says, settling onto the concrete barrier beside me. “Still think that young man didn’t fight hard enough for Highland?”
“I think that young man just spent two weeks proving that losing one battle doesn’t mean giving up the war.” I accept the coffee, noting how perfectly Rosa has timed her maternal support. “Rosa, what if I’m not ready to forgive myself? What if Highland’s salvation doesn’t erase the hurt of losing faith in him when the board voted against us?”
“Then you tell him that. You tell him Highland’s community is grateful for what he’s done, but you’re sorry you doubted his commitment when Harrison cast that tie-breaking vote.” Rosa’s smile is warm, understanding. “But Maya, you should also tell him how you feel about the man who just walked away from everything he inherited to prove that communities matter more than profit margins.”
