The Stone Global Tower didn't just scrape the sky; it stabbed it.
Standing at the base of the seventy-story glass monolith in the heart of the City of London, Felicity felt significantly smaller than she had the day before. Yesterday, she had the moral high ground and a crowd of supporters. Today, she had a visitor's pass that smelled of plastic and a blazer that she hadn't worn since her last job interview.
"ID, please," the security guard said, not looking up from his monitors.
Felicity slid her driver's license across the pristine white desk. The lobby was aggressively minimalist. It felt less like a place of business and more like the waiting room for the afterlife—if heaven was run by a hedge fund. Everything was white, chrome, or silent.
"Forty-fifth floor," the guard said, sliding the pass back. "elevator bank B. Do not wander."
"I wouldn't dream of it," Felicity muttered, clipping the pass to her lapel.
The elevator ride was a ear-popping ascent that took less than thirty seconds. When the doors slid open, Felicity stepped out onto a carpet so plush it felt like walking on moss. A receptionist with a headset that looked surgically attached to her ear gestured toward a set of double doors without speaking.
Felicity took a deep breath. It's just a meeting, she told herself. He's just a man. A very rich, very angry man who wants to destroy your favourite building. You can handle this.
She pushed the doors open.
The conference room was vast, dominated by a table long enough to land a small aircraft on. And at the far end, framed by the panoramic view of the London skyline, sat Alistair Stone.
He didn't stand up when she entered. He was reading a file—her file, she suspected—and didn't even blink.
"You're three minutes early," Alistair said, closing the folder. He finally looked up. The grey eyes were just as piercing as she remembered, but stripped of the rain and the noise, they were even more unsettling. They were surgical. "I appreciate punctuality. Please, sit."
He gestured to the chair at the opposite end of the table. A deliberate power move. He wanted the distance. He wanted her to feel like she had to shout to be heard.
Felicity ignored the chair he offered. Instead, she walked confidently down the length of the room, her heels clicking rhythmically against the floor, and pulled out the chair directly across from him. Close enough to see the faint stubble on his jaw that he hadn't shaved away perfectly.
Alistair raised an eyebrow. A flicker of surprise.
"I prefer not to shout, Mr. Stone," she said, sitting down and placing her notebook on the table.
"Alistair," he corrected, leaning back. The expensive leather of his chair creaked softly. "If we're going to be adversaries, we might as well be on a first-name basis. Coffee?"
"No, thank you. I prefer my caffeine without strings attached."
Alistair's lips twitched. "A pity. The blend is imported from a small estate in Colombia. It's quite good. But let's get to the point, Ms. Monroe. I'm a busy man, and you are a nuisance."
"I prefer 'concerned citizen'," Felicity replied.
"I have read your injunction," Alistair continued, sliding a document across the polished mahogany. "And my legal team has assured me that by tomorrow afternoon, it will be shredded. The 'murals' you claim to have found are likely nothing more than water stains and mold. You are delaying the inevitable."
"They are genuine 1920s Art Deco frescoes," Felicity insisted, leaning forward. "Hidden behind the plasterboard in the lobby during the 1960s renovation. I have the original blueprints from the architect, Sir Giles Gilbert Scott. He commissioned them specifically to reflect the post-war optimism."
"Optimism doesn't pay the rent," Alistair said flatly. "The Holloway Theatre has been losing money for a decade. The foundation is cracking. The wiring is a fire hazard. It is a corpse, Felicity. I am merely the undertaker doing the city a favour by burying it."
"It's a landmark!"
"It's a liability!" Alistair's voice rose, just a fraction, cracking the veneer of his calm. "Do you have any idea how much it costs to maintain a building like that? The heating alone is an environmental disaster. My proposed tower will be LEED Platinum certified. It will be carbon neutral. It will house five hundred families and three hundred businesses. You want to save a rotting stage for the sake of nostalgia; I am building for the future."
Felicity stared at him. For a moment, she faltered. He was articulate. He was logical. And in the cold light of this office, his arguments made a terrifying amount of sense.
But then she remembered the smell of the old velvet seats. The way the sound carried in the auditorium without a microphone.
"You're talking about efficiency," Felicity said quietly. "I'm talking about humanity. You can stack people in glass boxes all you want, Alistair, but you can't engineer a soul. That theatre... it has a heartbeat. If you'd actually walked inside instead of just looking at spreadsheets, you'd know that."
Alistair studied her. His gaze dropped from her eyes to her mouth, then down to her hands, which were clenched on the table. He stood up abruptly, walking over to the window.
"How much?" he asked, his back to her.
Felicity blinked. "Excuse me?"
"The Heritage Trust," he said, turning around. "They are always underfunded. I am prepared to offer a donation. A significant one. Five hundred thousand pounds. Enough to renovate the library you chained yourself to last year. Or perhaps a scholarship fund in your name?"
The silence that stretched between them was thick enough to choke on.
Felicity slowly stood up. Her face felt hot, not with embarrassment, but with pure, unadulterated rage.
"You think you can buy me?" she asked, her voice trembling slightly.
"I think everyone has a price," Alistair said coolly. "I'm just trying to find yours so we can both move on with our lives."
Felicity gathered her notebook. She moved with a slow, deliberate calmness that felt dangerous even to herself.
"My price," she said, walking around the table until she was standing just a few feet away from him, "is the Holloway Theatre standing tall and open to the public. Can you write a check for that?"
Alistair looked down at her. Up close, he was overwhelming. The scent of sandalwood and starch was intoxicating, a stark contrast to the ugliness of his offer. He looked tired, she realized. Beneath the arrogance, there were shadows under his eyes.
"You are making a mistake," Alistair warned softly. "I will win this court battle. And when I do, you will get nothing. No money for your trust. No theatre. Nothing."
"Maybe," Felicity said, tilting her chin up to meet his gaze. "But I'd rather lose fighting for something I love than win because I sold it out."
She turned to leave.
"Ms. Monroe."
She paused at the door, her hand on the handle.
"The injunction hearings are set for Friday," Alistair said. "Bring your best lawyer. You're going to need him."
"I don't need a lawyer, Alistair," Felicity said, glancing back over her shoulder with a sharp, daring smile. "I have the truth. And a very loud voice."
She walked out, the heavy doors clicking shut behind her with a finality that echoed in the silent room.
Alistair stood frozen for a moment. He looked at the empty chair where she had sat. He could still smell a faint trace of her perfume—something floral, wild, like wildflowers in a storm.
He picked up his phone and dialed Marcus.
"Sir?"
"Cancel my afternoon meetings," Alistair said, staring at the door.
"Is something wrong?"
"No," Alistair said, loosening his tie for the first time that day. A strange sensation was curling in his chest. It felt like adrenaline. It felt like a challenge. "But I want you to pull every zoning file on the Holloway Theatre from the last fifty years. Every permit, every inspection, every clause."
"What are we looking for?" Marcus asked.
Alistair smiled, a predatory, dangerous thing. "We're looking for a weak spot. She wants a fight? Fine. I'm going to give her a war."